Page 100 of Tiger's Quest
That night, I lay on my side in the sleeping bag with a hand tucked under my cheek and said to Kishan, “It’s like the Garden of Eden. I never imagined such a place existed.”
“Ah, but if I recall, there was a snake in the garden.”
“Well, if there wasn’t one here before, there’s one here now.”
I peeked at Fanindra. Her golden coils were still hard and unmoving where she rested near my head. I looked at Kishan who was poking the fire with a stick.
“Hey, aren’t you tired? We walked pretty far today. Don’t you want to sleep?”
He glanced over at me. “I’ll sleep soon.”
“Oh. Okay. I’ll save you some room.”
“Kelsey, I think it would be wise for me to sleep on the other side of the fire. You should be warm enough here by yourself.”
I looked at him curiously. “That’s true, but there’s plenty of room, and I promise not to snore.”
He laughed nervously. “It’s not that. I’m a man all the time now, and it would be hard for me to sleep with you and not . . . hold you. Sleeping near you as a tiger is fine, but sleeping near you as a man is different.”
“Ah, I once said the same thing to Ren. You’re right. I should’ve thought of that and not put you in an uncomfortable position.”
He snorted wryly. “I wasn’t worried about beinguncomfortable. I was worried about getting a littletoocomfortable.”
“Right.” NowIwas nervous. “So, umm . . . do you want to take the sleeping bag then? I can use my quilt.”
“No. I’ll be fine,bilauta.”
After a few minutes, Kishan settled himself on the other side of the fire. He cushioned his hands behind his head and said, “Tell me another Greek story.”
“Okay.” I thought for a moment. “There was once a beautiful nymph named Chloris who cared for flowers and nurtured the spring by willing the buds of trees to blossom. Her long blonde hair smelled like roses and was always adorned with a halo of flowers. Her skin was as soft as flower petals. Her lips were puckered and pink like peonies and her cheeks—soft blushing orchids. She was beloved by all who knew her, yet she longed for a companion, a man that could appreciate her passion for flowers and who would give her life deeper meaning.
“One afternoon, she was working with the calla lilies and felt a warm breeze blow through her hair. A man stepped into her meadow and stood admiring her garden. He was handsome with dark, windswept hair and wore a purple cloak. He didn’t see her at first; she watched him from a leafy bower as he walked among the flowers. The daffodils raised their heads at his approach. He cupped a rosebud between his hands to inhale its fragrance, and it unfurled its petals and bloomed in his palms. The lilies quivered delicately at his touch, and the tulips bent toward him on their long stems.
“Chloris was surprised. Her flowers usually responded only to her. The spears of lavender tried to twine themselves about his legs as he passed by. She folded her arms and frowned at them. The gladiolas all opened at once instead of taking turns like they were supposed to, and the sweet peas danced back and forth, trying to get his attention. She gasped softly when she saw the creeping phlox try to uproot itself.
“‘That’s enough!’ she said. ‘You all behave yourselves!’
“The man turned and spied her hiding among the leaves. ‘Come out,’ he beckoned. ‘I will not harm you.’
“She sighed, pushed aside the gardenia plants, and stepped barefooted into the sunshine, pressing her toes into the grass.
“A small breeze blew through the garden as the man sucked in a soft breath. Chloris was more beautiful than any of the flowers he’d come to admire. He immediately fell in love with her and dropped to his knees before her. She beseeched him to stand. He did, and the warm wind shuffled his cloak, lifted it, and enfolded both of them in its purple billows. She laughed and offered him a silver rose blossom. Smiling he twisted off the petals, tossing them into the air.
“She was upset at first, but then he twirled his finger and the rose petals swirled around them in a tunnel of wind. She clapped her hands in delight as she watched the petals dance. ‘Who are you?’ she asked.
“‘My name is Zephryus,’ he said. ‘I am the west wind.’ He offered her his hand. When she placed her hand in his, he pulled her close and kissed her. Stroking her soft cheek with his fingertips, he said, ‘I have traveled the world for centuries, yet you are the loveliest maiden I have ever seen. Please, tell me. What is your name?’
“Blushing, she answered, ‘Chloris.’
“He folded her small hands in his and made a vow. ‘I will return next spring. I wish to take you for my bride. If you’ll have me.’
“Chloris nodded shyly. He kissed her again, and the purple cloak swirled around him. ‘Until we meet next year then, my Flora.’ The wind blew him quickly away.
“She prepared for his arrival all year. Her garden was more beautiful than it had ever been, the flowers happier. Whenever she thought of him, she felt the kiss of his breeze brush her cheek. The next spring, he returned to find his beautiful bride waiting for him, and they wed surrounded by thousands of blossoms. They had a happy marriage. She tended the gardens while her husband’s west wind gently scattered the pollen every spring.
“Their gardens were the most beautiful, the most renowned, and people came from all over the world to admire them. They delighted in each other, and their love was bounteous. They had a child together named Carpus, which means ‘fruit.’”
I paused. “Kishan?” I heard a light snore come from the other side of the fire. I wondered when he’d fallen asleep. I whispered softly, “Goodnight, Kishan.”
