[Canvases] Garden Three

        “This was not part of the plan,” said the man with the violet gloves.
        He stood above a rosebush which was blooming just outside the entrance to the seventh maze. He sat cross-legged beside it, and tapped a pair of worn shears in a rhythm on his right knee. Tap ta-tap tap, ta-tap tap tap. He stared as if making eye contact with the buds, probing for the bush’s intentions through the dark red portals. At a glance, they were full, crimson, perfect, an open well from which bubbled the life of the entrenching roots. With his neck craned a few degrees off center, however, their shimmered white coats gleamed in the eye. Every petal was a cresting splash of blood atop a frozen wave of quicksilvered milk. Tap ta-tap tap.


        The young man in the red coat stood over the right shoulder of the man with the violet gloves. He assumed his marionette pose, inquiring and loose. He bent until he could just touch the topmost blossom with the peak of his nose, and breathed deep, eyes closed in reverie. A handful of heartbeats later, he straightened his back.
        “No, this was not,” he replied. “When did this arrive? It is blossoming already, we should have seen the buds.”
        “It was not here yesterday,” said the man with the violet gloves. “I saw it for the first time this morning, upon my walk.” Ta-tap tap tap. “I see the shatterpoint, here,” and the shears pointed at a nearly obscured stem near the center.

        The young man leaned down again, and then knelt to better see the stem. The gloved man was right, of course, he was always right. A week prior the fountain began to ripple near the rim, and he had seen the source in the first maze as sure as if a trail of fire led the two together. Invaluable, of course. Brilliant, no doubt. His judgment, though, was an imperfect machine. Rather, a perfect machine, with all artistry purged from its mechanisms. Here was the purpose of the young man. Now was the artist to be made curator, set to judge in context and in reference.
        “Let it be,” said the young man, his expression serene.
        The man in the violet gloves stopped his tapping, and turned his head upwards to meet his companion’s gaze.
        “It cannot be let. There is no danger: the shatterpoint is clear, and my shears sharp. Look, the stem curves thus-“he said as he brought the tip of the metal a hair’s breadth from the stem. With celerity, the young man snapped upon the other’s wrist, and his palm clamped down like a vise.
        His serenity was immutable, now, and his decision made.
        “I miss surprises.” he said.
        “I know what it will do. It will unmake the maze,” said the other, rising to meet serenity with quiet rage. “The white alone, it will ruin the inpadivus and the exterreo, and it will splice itself into the castus in time.”
        “Call it misericordia, then, and let the other rosa know. Seed inpadivus accordingly, but ignore the rest.”
        The man with the violet gloves relaxed his forearm, and the young man felt this and released. He stood, and let the shears move lightly upon his leg, eyes fixed upon the vulnerable stem. The young man stood as well, and watched the other’s face for defiance. When none showed, he clapped his companion upon the back and strode away, towards the entrance to the sixth maze.
        It was a tranquil morning, and the mockingbirds were quiet. There was a rustling through the twigs from the northern breeze and it soft percussed over the babbling of the fountain, while the sparrows took up the mockingbird’s quiet and let a warble glide a gentle greeting.
        Tap ta-tap tap, ta-tap tap tap.