Flower Children [PG/PG-13]

[Panther]

Legal Disclaimer: There’s a lot I want to say on this subject, but I am going to leave all that to the end. At this point all I will say is that I have no legal claim on the Isley family or the Rappaccini family.

Note: The style of writing here is deliberately a mix of 21st century/ 20th century/ Victorian/ and Elizabethan.


Flower Children

Two graves stood side by side; two small white pillars that served as the only physical reminders that once two people had lived, loved, and died on this Earth. As if knowing their part in the whole affair all vegetation seemed to shun the area around those tombstones, leaving them surrounded by barren and infertile brown dirt.

The first, more worn one, read:

Lillian Rappaccini Isley
dearest wife/loving mother
1947 – 1970

The second, newer but still weathered, read:

Jeremy Woodrue Isley
1939 – 1992

A church bell rang out in the near distance, tolling the time as the sun set in a spectacular show of pinks and reds and oranges, as if the sky itself was burning. Somewhere not too faraway a vast ocean also appeared to blaze as the day ended.

A woman stood solemnly in front of the two graves. They came nowhere near marking the amount of pain and heartache she felt. And anger too, of course. There was another, an even more inadequate, marker she knew she should visit, but she wouldn’t let herself; not even after all this time would she risk it. The bell stopped ringing, marking ten years to the minute since she had last stepped foot in this place of buried memories.

A cold wind blew through the graveyard, whipping the ends of the black coat that she pulled around herself tightly to ward off the cold with black-gloved hands. Odd, she thought, I do not remember h– this place – being so cold, even in the winter. The wind playfully tugged at her scarlet tresses, cajoling them to come out from the neat coil beneath her wide brimmed hat. It was black, like her dress. She hated the color, but she had decided the occasion called for it, so she had reluctantly put her usual colors aside for the moment.

As she stood contemplating the graves a voice sounded behind her; an elderly, tired male voice with the accent of education. “I thought I might find you here,” the voice said. She had not heard the voice in a long time – a decade to be exact – but nevertheless she recognized it instantly.

Sarcastically she asked, “Come to pay your respects?” She paused, “Or just gloat?” she questioned acidicly without turning around. She wasn’t surprised that he was here too.

He refused to rise to the bait. “You’ve changed,” he remarked flatly, his voice bordering on disapproving. The voice belonged to a man a full generation or more older than her. He was dressed in somber colors as well, but his clothes revealed a large, rotund figure, and his face, although as serious as hers at the moment, looked as though it was not used to always being so stern.

“Ten years will do that to a person,” she replied harshly, eyes still intently regarding the tombstones. “Although lately I’ve wondered if I’ve changed at all. So much has happened, and yet so much has remained the same.” She sounded sad. They stood in the graveyard in silence for several minutes, neither moving.

Suddenly she asked harshly, “Why have you really come?”

“Two reasons,” he said promptly without any denials or protests. “The first, I want to return this to the rightful owner.” He dug into his coat pocket and pulled out a small music box. He wound it up.

At the sound of the first notes tinkering out the woman whirled around. Her eyes were very wide as she stared at the toy in his hand. He extended his arm toward her further, slowly, as if not to startle her.

She moved forward cautiously and took it from him slowly and carefully. “I thought it burned along with everything else!” she exclaimed in surprise. The old fashioned melody played on brightly in the chilly air, completely out of place in the dismal graveyard. The simple tune had words to it, which she began to sing quite softly to herself as a look of remembering crossed her face:

“Down, down, underground…”


Ten years earlier:


“Down, down, underground,
where the earthworms can be found,
Doth spring to life the tiny seed,
and so its roots begin to feed.”

The young woman sang to herself as she carefully tended a plot of soil. She sang as if merely to create a pleasant background noise, something to fill up the quiet greenhouse where only the sound of things growing could be heard. The greenhouse garden was large, rambling, and as crowded as a rainforest. There were several other greenhouses for plants requiring certain climates and temperatures, but a large mass of the vegetation was in the main garden. It was her home and she had rarely been away from it throughout her life. She worked, tranquil, and oh so blissfully ignorant of the changes that were about to descend onto her life.

[The_NewCatwoman]

Hey, I just wanted to say how much I enjoyed this fine display of writing. I've never read a fan fic about this particular character, and it took a minute for my brain to register who you were talking about. **Also, I didn't mention her name just incase that wasn't meant to be shared yet.** Happy writing!

[Daughterof_Evil]

Miss Panther! I was just thinking how nice it would be to read another of your stories when this beautifully executed piece showed up. Fine work, of course, that kind is not uncommon for you. And pallate-teasing, I must admit.

I can't wait for more!!

[Livewire]

Wow, Panther.!! What a great way to begin! You're very talented. This is my first time reading any of your stories and you've made a tremendous first impression. :)

[witness]

Another story by Panther! I too will keep my mouth shut on who I think the girl is, but you've done some heavy hinting that almost anyone can guess. From my point of view, this looks like a new origin story for this character. If it is, I will enjoy reading it.

[Panther]

Catwoman, D of E, Livewire, and Witness – all of your remarks are extremely flattering. I’m glad to have impressed a newcomer with my writing, which is gratifying since is means I’m not just riding on my laurels (or however the saying goes). Thank you all for the compliments!

About the name of main character - the name she goes by these days does not come up until much later in the story. I’m not mentioning it, but I’ll leave it up to you, the readers, discretion, if you wish to use that name in feedback.

(And Livewire….not to toot my own horn or anything but if you scroll down to earlier posts a page or two back you can read something I wrote last fall called ‘Trick or Treat…. ok, ok, I’m tooting my own horn. Sheesh. So sue me :D )


the story continues:


A young man got out of a cab, and after paying the driver he surveyed his destination. The house was situated in the far outskirts of the town of Padua and surround by large grounds, both of lawn and forest. It looked to be an old edifice, three stories high, which looked not unworthy to have been the lodging of an elite of the city. It had been built in the style of the late Italian Renaissance; in fact it reminded the youth of a scene from an old film version of ‘Dante’s Inferno’.

He reached the door and rang the doorbell, which could be heard chiming and echoing inside the house. The man was about six feet tall, give or take an inch. His hair was dark brown, and his young, guileless face was smooth and pleasant looking. He was clearly of an athletic build, visible even in his worn out clearly Salvation Army clothes.

After a few minutes an old, stout woman answered the door. She was very aged and looked either Portuguese or Spanish, with a worn face that looked as though it had been carved out of wood. Her white hair was done up in a neat bun. She looked like a house cleaner.

“Good evening ma’am,” said the young man politely, “I am looking for Dr. Isley. He’s expecting me. I’m – Doctor Zack Saule.” He remembered to add the title at the last second, still unused to the sound, so new was it to him.

She curved her thin lips into a smile – briefly and politely. “He mentioned your coming. The good doctor is in his garden,” she replied with a heavy Italian accent. She gestured behind her; “Follow me please Signor.”

As they walked down the hallway he noted the richness of the décor. “This is Dr. Isley’s private garden?” he inquired.

The woman turned and, being a short woman, looked up to reply, “The garden is cultivated by the own hands of Signor Doctor Jeremy Isley himself, the worthy botanist whose work is known as far as Naples.”

“He has deservedly gained an international reputation,” remarked Dr. Saul.

The old woman went on, “He distils these plants into medicines that are as potent as a charm. Often times you may see the Signor Doctor at work, and perchance the Signora his daughter, too, gathering the strange flowers that grow in the garden.”

“Indeed,” said the youth neutrally as they traveled down a long hallway, fighting a swell of nervousness in his stomach as it hit him full blast that he was about to become the protégée of one of the top botanists in the country.

They reached a heavy pair of mahogany doors, covered with intricate wooden carvings resembling a screen made of poisonous looking vines and exotic flowers, vegetation that almost seemed to leer at the viewer of the artwork.

The housekeeper took out a heavy and ornate silver key from an apron pocket, which she used to unlock the doors, but did not open them. “Through here, Signor,” said the woman and turned away, clearly not intending to escort him.

He expressed his thanks, which she responded to with an automatic sounding ‘’saints’ protect you’. He opened the door, rolling his eyes at superstitious countryfolk. However, the old woman was quickly forgotten as he stepped inside and saw the garden.

He was amazed by the opulence spread out before him, which was saying a lot, considering how many gardens he had seen already in his life as a student of botany. From its appearance, it could have been a very old overgrown botanic garden, or it might have once served as the pleasure-place of an opulent family.

The evening sun fell upon an impressive garden filled with a large variety of plants, all which seemed to have been cultivated with exceeding care. As he stepped in he felt as if the atmospheric pressure had changed and the scents of every flower in the garden pressed against his skin.

The size of the garden was very large, despite the fact it was restricted to the inside of a house. It was not, in the true Italian style, open to the heavens, but the vast entity of it was confined – if that was the right word! – under a vaulted glass dome three stories up.

Almost the entire garden was bathed in a deep golden orange light, except for some of the edges, which were lost in deep black shadows, the lack of definite perimeters making the sprawling and overflowing garden look even bigger.

There was the ruin of a marble fountain in the very center, sculptured with rare art, but so woefully shattered that it was impossible to trace the original design from the chaos of remaining fragments.

The water, however, continued to gush and sparkle into the sunbeams as cheerfully as ever. A little gurgling sound ascended to the young man's ears, like the song of an immortal spirit, that sung its song unceasingly, and without heeding the changes around it.

All about the pool into which the water subsided grew various plants, all which seemed to require a plentiful supply of moisture for the nourishment of gigantic leaves, and, in some instances, flowers gorgeously magnificent.

There was one shrub in particular, set in a marble vase in the midst of the pool, that bore a profusion of purple blossoms, each of which had the luster and richness of a gem; and the whole together made a show so resplendent that it seemed enough to illuminate the garden, even had there been no sunshine.

Against the wall across and to the left of Zack was another fountain where leaping stone dolphins spurted water into a half moon pool that grew a profusion of lily pads and lilies of fantastic shades – unless Zack’s eyes were deceived by the setting sun’s light, which he rather suspected they were since of course lilies did not come in those sorts of colors and patterns.

One section of the garden had been clearly marked of as a vegetable garden, and in it vegetables grew to truly obscene sizes. Throughout the garden every portion of the soil was peopled with plants and herbs, which, if less beautiful, still bore tokens of assiduous care; fostered by the scientific mind for their individual virtues. Some were placed in urns, rich with old carving, and others in common garden-pots; some crept serpent-like along the ground, or climbed on high, using whatever means of ascent was offered them, wrapping around window frames and doorways.

One plant had wreathed itself round a statue of Hercules, which was now quite veiled and shrouded in a drapery of hanging foliage, so happily arranged that it might have served a sculptor for a study. The scene was wild, but the young botanist suspected there was some sort of method behind this madness. In fact, the garden reminded him strongly of the pictures of “ordered chaos,” as the Fibonacci sequence was sometimes called that he had seen in his math textbooks.

As he observed all this he heard a rustling behind a screen of leaves, and became aware that a person was at work in the garden. His figure soon emerged into view, and showed itself to be that of no common laborer, but a tall, emaciated, sallow, and sickly looking man, wearing a white laboratory smock.

He was beyond the middle term of life, with gray hair that had just a few defiant streaks of red left in it and a face singularly marked with intellect and cultivation, but which could never, even in his more youthful days, have expressed much warmth of heart.

Zack Saule meant to call out or in some way announce or make known his presence, but the manner of the gardener fascinated him into absolute stillness.

Nothing could exceed the intentness with which this scientific gardener examined every shrub which grew in his path; it seemed as if he was looking into their inner most nature, making observations in regard to their creative essence, and discovering why one leaf grew in this shape, and another in that, and wherefore such and such flowers differed among themselves in hue and perfume.

So this is the Dr. Isley, thought Zack Saule, awed at finally being in the presence of one of the most brilliant botanists alive. The esteemed doctor had a small notebook in which he occasionally scribbled observations while gazing intently at certain plants.

Nevertheless, in spite of the deep intelligence on his part, there was no approach to intimacy between himself and these vegetable existences. On the contrary, he avoided their actual touch, or the direct inhaling of their odors, with a caution that left Dr. Saule feeling slightly apprehensive.

The young man's imagination took hold of him, and left him feeling strangely frightened to see this air of insecurity in a person cultivating a garden, that most simple and innocent of activities; for the man's demeanor was that of one walking among malignant influences, such as savage beasts, or deadly snakes, or evil spirits, which, should he allow them one moment of license, would wreak upon him some terrible fatality.

The distrustful gardener, while plucking away the dead leaves or pruning the too luxuriant growth of the shrubs, defended his hands with a pair of thick gloves. Nor were these his only armor. When, in his walk through the garden, he came to the magnificent plant that hung its purple gems beside the marble fountain, he placed a surgical mask over his mouth and nostrils, as if all this beauty did but conceal a deadlier malice.

But finding his task still too dangerous, he drew back, removed the mask, and called loudly, but in the infirm voice of a person affected with inward disease: “Pamela! Pamela!”

“I’m in here, dad! What is it?” cried a rich and youthful voice from an upper window on the side opposite Dr. Saule; a voice as rich as a tropical sunset, and which made Zack Saule, though he knew not why, think of deep hues of purple or crimson, and of perfumes heavily delectable. “Are you in the garden?” the voice asked inquiringly.

“Yes, Pamela,” answered the gardener, “I need your assistance out here.”

Soon there emerged from under a sculptured portal the figure of a young girl, arrayed, unlike her father, with a richness of taste as splendid as many of the flowers, beautiful as the day, and with a bloom so deep and vivid that one more shade would have been too much.

She looked redundant with life, health, and energy; all of which attributes were bound down and compressed, as it were, and girdled tensely, in their luxuriance, by a touch-me-not aura even as her outfit managed to show off all the perfect lines and curves of her body.

Her skin was the perfect hue of health and beautifully sun kissed while her hair fell downward in a waterfall of reds like a shower of rose petals. It was as if here were another flower, the human sister of those vegetable ones, as beautiful as they – more beautiful than the richest of them, in truth – but still to be touched only with a glove, nor to be approached without a mask. A rare flower that both enticed and warned away at the same time. As Pamela came down the garden-path, it was observable that she handled and inhaled the odor of several of the plants, which her father had most sedulously avoided.

“Here, Pamela,” said the latter, “see how many needful tasks are required by our chief treasure. And, in my condition, I may not approach it so closely as circumstances demand. Henceforth, I fear, this plant must be consigned to your sole charge.”

“And gladly will I undertake it,” cried again the rich tones of the young lady, as she bent towards the magnificent plant, and opened her arms as if to embrace it. “Yes, my sister, my splendor, it shall be Pamela’s task to nurse and serve you; and you shall reward me with your kisses and perfumed breath – my true breath of life!”

Then, with all the tenderness in her manner that was so strikingly expressed in her words, she busied herself with such attentions as the plant seemed to require, and Zack felt as though he was gazing upon some sprite or wood nymph rather than a human girl.

Not until she carelessly dropped a trowel that clanged upon the brick walk did the almost soporific spell Zack had been under break. “Dr. Isley!” he called out and hurried forward. Pamela looked up with surprise and Dr. Isley looked the faintest angered at the disruption of his discourse with his daughter.

“Dr. Isley?” Zack asked again hesitantly.

“Yes, and you are-?” replied the scientist testily, straightening up to his full imposing height. His expression was one of piercing and active intellect, such that an observer might easily have overlooked the merely physical attributes, and have seen only this wonderful energy.

“Dr. Zack Saule,” Zack supplied, “the botanist who received your very generous offer. We spoke earlier on the phone...” he trailed off, unsure, wondering if he had somehow got it wrong.

“Ah, yes, Dr. Saule; I’m glad to see you’ve arrived safely,” said Dr. Isley as Zack inwardly sighed in relief. The scientist unbent a little and offered a hand that the young botanist shock it eagerly.

“I feel very honored to meet you in person, sir, I’ve read all your articles and really admire your work,” he said enthusiastically.

The young botanist felt slightly nervous at the look Dr. Isley gave him, almost as if he was a new plant in the doctor’s garden being carefully scrutinized. But he dismissed the feeling as Dr. Isley replied pleasantly with a smile that only looked half forced, “Thank you, young man, it’s always a pleasure to met a fan. I see you did not waste any time taking me up on my offer of employment. Tell me, did you just arrive?”

“Yes, I only took the time to get a hotel room to leave my baggage in before coming here.” Babbling on he added nervously at Dr. Isley’s frown, “It will be a temporary arrangement, of course, before I can find something more permanent for my stay here.”

Dr. Isley waved a hand impatiently. “What does a man like yourself hope to accomplice going back and forth from the city? You obviously did not read the fine print in the contract. Room and board will be here of course, with no cost to yourself.”

As the young Dr. Saule stammered his thanks Dr. Isley noted, “A person fresh from the university has little money, and little time as well to spend on such mundane matters if he wishes to go on successfully.” He smiled indulgently, although the gesture looked as though it caused his face pain, “Don’t let the wrinkles and gray fool you, I was young once too.”

Throughout the exchange Miss Pamela Isley remained shyly silent. She appraised the young man thoughtfully with her dark green eyes and judging by her small smile appeared to approve of what she saw. She held her hands clasped behind her back, like a well-trained soldier or a shy child.

Head swimming, somehow manners made Dr. Saule protest that the day was nearly over, he had already paid for the first night, it was too late to talk of any moving, but he would be sure to return in the morning with his belongings and thanks again for this wonderful opportunity to work with such an eminent scientist so soon after his graduation with such a generous stipend attached to it and thank you so much for the accommodations.

When Zack Saule left the House of Isley he felt the oppressive exhalations of the flowers surrounding his person even after leaving their presence and that night in his hotel bed he dreamed of a rich flower and beautiful girl. Flower and maiden were different and yet the same, and fraught with some strange, murky peril in either shape.

[Daughterof_Evil]

Can I just sit here, for a second, and simply stare in awe at the wonder that is your writing?

I mean, my god! Every detail is like a shot of color directly into the eyes! You can see everything you imagine, every detail and feeling and smell. It was just incredible! I am so looking forward to the next post I think I'll just sit here and wait.

Whoops. Gotta eat lunch. I suppose sitting in front of the computer isn't the best idea, so I should go. Please submit more soon! Your writing is downright addictive.

[Panther]

Oh God such praise is making me nervous! Such expectations to fullfill and live up to! (But thank you SO much for the flattery!) Feel free to continue inflating my ego with such feedback. I was going to post part 3 tomorrow - but since it'll be my birthday I'll post now and maybe I'll take the day off and do nothing. Hope you enjoy...

[Panther]

But the morning light made yesterday’s feelings he had gathered during the sun's decline and early shadows of the night feel foolish and even made him chuckle as he thought of all the old gothic movies and the fantastic occurrences that take place in gardens bathed in sunsets and moonshine.

He gathered his baggage, checked out, hailed a taxi, and made his way back to Isley’s domain.

Senora Lisabetta, the old woman from yesterday, again met him at the door and led him to the chambers designated as his own. They went up an impressive set of stairs where Zack had to keep himself from stopping and gawking as they went past a series of colored glass windows, illustrating scenes from both legendary and biblical tales, all frames bordered with a magnificent array of glass flowers; the effect being the stairs were filled with a rainbow of light.

Lisabetta lead him to his rooms and, commending the young man to the protection of the saints, took her departure. His set of rooms were decorated with elegant furnishings, some appearing to be expensive antiques, although Zack had no eye for furniture, and also the rooms were bedecked in all the latest modern equipment one could want in a guest suite.

The bedroom was an inner room on the second floor with windows that overlooked the splendid courtyard garden, including a French door style window that led to a tiny stone balcony overlooking, and partly surrounded by, so incased in vines it was, the green expanse.

He looked out and was surprised, and a little ashamed, to find how real and matter-of-fact an affair it all proved to be, in the first rays of the sun, which gilded the dewdrops that hung upon leaf and blossom, and, while giving a brighter beauty to each rare flower, brought everything within the limits of ordinary experience.

Neither the sickly and thought-worn Doctor Jeremy Isley, nor his brilliant daughter, were now visible; so that Zack Saule could not determine how much of the singularity which he attributed to both, was due to their own qualities, and how much to his wonder-working fancy. But he was inclined to take a more rational view of the whole matter.

The young man rejoiced, that, after despairing at the thought of working in a laboratory far from the field in the heart of a barren city, amongst the urban metal canyons, he now had the privilege of both working in and observing this spot of lovely and luxuriant vegetation.

As he was unpacking he glanced out one of the lattice windows to see Miss Isley enter the garden, and he observed her in full daylight.

She again came out beneath the antique sculptured portal, and came down between the rows of plants, inhaling their various perfumes. On again beholding Pamela, the young man was startled to perceive how much her beauty exceeded his recollection of it; so brilliant, so vivid in its character that she glowed amid the morning sunlight, and positively illuminated the more shadowy intervals of the garden path.

Her magenta hair contrasted beautifully with her emerald green eyes. Her face being now more revealed than on the former occasion, he was struck by its expression of straightforwardness and sweetness; qualities he had not yet thought of, and which made him wonder what kind of personality the doctor’s daughter had.

Nor did he fail again to observe, or imagine, an analogy between the beautiful girl and the gorgeous shrub that hung its gem-like flowers over the fountain; a resemblance which
Pamela seemed to have indulged a fantastic humor in heightening, both by the arrangement of her dress and the selection of its hues.

He tried to make a purely scientific analysis. She was petite, only 5’ 4” or 5’ 5”, and couldn’t have weighed more than 115 pounds. The morning sun only enhanced her healthful framework. She did not resemble her father overly much, but there was probably a likeness to what Jeremy Isley had once looked like, except he had probably been a much taller youth.

Zack thought back to what little was known about the doctor outside of his scientific studies. The botanist was hailed as brilliant by the entire scientific community but he was such a recluse hardly anything was know outside of what he himself had submitted to scientific journals.

Zack did know Dr. Isley’s wife had died when Pamela was just a baby. He was jerked out of his thoughts as Pamela suddenly glanced upwards in his direction. He glanced away, embarrassed, and he hastily resumed his unpacking.

Sometime later he was in the middle of arranging his botany books on a vacant bookshelf when a knock sounded on his door. He opened it, fully expecting Signora Lisabetta again with fresh sheets or some other meddling detail.

It was Miss Isley.

“Dr. Saule, welcome back,” she said politely. “My father bid me escort you to the dining room to show you where you will take your meals.”

“Truly, he doesn’t have to go to the trouble-”

“It is no trouble at all. Dr. Saule, my father wishes for you to lack nothing so as to be able to devout your time fully to the lab. I believe he is on the brink of something and this morning he wanted no one to disturb him in his laboratory. In the meantime, feel free to have breakfast with me.

“I already had breakfast at the hotel.”

“Then I’ll order Lisabetta to bring mimosas and we’ll call it brunch,” she said coquettishly, but quickly stepped back into a more reserved role, seemingly surprised at herself for being so bold.

They went down the hallway, downstairs, and around another corner. The dining room was as beautiful as all the rest of the house with balcony windows overlooking the inner garden, wooden paneling on all the walls, red tiles on the floor, and a great stone fireplace against the far wall.

Above the fireplace was an Impressionist painting of a field of flowers where a mother and child frolicked. It looked like an original Monet, but Zack’s eyes were drawn away from the furnishings and to the large mahogany dining table where a meal more than enough for two was set out.

Silverware in triplicate had been set next to china plates and crystal glasses, obscured slightly by the abundant spread. Lisabetta was in the act of setting down a dish of candied oranges as they entered.

“Lisabetta!” exclaimed Miss Isley. As she put her hands on her hips in irritation Zack noted curiously for the first time that Pamela was wearing a delicate pair of white gloves that covered her hands and wrists. They were covered with a profusion of embroidered flowers that matched her dress.

“What is all this?” she now demanded of the housekeeper, “I asked for a light meal for the two of us! Not a feast for all of Padua!”

“A thousands pardons, fair Signora,” said the old senora in a voice that did not sound very apologetic. “By all the saints I did not mean to offend, but I was given orders from your father to set this cena.”

Zack and Pamela sat down at the table as Lisabetta exited and they proceeded to do what justice they could to the meal. There was the awkward silence of near-strangers suddenly forced to say more to each other than the usual polite phrases of greetings and departures. They both took very long draughts from their glasses of orange juice. He took a bite from a muffin; she nibbled on a piece of toast. The silence deepened.

“This is a magnificent house,” said Zack hastily to fill in the gap, grabbing at the first topic that came to mind.

She responded with relief. “My father had it built for my mother when they were newlyweds – partly with her family’s money I might add. He built it in the Italian Renaissance style to please my mother – a fanatic of that art period – and to try and to rival any house she had known back in Italy and even to put to shame the Isabella Stuart Gardner Museum in Boston – the only other true Italian house you will find in the States.”

The conversation shifted to houses in general, alternate styles of architecture that allowed for the maximum amount of sunlight, the state of the orange harvest in Florida, the presidential inauguration of governor Bill Clinton, the possible future of funding for arts and science, the much better funding in Europe, current research of tulips in the Netherlands, and the latest improvements in laboratory equipment.

After the meal Pamela said, “My father will be joining us sometime tonight, probably during or after dinner. Until then you have a little time off. And then, trust me Dr. Saule, he will put you to work. Here is a key to the house,” she handed him a house key, “so you are free to come and go as you please.” She smiled enigmatically and then retreated to some inner recess of the house, leaving Zack to do as he wished.

[witness]

now, if i could write like this, i wouldn't need all those cliffhangers at the end of every chapter. your writing style is simply marvelous to behold! your attention to practically every detail is wonderful! i cannot wait to read another chapter of this story!


also, happy birthday! i do hope you enjoy it! :D

[Coran]

Panther... I don't know what to say except... EXCELLENT STORY! I'm enjoying this quite a lot. Your detailed descriptions and story line have me very intrigued. Please continue soon!

[SilentBob173]

"I'm out of it for a little while and everyone starts having delusions of grandeur." -Han Solo

Lordy, Lordy, Lordy.

If you want me to be perfectly honest, when you mentioned all the styles you were utilizing my initial thought was that there was no way you could sucessfully pull this off.

Prove me wrong, why don't you? You've delightfully created a style amalgamating likes of Charles Dickens, J.R.R. Tolkien, and, well, you.

You've jumped a hurdle not done very much in this or any fanfic forum. Not only have you developed an idea for a story that intrests us.... You're writing it well.

You've gone above and beyond anything I put out suring my short tenure on this board, and you should feel proud.
Cheers.
Jason S

[The Game]

Wow, I'm late getting to this story, but I just want to say I agree with everyone else, this is a great piece of writing Panther, keep it up! :D

[witness]

I cannot believe it! Panther, you are one lucky, lucky writer!!!! You managed to rouse SilentBob173 out of whatever he was doing! Wow!

Jason, I'm betting you'll keep reading this story. It's great to have you back! Please, please come back again! It was absolutely wonderful to see you posting your thoughts on this board again!


Woo! I'm all excited now! :D

[SilentBob173]

Heh, good to see you too, witness.
Cheers.
Jason S

P.S. You guys are way too good to me. I'm not not exactly the Pope. I wake up with eye boogers just like the next man.

:D

[The Game]

I'm not exactly the Pope. I wake up with eye boogers just like the next man.

That is so gonna become my favorite quote.

[Panther]

>THUD<

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That was me falling down in utter amazement from this overwhelming amount of positive feedback. All these great comments on my writing! Thank you Witness, Coran, and thegame! I’m so glad everyone likes my story. I never imagined it would go over this well! :D :D :D


"I'm out of it for a little while and everyone starts having delusions of grandeur."
I’m going to take that as a compliment. ;)

Jason, if your comments mean you back with more tales to regale us with, then I’m delighted; if you popped up just to give feedback then I’m honored. Either way, I am very, VERY flattered by your wonderful reply. (Yeah, yeah, I know, you’re not the Pope – but still…)

However, I must admit that with all these raised expectations I am VERY NERVOUS about how the rest of the story will be received. >bites fingernails<

Fingers crossed for good luck! :)

[Panther]

Zack set out to explore the fair city of Padua and see the sights. He bought postcards and took pictures. It wasn’t that he was into the whole tourist scene, but he wanted to have something to tell and send to his family besides genetic assays of subspecies of flowers or some other latest botanical findings. His mother and his two younger sisters enjoyed hearing about the places where he went to collect specimens, but cared little for the research itself.

In the course of the day, he paid his respects to Dr. Peter Bagley, Professor of Biology at the University of Padua, and a scientist of eminent repute, whom Zack knew only by reputation, but whom his father had known personally.

The professor was an elderly personage, about the same age as Dr. Isley, but in all other respects completely opposite; shorter and stouter than Zack with an almost constant merry twinkle in his eye, as if he had just remembered an old joke. He was apparently of a genial nature, and had habits that must be called jovial. Despite his excess weight he was very active and had an amusing habit of exaggerating many of his words with his hands.

He congratulated the young man on obtaining his doctorate in botany and kept him to a late lunch. The professor made himself very agreeable by the freedom and liveliness of his conversation, especially when warmed by a flask or two of Tuscan wine.

They chatted over a meal as the music of Roger and Hammerstein played in the background on an old record player that the professor had continually refused to update.
The tone of conversation, however, switched when Zack mentioned the name Jeremy Isley and the professor did not respond with as much cordiality as Zack would have had anticipated.

Dr. Bagley closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, stroking a graying beard thoughtfully. “Ahh, good ole Woody,” he said in an odd tone, “never do I seem to be able to free myself from that-” He opened his eyes and observed the look Zack was giving him.

“Ill would it become a teacher of the divine art of science,” said Professor Peter Bagley hastily with only light sarcasm, “to withhold due and well-considered praise of a scientist so eminently skilled as Isley. But…”

“What do you know about him?” asked Zack quickly. “Do you know him personally?”

“Has my friend Zack any disease of body or heart, that he is so inquisitive about doctors?” asked the professor with a smile as ‘Bloody Mary’ from South Pacific played in the background.

“I am working for him.” The smile dropped as Zack explained the grant and the research assistant position with Dr. Isley.

“He is a very skilled scientist, but it would be negligence on my part to permit you, Zack, the son of an ancient friend, to imbibe erroneous ideas respecting a man who might hereafter chance to hold your life and death in his hands. Don’t interrupt,” he said sternly as Zack started to say something, “that is not an overstatement. The truth is, Doctor Isley has as much science as any member of the faculty – with perhaps one single exception –” here the professor smiled briefly, “in Padua, or in the entire scientific community. But there are certain grave objections to his professional character.”

Zack looked at him in a confused manner.

Very serious, Bagley went on, “It is said of him, and I, who know the man well, can answer for its truth, that he cares infinitely more for science than for humanity. His life is one long laboratory experiment.” Zack tried to interject again at this point, but Bagley continued.

Everything,” the professor underscored the word by slapping his palm on the table, “is interesting to him only as subjects for some new research project. It would not be an extreme exaggeration to say that, if allowed, he would sacrifice human life, his own among the rest, or whatever else was dearest to him, for the sake of adding so much as a grain of understanding to the great heap of his accumulated knowledge.”

He paused somewhat dramatically. "Precaution,” concluded the professor dryly, “is a word not found in Isley’s vocabulary.”

“Perhaps,” replied Zack in a temporizing voice, mentally recalling the cold and purely intellectual aspect of Isley. “And yet, Professor, is that not a noble spirit? Wouldn’t we still be in the Dark Ages without such men capable of so… spiritual a love of science?”

“God forbid we don’t progress,” answered Professor Bagley, somewhat testily, “at least, unless we don’t take sounder views of the art of healing than those adopted by Isley. It is Isley’s theory that all medicinal virtues are comprised within the substances that we term vegetable poisons.”

Here the professor frowned, as if at a sour memory. “These he cultivates with his own hands, and is said even to have produced new varieties of poison, more horribly deleterious than Nature. However… it is undeniable that he has never succumbed to the temptations one might with such knowledge and less mischief than might be expected, with such dangerous substances. And he has produced on occasion some amazing treatments,” admitted Professor Bagley reluctantly.

“Yes, none of this is new to me, I’ve have read all articles he has written and everything of him,” said Zack but the professor ignored him and continued speaking:

“But I would dare to suggest my own opinion in private that he should receive little credit for such instances of success – they being probably the work of chance – but should be held strictly accountable for his failures, which may justly be considered his own work.”

“An awful two edged dagger position,” observed Zack dryly. “Are you sure your opinions have nothing to do with the professional warfare of long continuance between you and Doctor Isley, in which he seems to often have the upper hand?”

The doctor looked at him with a narrowed eyed frown, then laughed agreeably. “True, true, I am so biased. But trust me when I say Isley has a zeal for science that is unmatched in Padua, perhaps in all the scientific community.”

Thinking he was jumping to his provider’s defense, Zack began, “But I believe he can love something more beside his science. He has a daughter-”

“Aha!” interrupted the professor with a laugh. “So now our friend Zack's secret is out! This is indeed a matter of a disease of the heart.”

Professor Bagley pointed a thick finger at the youth with a knowing smile. “You wish to discuss the junior Isley, whom all the young men in Padua are wild about. I myself have not seen her in quite some time, not since I broke off working with Isley.”

That Bagley and Isley had worked together surprised Zack, but before he could ask for more details, the professor went on: “Her father guards her as jealousy as one of his exotic plants. He home schooled her and it is said he has instructed her deeply in his science, and that, young and beautiful as fame reports her, she is already qualified to fill a professor's chair. Perchance her father destines her for mine!”

He laughed quietly, and then paused, but Zack felt as though he had not finished yet.

“There are other rumors as well,” the professor went on, almost to himself rather than to Zack, “but not worth talking about, or listening to. Although,” he muttered darkly, “in my experience I have always found it to be true that the apple does not fall far from the tree.”

He glanced at Zack and went on cheerfully, “So now, Zack, drink off your glass of Lacryma, and allow an old man the pleasure of showing off the latest additions to his private Anagallis arevensis collection before you leave.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Zack returned to his lodgings somewhat heated with the wine he had quaffed. On the way back it occurred to him that in opposite to all training of manners his mother had tried to drill into him in his childhood, he had forgotten to bring any sort of housewarming gift. He was passing a florist, so on impulse he purchased a bouquet of flowers for his lovely young hostess, Miss Isley.

Lisabetta met him on the threshold of the Isley house and informed him dinner would be served promptly at seven o’clock, her tone promising dire consequences if he presumed to be so rude as to be late.

He promised he would be in the dining room at the appointed time and went back to his rooms. He planned on making notations in his private notebook on his observations of Dr. Bagley’s private botanic collection, but for some reason his mind kept wandering off to other things. He drank some water from the jug and glass left in his room to try and clear his head.

Zack gazed out his balcony window.

All before his eye was once again solitude. The extraordinary flora were basking in the sunshine, and now and then nodding gently to one another in the slight breeze generated by an unseen air vent, looking as if they were bowing in acknowledgment of sympathy and kindred.

In the midst, by the shattered fountain, grew the magnificent shrub, with its purple gems clustering all over it; they glowed in the air, and gleamed back again out of the depths of the pool, which thus seemed to overflow with colored radiance from the rich reflection that was steeped in it.

From under one of the far marble entryways across from Zack’s room Miss Pamela Isley came out from under a veil of greenery and entered the garden. She wove her way through the maze of plants as easily as if traveling an empty straight road and made her way to the middle of the garden and the broken fountain that grew the extraordinary purple flowers.

Approaching the shrub, she threw open her arms, as with a passionate ardor, and drew its branches into an intimate embrace; so intimate, that her features were hidden in its leafy bosom, and her glistening ringlets all intermingled with the flowers.

And Zack, at his lofty window, rubbed his eyes, and almost doubted whether it were a girl tending her favorite flower, or one sister performing the duties of affection to another.

“Give me breath, my sister,” exclaimed Pamela as if reciting sacred poetry; “for I am faint with common air!” She breathed deeply, and then spoke in a more practical, but still loving tone, “And forgive me of relieving of one of your older blossoms, that I might examine your intricate hidden beauties more closely under microscope and in test tube.”

With these words, the beautiful daughter of Isley plucked one of the richest blossoms of the shrub. But now, unless Zack's draughts of wine had bewildered his senses, a singular incident occurred. A small orange colored reptile, of the lizard or chameleon species, chanced to be creeping along the path, just at the feet of Pamela.

It appeared to Zack - but, at the distance from which he gazed, he could scarcely have seen anything so minute - it appeared to him, however, that a drop or two of sap from the broken stem of the flower descended upon the lizard's head. For an instant, the reptile contorted itself violently, and then lay motionless in the sunshine.

Pamela observed this remarkable phenomenon, and crossed herself, furtively and sadly, but without surprise; nor did she therefore hesitate to hold on to the apparently fatal flower in her creamy hand. There it blushed, and almost glimmered with the dazzling effect of a precious stone, adding to her appearance like nothing else in the world could have supplied.

Zack, confined to the balcony, bent forward then shrank back, and felt a tremble go up his spine. He blinked and shook his head, trying to shake off a feeling of inexplicable dread.

Pamela now strayed carelessly through the garden, approaching closer to Zack's position in his leafily curtained window, gratifying the intense and painful curiosity that she excited. An impulsive movement of Zack drew her eyes to him and beheld the handsome young man gazing upon her. Scarcely knowing what he did, Zack threw down the bouquet that he had hitherto held in his hand and she caught it easily in one hand.

“Miss Isley,” he said a bit formally and boyishly, “for you! Please accept them and think of Zack Saule!”

“Oh, umm, thank you,” replied Pamela, with her rich voice that came forth as it were like a gush of music; half childish and half woman-like, but in an oddly sad and constrained tone.

“Do they not please you? I admit they are not as beautiful as you but-”

“They’re dying!” she cried out, and then burst into sobs, covered her eyes, took the bouquet and, ashamed at both having stepped aside from her maidenly reserve to respond to his greeting, and of her outburst, dashed swiftly out of the garden and back into the house.

[The Game]

In the words of Janice from Friends :

"Oh my GAWD!"

Hehe :) Another good edition Panther, keep the story coming. I'm sorry I thought you were a guy :(

[Coran]

Panther, your writing skills continue to amaze me. The fact that you are enjoying my story is sincerely amazing after I read the talent in your own. I hope you write more soon.

[SilentBob173]

No, no. I don't have any plans to return to writing fanfics anytime soon. For the moment, I'm here to read and to enjoy.

If there was anything I did put out they'd be short, oneshot stories, but I don't have any ideas right now, so I wouldn't expect those anytime soon, either.

Now, way farther on down the road? Who knows? I mean, 'I, Joker' was an intended trilogy. I know what happens in the 2nd and third installment, but I need to figure out the best way to present them to make sure that they're good. That, and the first installment will go under a major revision before I continue the story any. My writing style, I'd like to think, has evolved alot since 'I, Joker' and 'Canon in D'. So, hopefully, once I have more time on my hands, I can return to 'I, Joker'. If nothing, I'd like to at least to the revision on the first one to make it as good as it could be, because I'm not very happy with the version I already put to you guys, even though I am endlessly flattered that you guys enjoy it.

Now, keep in mind, this may all be a ways off. In the meantime, if you're looking for a good story to read, I suggest you keep your eyes fixed to this thread, cats and kiddies, because it looks our little lady, panther is doing a fine job. She's holding my interest, and I don't see how she couldn't be holding any other Batman fan's interest either. We're all waiting to see what happens next.

No, pressure, Panther.
:wakko: :D
Cheers.
Jason S

[Daughterof_Evil]

Oh, Panther, I can't help but think of the scene in Trial where the female attorney taunted your dear heroine with a dying lapel flower. I knew the second you mentioned the bouqet that it would send her over the edge...but perhaps the lunacy comes later.

Incredible backround you're giving. It really helps one understand her character to see the soil from which she was reaped...and also I commend you for the unique decision of not having Pamela as the main character, but Dr. Saule, an outsider who would most appreciate the Isleys' madness.

Again, I have nothing to say about your decsriptions but this dry rasping sound that could be my drooling on the keyboard. Your art gets better and better with every story, and since you started at the absolute top, your talent can go nowhere but heavenward.

Excellent details on the home...I knew I detected a hint of Baroness Orczy with this newest of stories, along with the others SilentBob mentioned.

Again, perfectly rounded and endlessly entertaining!

[Panther]

Coran - I continue to be amazed at how much everyone responds about this writing style - thanks! :)

Game - thank you very much for the praise. :cool: Don't worry about the mistake- perhaps I should change my screen name to Lady Panther? :D

Jason - again, thank you for responding! I went to your website to re-read 'I,Joker' and 'Canon in D' and I'm surprized you were dissatisfied with them - they're sooo excellant! I hope you write more in future. Annnnnnnnnnnd - You told eveyone to read my story! :p THANK YOU!

D.ofE. - The lunacy always comes later. The descriptions of the house where more based on stuff I'd seen than read, actaully. Historic houses and stuff. Pamela herself has mentioned my main source of inspirtation a post or two back.


I love feedback! Thank you all!

[Panther]

Zack sat at his desk for quite some time as twilight began to settle, completely taken aback by this family that had actually appeared to have taken a material science to a sacred art.

It was a relief when the hour of dinner approached and he could give up any pretense of working and change into the most respectable outfit he owned, which happened to be a well-worn dark blue suit he had used on important occasion for several years now.

He managed to find his way to the dining room, but not without two wrong turns, which revealed only more splendors, and rooms that testified to the opulence that the house seemed to have in abundance.

He entered the luxurious dining room to see the table had been set even more richly and abundantly then before, with the addition of what looked like solid gold candlesticks and lighted tapers, but still there were only two place settings.

Zack stood on the threshold uncertainly. At the opposite end of the room Pamela entered through another doorway, also appearing to be uncertain.

Only blushing slightly she quietly said in a rush, “Dr. Saule, I’m sorry about my outburst earlier, I get so attached to flowers sometimes-”

He interrupted before she could on, “No need to apologize, I understand. And please don’t be so formal, I’m not really used to this doctor thing yet; just Zack is fine.”

“Ok ‘Just Zack’,” she responded with a mischievousness that surprised Zack into laughter.

They both giggled as they sat down at the mahogany table. Pamela poured drinks for both of them from a crystal decanter. “A toast then, Zack,” she said, “to future botanical discoveries.” They clinked glasses and drank.

“Actually,” he said, when he had put down his glass, “in my case Zack is short for ‘Zaccheus’. Can you believe my parents landed me with that?” he asked as he started the first course.

“It’s certainly unusual,” she said, returning his gentle smile and picking up her soupspoon. She added naively, “Although I’ve always preferred the unusual rather than the ordinary,” then asked: “What does your name mean?”

He rolled his eyes. “ ‘Innocence’.”

Pamela hastily swallowed the bouillabaisse in her mouth and laughed, the sound was music to Zack ears, but then it stopped as she suddenly remembered something. “Oh! I was supposed to tell you that my father sends his regrets that he will not be able to join us this evening, but looks forward to having you join him in the laboratory tomorrow morning.” She smiled indulgently, “It is impossible to pry him away from the lab sometimes.”

“Where is his laboratory?” Zack asked curiously.

“On the third floor,” replied Pamela as though it were obvious.

“Does he conduct all of his work here?”

“As long as I can remember. He used to travel far and wide in pursuit of new botanical specimens. He began to settle down a little after he married, and then refused to budge after my mother died.”

“How did she die?” asked Zack, hoping he wasn’t being rude.

“She was one of the rare cases of women who actually still die from complications of childbirth. I think my father viewed the event as a test of not of his faith in God, but of his faith in science. Science failed him that day, and he has spent the rest of his life trying to improve science, rather than abandoning it.”

Pamela was no longer looking at Zack, but gazing at something in the middle distance that was most certainly not to be found in that room. Zack tried to think of something comforting or at least polite to say, but was at a loss. He moved his hand towards her, resting delicately on the tablecloth, thinking perhaps to show his sympathy towards her without words.

Suddenly the moment was broken as Lisabetta entered the room from the far doorway. Pamela started, jerked back into the here and now and turned towards the interloper. “Lisabetta, what is it? Is something wrong?” For the old woman’s face wore a grave look of concern.

“Signora, your father sends for you to come help him with his work this instant.”

Pamela pushed back her chair and rose hastily. “Yes, yes, of course. I’m coming,” she said, speaking in the same tone of nervousness as the aged housekeeper. Zack got up as well. “No, stay, doct- err – Zack,” she said.

“Are you sure I cannot be of service in anyway?” he asked, concerned.

“No. We’ll see you tomorrow then,” she said distractedly, already making her way out of the room. “Oh, and here,” she stopped briefly to pull something out of a pocket. “Here is a key to the garden.” She placed an ornate silver key, identical to the one he had seen Senora Lisabetta use, on the table and she and the senora hastily left, leaving Zack feeling slightly uneasy.

He picked up the key and slowly made his way back to his room, deep in thought about the illusive doctor. But as he fell asleep, his thoughts centered on how the candlelight had caught the profile of Pamela’s face.

[Livewire]

Do I smell romance? Pamela certainly seems to have Zach entranced. You've given Ms. Isley the character developement she deserves. She seems as if she could have been a charming person if she hadn't turned to her "Ivy" ways.


Waiting for more!! :) -L-

[Panther]

She seems as if she could have been a charming person if she hadn't turned to her "Ivy" ways.
"If only, if only," the woodpecker sighs,
"The bark on the tree was as soft as the skies."
While the wolf waits below, hungry and lonely,
Crying to the moon, "If only, if only."

from Holes by Lois Sachar


If only indeed! Thank you for the reply, I'm posting more tomorrow!


later,

[Panther]

The next morning Pamela again joined him in the dining room at another scrumptious breakfast. “Good morning,” he said in greeting. “How’s everything?” he asked solicitously.

“Very well thank you,” she said. “I’m sorry to have left in such a rush last night but my father hasn’t been feeling all that great lately and needed a little help in the lab.” She spoke brightly but with what seemed to be a trace of nervousness. “He’s a bit off this morning, but generally fine,” she said with a smile as she took a bite of toast.

Zack noticed she was wearing gloves again, this time pale blue with gold embroidered flowers along the edges. He drank his orange juice and gave it no more notice.

After the meal she escorted him to the laboratory. They went up two flights of marble staircases, and this time Zack just had to stop to examine the parade of colored glass windows, a riot of color in the morning light. Pamela rattled off the names of both the people and flowers illustrated in the windows, explaining to Zack that they were all replicas of some of her parents’ favorite church windows from the 16th century.

They reached the laboratory on the third floor and, not surprisingly, that area was also filled with botanical gatherings. Vegetative experiments were set up everywhere amidst the test tubes and microscopes.

The third floor had no dividers – it was all one big room that wrapped itself squarely around the inside garden, the glass dome making up much of the inside wall. It was a semi-orderly laboratory, but everywhere there was greenery.

Before Pamela gave him the grand tour she issued him a pair of surgical gloves and explained he must be given an injection if he wished to come close to her father’s experiments.

“It’s like going to the Amazon jungles or some other area of that type – you need immunization to work in a climate your body is totally unused to. The toxins here are in no way contained.”

She fiddled with a needle and as she gave Zack the injection she said, “I developed it myself, but too late for my father, who now feels the effects of a life time of working with poisons.”

Zack nodded as he thought of the sickly looking Isley, and then glanced around, wondering where her father was. Pamela threw away the used needle and began to show him around the lab.

“Here I’m conducting experiments on speeding up the growth process with a mixture of utilizing only certain rays in the light spectrum and exposing them to electricity, as well as using a special diet.” She showed him a series of soil trenches under blue lights and connected to a mass of wires, in each trough the plants were in a stage of growth – from first sprout to a writhing mass of huge green leaves and thick stems.

“And what are these plants here?” asked Zack curiously, pointing at a row of plants that resembled Venus’s Fly Traps, each encased in small individual glass domes.

“My father and I share a love for hybrids but he cares only for the toxins of plants, while I am much more interested in the movement capabilities of plants – why shouldn’t they move as freely as animals? I’ve been experimenting with adding animal hormones and such, making plants more mobile, more aggressive, hybridinization with the other kingdom rather than limiting myself to just class or phylum.”

They moved on to the plants clustered around the windows and compared notes on studies of Digitalis purpurea.

“You’ve got a wonderful collection of Atropa belladonna here,” remarked Zack later, admiring the flowers stretching their green stems towards the ultraviolet light they were growing underneath.

“Yes,” smiled Pamela, “this is part of one of my first experiments. My father’s nickname for me as a little girl was ‘Belladonna’. He used that word in my first lessons in Latin - which he insisted I learn how to understand fluently, since so much botany is conducted with Latin names.”

“With as green a thumb as yours you don’t need Latin to speak the language of flowers,” said Zack gallantly.

She blushed prettily, then cleared her throat and led him onwards in the grand tour through the jungle of both plants and laboratory equipment.

“What’s this?’ asked Zack in surprise, pointing at a cage of rats.

“This is another experiment of mine – again mixing the animal and plant kingdoms. I’m researching effects of certain toxins and other botanical substances on certain portions of the brain and how they affect things such as mobility, desires, control, inhibitions, etc.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Dr. Isley showed up as Zack and Pamela were bending their heads over a microscope, examining cell walls of different samples of Sanquinaria canadensis.

Zack looked up to see him approach. Underneath his lab smock he was wearing black and moved towards them in a somewhat stooped and feeble manner. His face was just as Zack remembered it, all overspread with a most sickly and sallow hue, but possessing an inner light of intellect, energy, and objective curiosity.

The three of them discussed botany at some length, specifically, some of the projects the doctor was working on at the moment. Dr. Isley seemed to appreciate the points Zack made, and gave him a hard copy of all his notes on one of the experiments Zack had shown particular interest in.

“Read them over and tell me what you think – but take some time to eat first, young man,” ordered the doctor sternly. Zack glanced at his watch and realized it was already mid afternoon. Isley went on, “I’ve already seen to it that Lisabetta will bring a late lunch to your room. I will talk to you later. Dinner is at seven.” The doctor turned his attention to his daughter and Zack left, partly feeling as though he had just been curtly dismissed.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Back in his room he began to read the notes, absent mindedly munching on the sandwich left for him now and then, and it wasn’t until the light moved and he was left in shadow that he blinked and noted how much time he had spent pouring over Isley’s personal research. Zack rubbed his eyes tiredly and stood up to stretch his back and legs.

He looked out his balcony and his heartbeat quickened as he saw Pamela was now straying through the garden, carefully seeing to her vegetative charges. She did not notice him and gradually made her way to the middle of the garden and the fountain that hosted the magnificent shrub.

She had taken off her gloves and now she stopped to fondle one of the leaves so intimately, he became so jealous he had to look away. At the moment when he looked back there a large beautiful dragonfly flitted past him and into the garden; it had perhaps wandered through the city and found no flowers nor verdure among the glass and steel buildings of men, until the heavy perfumes of Doctor Isley's shrubs had lured it from afar and in through some open window.

Without alighting on the flowers, this winged brightness seemed to be attracted by Pamela, and lingered in the air and then fluttered onto her hand. Now here it could not be but that Zack Saule’s eyes deceived him.

Be that as it may, Zack saw Pamela try to rid her self of the insect by shaking her hand with a strange upset look on her face. The insect fell, not flew, off her hand and to the ground; its bright wings shriveled. It must have been dead, and from no cause that he could discern, unless it was something to do with the contact with her skin. Pamela sighed heavily, as she bent over the dead insect incuriously.

Zack wrenched his gaze from the window, assuring himself that of course there was a more logical explanation – perhaps the young scientist had recently contaminated her hands with a mild toxin in the lab? – and turned his attentions back to the notes, but somehow he could not become as heavily absorbed in them as before.

[The Game]

Be that as it may, Zack saw Pamela try to rid her self of the insect by shaking her hand with a strange upset look on her face. The insect fell, not flew, off her hand and to the ground; its bright wings shriveled. It must have been dead, and from no cause that he could discern, unless it was something to do with the contact with her skin. Pamela sighed heavily, as she bent over the dead insect incuriously.

Oooh! She's poison! Keep up the good work Panther, this is a great story. :)

[Coran]

I will definately say that you have peaked my interest Panther. Keep up the good work.

[Livewire]

I have so many things I want to say, but I don't want to give anything away. What I will say is- excellent!

Waiting for you to post again! :) -L-

[Panther]

Thanks again Coran and Game! :) And Livewire - if you're bursting to speculate but don't want to spoil it for anyone else, feel free to e-mail. But I don't promise I'll reveal anything! :p

[Panther]

That evening Zack entered the dining room at the appointed time and saw once again the mahogany table had been set for two, but this time Pamela was already seated.

“Good evening,” she said in a polite and cheerful voice. “I trust my father’s notes did not bore you?”

“On the contrary,” said Zack, a tad stiffly, “they were… riveting.”

“Good,” she said simply. As she placed her napkin onto her lap and Zack noticed she was now wearing light brown gloves; she sighed and said, “I’m afraid my father won’t be able to join us for meals. He’s now on a special diet for health reasons and says the mere sight of food alternates between making him ravenous and nauseous.”

She poured wine for both of them as Zack sat down. He began to eat with her, at first saying little, but then the food or the wine must have loosened his tongue, as well as hers, because soon they were chatting together like old friends, mostly about science, both its possibilities and limits.

“It’s impossible that a mammal will ever be cloned,” said Pamela at one point in their conversation.

“I’m telling you, it will happen – and sooner than you think,” said Zack, waving his empty glass for emphasis. “I have a friend who majored in zoology and has an ear to the ground, so to speak, and has said that they’re doing some fantastic research in Scotland right now trying to clone a mammal even as we speak!”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” said Pamela rolling her eyes and chuckling with a bit of a wine induced slur. Suddenly her eyes rested on the mantel clock and she stopped. “Oh! I had no idea it was so late.” A huge yawn overtook her, “Excuse me, but I’m used to early hours.”

The yawn was contagious and Zack had to yawn wearily as well. “I’ll see you in the morning then?”

She smiled brightly, “Of course.”

He bid her goodnight and went off to bed, tired, but inexplicably happy.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The next morning Pamela brought a hefty stack of papers with her to the table. “Dad has bestowed on you the privilege,” she smiled apologetically, “of allowing you to read more of his private notes. Only a fraction of his work ever leaves this house. You’d make one of three people who have ever seen these papers.” She frowned slightly, “Well – Dr. Bagley might have seen some, but that was so long ago…” she trailed off causally and shrugged.

“Yes,” said Zack, nodding and trying to bluff some information out of Pamela, “Dr. Bagley mentioned the falling out between the two of them.”

Pamela visibly started. “You know Dr. Bagley?”

“I met with him when I first came to town,” he explained. “My father worked with him a few times – Dr. Bagley really helped him when he was new to the field – and I was told to go and say ‘hi’ when I came to Padua.”

“Your father is a scientist?” she asked brightly.

“The reason I majored in botany,” said Zack cheerfully. “I think I inherited my love of observation and methodology from him.”

She smiled, “That’s nice.” She grinned, “As I think you can tell I’m a huge proponent of parent and child sharing professions.” More seriously she nodded at the notes, “Dad wants to hear your opinion on his notations, particularly the results of the hybridization experiment with Laburnum anagyroides and Argemone mexicana.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Only back in his room, halfway through the notes, did he realize Pamela had deflected his questions away from the subject of Professor Bagley. Zack resolved to ask her about the failed Bagley/Isley partnership later.

However, Isley’s notes were so utterly absorbing to any true scientist that Zack quickly put all thoughts of the past aside as he eagerly read more of the meticulous botanical records of Isley.

Some incalculable amount of time later Zack looked up at the sound of some working in the garden below his window. He heard a rustling of plants and then the sound of Pamela’s voice. She was singing to herself to the tune of an old fashioned melody. It sounded like some sort of ballad.

Zack stopped reading to concentrate on the words themselves. Sweet and clear her voice sang out:

“-And then shall green appear above the soil,
Representing so much toil,
Its flower bows before the sun,
As if to say ‘God’s will be done”.

Zack hesitated a moment, then got up and went downstairs to the garden’s entrance. He unlocked the wooden door with his key and as it was opened, there came the sight and sound of rustling leaves, with the broken sunshine glimmering among them.

Zack stepped forth, through the entanglement of a shrub that wreathed its tendrils over the entrance, and he stood beneath his own window, for the second time in the open area of Doctor Isley's indoor garden.

Pamela seemed to have disappeared, so Zack, no longer awed by the presence of either Isley, now began a methodic examination of the plants found therein, automatically naming off most of the plants he saw, but baffled at an unexpected lack of knowledge when he did not recognize several specimens, many appearing to hybrids of fantastic variations.

They were probably the result of Isley’s experiments that had succeeded in mingling plants individually lovely into a compound possessing the questionable and ominous character that distinguished the whole growth of the garden.

In fact, Zack recognized a scant amount in the collection, and those all were of a kind that he well knew to be poisonous. While busy with these contemplations, he heard the rustling of a silken garment, and turning, beheld Pamela emerging from one of the greenhouses.

“You are truly a connoisseur of flowers,” said Pamela with a smile, as she observed his careful attentions to the plants. To Zack her voice was a warm, luminous, timeless melody. “I’m so glad my father choose someone who appreciates this garden as well. He can tell you many strange and interesting facts as to the nature and habits of his rare collection, for he has spent a life-time in such studies, and this garden is his world.”

“And yourself,” observed Zack, “if fame says true, you, likewise, are deeply skilled in the virtues indicated by these rich blossoms, and these spicy perfumes. Would you deign to be my instructress, I should prove a more apt scholar than under the senior doctor Isley himself.” He went through this adulation without even realizing how much the lovesick puppy he sounded.

“Are there such idle rumors?” asked Pamela, with a pleasant laugh. “Do people say that I am as skilled in my father's science of plants? What a silly joke that is! No; though I have grown up among these flowers, I do not know as much as him. He has fully dedicated his life to botany.”

As she spoke she took out a pair of gloves she had tucked into a pocket and pulled them, this time they were a creamy white with large lily embroidered on the back of each palm.

“There are many flowers here,” she went on, “and none that shock or offend me when they meet my eye; I know their hues and fragrances like the back of my hand. But, seriously, don’t believe what stories you may hear about my science. Believe nothing of me except what you see with your own eyes.”

“And must I believe all that I have seen with my own eyes?” asked Zack pointedly, with the briefest glance at her gloved hands. “No, Miss Isley, you demand too little of me. Bid me believe nothing, save what comes from your own lips.”

It would appear that Pamela understood him. There came a deep flush to her cheek; but she looked full into Zack's eyes, and responded to his gaze of uneasy suspicion with a queen-like haughtiness.

“Very well then, doctor!” she snapped in reply. “Forget whatever you may have fancied in regard to me. If true to the outward senses, still it may be false in its essence. But the words of Pamela Isley are true from the heart outward. Those you may believe!”

Fervor glowed in her whole aspect, and while she spoke, it seemed to Zack almost as though the whole garden loomed around him and grew in size and become dark and sinister.

Faintness passed like a shadow over Zack, and he looked straight into the young woman’s eyes, almost afraid of what he might see. She gazed back at him and, seeing the uncertainty in his eyes, visibly calmed herself and gazed back at him with a such a look of ingenuousness that his uncertainty flitted away; he gazed through the beautiful girl's eyes into her soul, and felt no more doubt or fear.

The tinge of anger that had colored Pamela’s manner vanished and she began to chatter on of this, that and the other thing. She reminded Zack of Shakespeare’s Miranda, talking for the sheer novelty of talking with another youth; a girl on an island conversing with a voyager from the civilized world.

She talked now about matters as simple as the weather or the birds in the sky, and occasionally asked questions to Zack’s distant home, his friends, his parents, and his sisters; questions indicating the extent of her seclusion.

He showed her a picture of his sisters he kept in his wallet. “They’re so cute!” she exclaimed. Teasingly she added, “They must be hogging all the good genes, my gangly gardener.”

“Hah!” he rejoined sportingly, “they’d turn green with envy standing next to you.” Pamela blushed and so Zack changed the subject.

“This is really a magnificent house and garden. It must have been a wonderful place to grow up.”

“We very nearly lost it when I was a child. I was very young at the time but it made a strong impression. My father managed to overcome his financial troubles, securing his livelihood and lifestyle, but it taught me an important lesson: money is the root of both all problems and all solutions. If you have it you can do anything; if you don’t – you’re screwed.”

“ ‘I’ve been rich, I’ve been poor. Rich is better’.”

“Uh, yeah, I guess,” she responded in a slightly confused tone.

“It’s a quote,” he waved a hand casually, “someone in Hollywood.”

“The capital of artificiality,” she scoffed.

“Have you ever been there?”

“Never,” she said proudly.

“And so close by,” he said with mock sadness, “You poor deprived thing. Still, this is a great area to grow up,” and he burst into song:

“‘California is a Garden
of Eden
A paradise to live in or see
But believe it or not
You won’t find it so hot
If you ain’t got the do-re-mi’.”

She laughed, “That quote I know – Wilson Guthrie sang that tune, and as I recall the song is a warning to people that they should NOT come to this fair state.” Zack smiled.

As she went on talking Pamela’s very spirit seemed to gush out before him like a bubbling fountain. She spoke of other thoughts too, of a gem-like brilliancy, as if diamonds and rubies sparkled upward among the bubbles of the fountain. Ever and anon, there gleamed across the young man's mind a sense of wonder, that he should be walking side by side with someone both so incredibly beautiful and exceedingly intelligent - and interested in him.

He asked of her seclusion and she laughed, replying evasively, “I was once told that the creeping vine will never blossom as wonderfully as the hothouse flower, yet I do hope someday to explore the world – once my current studies are done.” Again he was reminded of a rare flower, one raised carefully in an artificial setting, protected from the rest of the world.

Then Zack spoke of a study abroad program in environmental science he had participated in his junior year of college. He described the flowers he had seen growing at incredible altitudes in the Carpathian Mountains.

“I would have loved to have seen those flowers with you,” said Pamela, and then blushed to speak so boldly, so they turned their talk to the latest findings published in Botanists Monthly and gladly did they speak of it.

She mentioned that many of her father’s first articles had been published in that magazine and then admitted something Zack suspected she had never even admitted to herself, so near was the thought to her heart: “I hope I do not become known merely as ‘Isley’s daughter.”

“Speaking of your father,” asked Zack, trying to sound as causal as possible, “will I get to see him today?”

She blinked in surprise, then laughed, albeit a tad nervously. “Of course! He’s not a vampire. He’s just a late riser, but after lunch-”

“Or perhaps sooner than that,” said the voice of Isley, and then the man himself walked up to the pair from between two of the greenhouses.

“Speak of the devil,” joked Zack lamely.

“Indeed,” said Dr. Isley with one of his forced smiles. “So Dr. Saule, what did you think of the notes I sent you?”

Zack began to babble his thoughts on the experiments, and a love of research was clear in his tone as he excitedly talked of his opinions. Pamela made a few remarks, either agreeing or disagreeing, while doctor Isley remained silent, watching the two talk and debate about things such as control measures and potassium levels.

[The_NewCatwoman]

It seems as though Zack, and Pamela's characters just communicate so well with one another. I think Dr. Isley sees that in them, but hasn't said so yet.

Also, I must say that I'm finding this deeply intriguing. Excellent work on your part, and hopefully on mine as well.

I also noticed that your writing style reminds me of Great Expectations, that is, if the movie had stayed closer to the book, but was still set in modern times. Happy Writing!

[Coran]

Panther, you are just an awesome writer... period and full stop. I'm really enjoying this story. Keep up the good work!

[Livewire]

Very well done, Panther. It seems Zack and Pamela certainly have some chemistry. I can't wait to read your next chapter to see what else you have in store for the two.




Wating for more! :) -L-

[The Game]

Panther, you are just an awesome writer... period and full stop. I'm really enjoying this story. Keep up the good work!

For lack of better words (and because I'm lazy) I'll just say: ditto. ;)

[Panther]

Yeah! So many continued responses! :) Thanks! I love feedback. I'm so flattered you like my writing, Game Coran and Livewire. And Catwoman - /another/ person comparing me to Charles Dickons? I'm blushing!

Hope you all enjoy (and respond!) :D

[Panther]

Several days later Zack was on his way back to his room to type up some notes on an experiment with Passiflora caerula when he found himself stopping to admire the carved woodwork paneling in the main hallway on the second floor. He was startled to hear a voice behind him say, “Wonderful, isn’t it?”

He turned around a found himself looking down into Pamela’s green eyes. “Gorgeous,” he said breathlessly. She stared back with wide eyes. “Where did this artwork come from?” he asked hastily, turning back to the fanciful woodwork.

“Italy. My father developed a taste for all things Italian about the same time he met my mother in Tuscany,” she commented wryly. They both surveyed the carved flora and fauna relief figures in silence for a few moments.

“It’s nice,” said Zack lamely, mentally kicking himself for taking that film appreciation class instead of the art history survey course in college to fulfill an art requirement.

“The woodwork in this hallway comes from several old villas in that area where my parents first met,” said Pamela. “He was studying certain fragile ecosystems in the area and she was studying Italian Renaissance Art, and that was when his sudden interest in art developed. Also, her amateur interest in plants increased after they started to date. Lisabetta once told me they spent one ‘date’ identifying all the plants they saw in the works of Da Vinci in one of the Vatican art collections”

“How long has Lisabetta worked for your family?” asked Zack, curious about all aspects of Pamela’s family.

“Lisabetta Guasconti has worked for the Rappaccini family since my mother was a little girl. The Rappaccini family had interests, and relatives, in both Italy and the States and split their time between the two.”

She sighed and the two of them walked casually down the hallway as she talked. “Ironically my mother also lost her mother when she was very young and so Lisabetta has played the role of child’s nurse to both her and myself. I suspect Lisabetta came with my mother out here to the West Coast out of sheer refusal of letting her little chick venture forth out into the ‘howling wilderness’ alone with just my father.”

“You know,” commented Zack thoughtfully, “you don’t look very Italian.”

“The miracle of genetic recombination,” she quipped, and then went on, “you’re right though, but the blood of the Rappaccini family runs through my veins all the same.”

Mock proudly she said, “The blood of an ethnic group renowned for producing poisoning woman, conquering men who thought themselves gods and mobsters who simply were daring enough to apply business practices to the criminal world – or is that the other way around?” she asked rhetorically.

The reached the end of the hallway which led into a parlor area. It was furnished as lavishly as the rest of everything else he had seen before in the house, but here his attention was immediately drawn to a portrait hanging over in the middle of the southern wall.

The portrait painting had been done in the Italian Renaissance style; a lady with long black hair in a Renaissance dress of varying shades of blue with cream colored trimmings was sitting next to a sculpted marble fountain, back set against a green garden, a smile of content fixed on her face and green eyes that gazed unabashedly down at the viewer.

He stared at the portrait, caught in her gaze. “Who is she?” he asked, for some reason lowering his voice, as if afraid of being overheard. “This painting looks familiar.”

“This is my mother,” said Pamela warmly. “My father commissioned a painter to paint her in the Italian Renaissance style. She posed in the garden wearing a specially ordered dress.” She giggled, “she had just decided to have her hair cut before the painting, planning on wearing a wimple, but when she actually put it on she declared it to be so ugly she donned a black wig instead.”

He gazed at the setting Mrs. Isley sat in. It looked much less wild and crowded then the present state the garden was in, but it was the garden, unmistakably, there she sat on edge of the fountain, intact at the time of the sitting. “So it was painted after the house was built?”

“Yes, quite soon after. The portrait was sort of a house warming gift to themselves, you might say.”

“And right before your father gave up his travels,” he murmured half to himself, looking at the painting. He shifted his gaze back to Pamela. “Why does your father never leave?

“Why should he?” she asked in reply. “He’s got everything he wants and needs here and need never stir away from his private botanical studies. All he lacks is perfect health, and–” she broke of, uncertain. She led him out of the parlor area and continued giving him a tour and lecture of the house, taking him through lavish rooms that each contained a history she knew intimately, pointing out objects d’art that would be the envy of many museum curators.

“And what are these rooms here?” he asked as they reached closed double doors at the other end of the hallway, on the opposite side of the house from his rooms.

“Oh,” she blushed, “these are mine,” – awkward pause – , “Anyway. Moving on, this room over here…” and she lead him away and went on to tell him the history behind the private chapel room that had been brought over all the way from an abandoned castle in northern Sicily.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Late that evening Pamela was in the section of her rooms she had nicknamed ‘The Turkish Baths’. It was a room made primarily of marbles of varying shades from pure milk white to deep dark jet black. There were floor to ceiling mirrors, gold everything; a gauzy curtain surrounded a mosaic-tiled bath the luxury and depth of a Roman pool. The room was almost too hot to bear and filled with the scent of delectable perfumes. And even here plants permeated the space. In it Pamela lounged in a bubble bath.

In this bathing room of luxury the young woman murmured an old quote to herself as she soaked in bubbles:

“ ‘Is love a fancy or a feeling? No. It is immortal as immaculate truth. ’Tis not a blossom shed as soon as youth drops from the stem of life, for it will grow in barren regions where no waters flow nor ray of promise cheats the pensive gloom.’ ”

[The Game]

Another fabulous edition- there's something about your writing that seems so... Professional.

It's just very articulate and mature in its style that I can't get enough. Keep posting Panther, this is one of the best written and most imaginative stories I've read on the boards! :)

[witness]

And Panther sweeps the entire board! Seriously, have you seen so many stories going on at once? I'm amazed at the talent that's on this board. Anyways, another excellent chapter as usual.
I have one question for you. This story seems to be taking on a life of its own. Is this story going to be like another marathon? (like DoE's story)

[The_NewCatwoman]

This is great! I can't wait to see what goes on between Pamela and Zack!

[Panther]

Thank you Game!! Professional? Me? Wahoo! Witness - yes, this story has definitly taken on a life of its own, but no, it's not going to be as long as DofE's story. Catwoman, you're gonna love this next post.

Happy Valentine's Day everybody!

[Panther]

The next afternoon after lunch Pamela and Zack strolled leisurely through the garden, on the pretext of taking soil samples to check nitrate levels. They had strayed through the garden, and now, after many turns among its green-canopied avenues, came to the shattered fountain, in which grew the magnificent shrub with its treasury of glowing blossoms.

A fragrance was diffused from it, which Zack recognized as identical with that which he had earlier attributed to Pamela’s perfume, but here incomparably more powerful. As her eyes fell upon it, Zack beheld her press her hand to her chest, as if her heart were throbbing suddenly and painfully.

“For the first time in my life,” murmured she, addressing the shrub, “I had forgotten you!”

Zack made a step towards the shrub with his right hand extended to further examine the flowers. But Pamela darted forward, uttering a shriek that went through his heart like a dagger. She caught his hand, and drew it back with the whole force of her slender figure. Zack felt her touch thrilling through his veins.

“Don’t touch it!” she exclaimed, in a voice of agony.

“Pamela- I- ” stammered Zack in confusion. Pamela glanced down; Zack followed her eyes to their still clasped hands. Pamela instantly released her hand from his and looked up to his face, her green eyes very round with – fright? Was human contract that foreign to her Zack wondered.

“I must go,” she declared, and then she fled from him without another word of explanation, and vanished beneath the sculptured portal.

As Zack followed her with his eyes, he beheld the emaciated figure and pale intelligence of Doctor Isley, who had been watching the scene, he knew not how long, within the shadow of an entrance. The doctor strode forward, as best as he was able, and approached the young botanist with some question or another regarding a soil analysis. He led Zack to the lab, wanting to check some figures, and Zack dared not ask any questions that did not have to do with the task at hand.

Later on Dr. Isley inquired about the medication Pamela had given him to be able to handle the toxicity of the lab. When, in answer to his questions, Zack told him he not been given more than one dosage, Dr. Isley immediately saw to another administration of the drug so Zack did not overexpose himself to the poisons in Isley’s laboratory.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The next morning when Zack was thoroughly awake he became sensible of a slight tingling pain in his hand – in his right hand – the hand that Pamela had grasped in her own, when he was on the point of touching one of those gem-like flowers. On the back of that hand there was now the faintest of about five marks, the purplish color of old bruises.

But, as the pain soon faded and the marks seemed to be rapidly disappearing, he paid no more attention to them, and had practically forget about them by the time breakfast was over.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

That afternoon in the lab Zack looked up from his task to see the doctor regarding him. He fixed his eyes upon Zack with an intentness that seemed to bring out whatever was within him worthy of notice. It was a look that seemed to be taking merely a speculative, not a human interest, in the young man, and left Zack cold.

Seeing his gaze, the doctor, un-perturb, asked, “Would you please fetch Pamela? She is outside and I need her assistance for this experiment.” He gestured towards the Rosa rugosa on his worktable. “I believe you will find her somewhere on the grounds behind the house.” Zack obediently left without delay, not unrelieved to go seek out Pamela.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Outside on the vast green lawn Zack saw Pamela was practicing archery. She was armed with a tough looking crossbow and aiming it with deadly accuracy at a target more than fifty yards away. Without batting an eye she quickly shot off three arrows in a row. Two landed in the inner circle and the third was a bull’s eye.

Zack approached her and whistled in appreciation. “That’s no some nice shooting there m’am,” he said with a fake Western accent and a grin.

Calmly and seriously she answered, “Father insists on exercise. I have been instructed in several forms of both armed and unarmed combat, as well as helpful meditation exercises.”

“Really?” he said a bit bemusedly, impressed.

“And I can wipe the floor with any bar junkie at darts,” she add evenly. “Father maintains that both body and mind must be vigorously trained and exercised – just like Hypatia and her father.”

“Hypatia… where have I heard that name before? She was one of those ancient Greeks, right?”

“Right. Greek mathematician form the 5th century A.D. She was an incredibly brilliant mathematician, taught largely by her father who also instructed her in athletic training. Unfortunately her career in geometry was cut short by narrow-minded Christians.”

“Thrown to the lions?” he ventured.

“Scallops.”

“They gave her sea food poisoning?”

“No,” she said scornfully and then explained, “they torn the flesh from her bones with seashells.”

“Ewwwww,” he said, making a face.

“My thoughts exactly.” She then adjusted another arrow in the crossbow and leveled it carefully at the target. Zack hesitated, then asked in a rush before he lost his nerve:

“WillyougotothemovieswithmeonFriday?”

The arrow shot off into the upper stratosphere and must have eventually landed somewhere in the middle of the forest surrounding the grounds.

“What?” she asked incredulity, lowering her bow and turning to face Zack head on.

“Will _ you _ go _ to _ the _ movies _ with _ me _ on _ Friday?” he asked slowly and with clear enunciation, like a little boy reciting a memorized line in a school play.

She looked downwards as she hid a smile behind her hand then looked up with a straight face.

“I’d love to.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

At the theater that Friday night she flat out refused to see ‘Candyman’.

“I know what you’re thinking: as soon as it gets to a scary part I’ll cling to you in fright!” She rolled her eyes as they stood in the Padua Theater foyer amidst the college crowd. “Sheesh. Guys really are all the same.”

“Well then, you choose,” he said good-naturedly.

Her choice was ‘Prelude to a Kiss’, but it was sold out. They flipped a coin between ‘Patriot Games’ and ‘Aladdin’ and ended up watching Robin Williams as the lovable blue genie.

Afterwards they went to a nearby Japanese restaurant, Pamela humming Jasmine’s lines in ‘A Whole New World’ as they consulted their menus.

“You want to be careful with that, it could be poisonous,” Zack pointed out when their meals came and she dug into her sushi.

She shrugged as she swallowed. “I’ll be fine, I never get sick,” she said. Then she grinned, “I’m immune.”

It was his turn to shrug. “If you say so,” he said, and began to slurp his noodle soup.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Later they strolled under street lamps and stars down a street that moved from the shopping district to the suburban areas. “Ugh,” she said and pointed at one yard, “I hate those stupid plastic flowers people stick into the ground! Absolute blasphemy! I’d like to yank ‘em all out and burn ‘em to ashes.”

He looked at her meaningfully. “We could just…” he began with a sinful grin.

“Do you think we might…?” she asked, beginning to smile as well.

A chain fence surrounded the yard. Pamela made a move to start climbing it, but stopped when Zack pulled out a Swiss army knife and busily began to apply one of its handy blades to the lock.

“Learned this little trick freshman year of college,” he whispered.

“What?!?” she hissed in disbelief.

“Do you have any idea how nice the Delta Phi Kappa frat house was?”

“You did one of those stupid frat initiations?” she asked, disgusted.

“No!” he said in a shocked whisper, “Do I look crazy to you? No, no, no. It was just that the Kappa’s had really nice leather armchairs and the biology club had nothing, so…” he trailed off, not needing to elaborate, a grin on his face as he concentrated on the lock.

“Thief,” she said in a mock scornful voice trying not to laugh.

“Got it!” he said as he got the door open.

Guiltily they slunk in and plucked every single ‘decoration’.

“Hey!!!!!!” A women’s shrill voice came from behind a screen door.

“Run for it!” Zack commanded urgently.

Carrying the loot they bolted and ran for several minutes before they collapsed on a curb stoop several blocks later, half panting, half laughing.

“My first criminal act!” Pamela laughed. Suddenly she stopped laughing. Zack looked over to see what she was frowning at. A gray and white cat had crossed her path.

“Scat!” she ordered harshly with a flick of a wrist and the tabby took off.

“That was cold,” commented Zack.

“I don’t like cats,” she said primly. “Have you seen the way they treat plants as their own personal scratching posts?”

“I’m a dog person myself,” Zack remarked causally. “I’ve got a minor allergy to cats, but not dogs. Funny, huh?”

“Weird.”

They sat on the curb in peaceful silence for a few minutes. They dumped the plastic flowers in a public trash bin and meandered back to the Isley house, talking and laughing about the film, the restaurant, the stars, or whatever struck their fancy, but softly, as if not to disturb something, or someone.

When they actually got back to her home they were rudely interrupted by an irate Lisabetta who scolded Pamela for staying out so late and Zack for being most ungentlemanly like and don’t even think of taking that tone of voice with me young lady!

Smothering amusement the two separated with as much dignity as they could both muster. Back in his rooms Zack considered the beautiful paradox that was Pamela. An open book in many ways, but in others as mysterious as some of Nature’s own secrets.

But whatever she was, she was most definitely worthiest of worthies. In Zack’s eyes all was now beautiful; or, if incapable of such a change, it stole away and hid itself among those shapeless half-ideas, which throng the dim region beyond the daylight of our consciousness.

[The Game]

Another great edition. I really loved all of the quiet references to Pamela's future, specically:


“My first criminal act!” Pamela laughed.

First of many... Anyway, keep going Panther, this is a great story! :)

[Livewire]

“WillyougotothemovieswithmeonFriday?”

The arrow shot off into the upper stratosphere and must have eventually landed somewhere in the middle of the forest surrounding the grounds.

“What?” she asked incredulity, lowering her bow and turning to face Zack head on.

“Will _ you _ go _ to _ the _ movies _ with _ me _ on _ Friday?” he asked slowly and with clear enunciation, like a little boy reciting a memorized line in a school play.


Panther, that was one of my favorite parts, and it shows Zach's determination to be at the mysterious Pamela's side! I can't wait to read more.

Post soon! :) -L-

[The_NewCatwoman]

Man I love that Aladdin movie, *sings*"A whole new world!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

It's great to see the two of them in such normal tones for once, just acting like people their age normally do.

Keep on writing!!

[Panther]

NewCatwoman - glad you liked the Alladin bit. it was a last minute addition, but it just hit me as being such a /perfect/ movie - and song - for Pamela and Zack.:D

Livewire - I'm so glad you like that scene! :) I wish I could see that scene animated, I can so totally picture the whole layout in my mind.

thegame - I wondered who pick up on stuff like that. :p More refernces on the way!

And thank you all for replying!!!!!!!!!

[Panther]

The workload increased dramatically, but Zack hardly noticed as his focus was now all on Pamela.


One day he came into the lab to find Pamela setting up what looked like a primitive and scaled down dark room in one of the corners. She asked for some help as she fiddled with the black cloth she was using to help shut out light over some windows, explaining she didn't want paint fumes intervening with the growth of her new project.

"Which would be?" prompted Zack as handed up to her a hammer as she stood on the third tier of a stepladder.

"I'm working on a new kind of security system," she muttered around the nail held in her lips, arranging a piece of plywood into position.

Zack was admiring how she looked like a Greek stature on a pedestal standing on the ladder like that, then suddenly blinked as the words registered. "Security system?" he asked blankly.

"A nocturnal plant," she clarified, "it is extremely motion sensitive and responds to warm bodies. It, well, its hard to explain. It acts like…" she grouped for words, "like a lasso with a mind of its own."

"A mind of its own…ah…interesting. What an original security system," said Zack bemusedly; frankly having never thought of using plants that way.

"Nature certainly has a better track record than technology," she said primly in reply, giving the hammer a harder whack then might have been necessary.

"I'll drink to that," said Zack gamely, then, "Watch out!!" as Pamela lost her balance on the step ladder.



Zack tried to catch her, he really did.



However, what he managed to do was act as a cushion to break her fall as she landed on top of him. The resulting tangle of legs and arms took a few awkward moments to sort out, but they managed to untangle themselves. They both laughed weakly - and went back to work, comparing notes on night flowers.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Zack lacked for nothing in the Isley mansion, yet he began to find himself feeling confined. He shock it off as merely a feeling of cabin fever and began going for early morning jogs around the back roads when the rest of the household, and most of Padua, still slept and the mist still hung above the ground and the whole world took on the look of a ghost world, more unreal then the world he now found himself in.

One day, wandering nearer to town then he had meant, he found himself on the outer grounds of Padua University. While jogging past some dorms he suddenly found himself stopped; a portly personage who had expended much breath in overtaking him had seized his arm from behind.

"Zack! Stop running! Dr. Saule! Stop!" the person cried, huffing and puffing with exhaustion. "Have you forgotten me?" The man drew breath and looked at Zack askew. "That might well be the case, if I were as much altered as yourself."

It was Professor Bagley, whom Zack had avoided seeing again ever since their first meeting, from a doubt that the Professor's sagacity would not examine him too deeply. Endeavoring to recover himself, Zack stared forth wildly from his inner world into the outer one, and spoke like a man in a dream.

"Yes; I am Dr. Zack Saule. You are Professor Peter Bagley. Now let me pass!"

"Not yet, not yet, doctor Zack Saule," said the professor, smiling, but at the same time scrutinizing the youth with an earnest glance as he recovered his breath. "What, did I know your father so well, and then let his son pass me like a stranger in these old streets of Padua? Stand still, for I must have a word with you, my young friend."

"Quickly, then, professor, quickly!" said Zack, with feverish impatience. "I'm in a hurry!" making a great show of jogging in place and gauging his own pulse with two fingers to the wrist.

"I'll get straight to the point then." Professor Bagley spoke swiftly. "For years and years Dr. Isley has refused all human contact save that of his daughter. Now, he suddenly has an assistant. One who, if I may say, has visibly altered after only a few weeks in his presence. For some purpose or other, I believe this man of science is making a study of you. I bet I could describe that look of his! It is the same that coldly illuminates his face as he bends over a bird, a mouse, or a butterfly, which, in pursuance of some experiment, he has killed with a poison he has discovered or made; a look as deep as Nature itself, but without Nature's warmth." With a flourish he concluded dramatically. "Zack Saule, I will stake my life upon it, you are the subject of one of Isley's experiments!"

"Are you mocking me?" Zack asked fervently. "You sound as though you've switched to the psychology department and would seek to make me a subject of a study of emotions. That, Professor, would be an unseemly experiment," he said with as much scorn and derision as he could muster.

"Peace, Dr. Saule," replied the imperturbable professor. "I don't mean to upset you, but I will not retract the missive that Isley has a scientific interest in you. Did you not understand my meaning earlier? I told you at our first meeting that all people only interest Isley scientifically. And Miss Pamela? What part does she act in this mystery? I don't believe it is an accident this whole assistant business has occurred just as she is of an age to be thinking of other people besides her father."

"Don't speak in tongues! I know what this about!" cried Zack wildly. "You used to work with Dr. Isley and that no longer being the case you now wish to discredit him to further your own career!"

Calmly but urgently the professor said, "I will admit we had a falling out several years ago. And that is what we must talk about. It was due to his insistence on handling such toxic chemicals and disregard for his safety and that of others. Listen," he glanced furtively around, "I would not like to talk of this in the open street but-"

But Zack, finding Bagley's pertinacity intolerable, broke away, and was gone before the professor could again seize his arm. Professor Bagley looked after the young man intently.

"This must not be," said Bagley to himself, shaking his head slowly. "An insufferable impertinence, indeed, to watch the young Dr. Saule be pulled blindly forward into dangers unknown. And to let Isley get away with it."

He sighed, and then asked himself out loud, perhaps asking Nature or God as well: "Again?" He walked away, shaking his head at Isley's pride, refusing to admit to the stubborn pride he nursed himself.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Zack jogged down the back roads as the sky brightened, thinking that he cared naught about what had occurred between Isley and Bagley, that was all in the past; he cared about Pamela, the present, the oh so lovely present.

Zack returned to the house and, after showering and dressing, let himself into the garden, on one hand telling himself it was just another work day, and the other wanting closure one way or another to all this.

He threw a glance around the garden to discover if Pamela or her father were present, and perceiving that he was alone, began to try and distract him thoughts with another critical observation of the plants and exploring the dense garden further.

The aspect of one and all of them dissatisfied him today; their gorgeousness seemed fierce, zealous, and unnatural. There was hardly an individual shrub that a wanderer, straying by himself through a forest, would not have been startled to find growing wild, as if an unearthly face had glared at him out of the thicket.

Several, also, would have shocked a delicate instinct by an appearance of artificialness, the indication that the production was no longer of Nature's making, but the offspring of man's fancy. Today Zack went so far as to muse that the flowers seemed to glow with an evil mockery of beauty.

While busy with these contemplations, he heard the rustling of a silken garment, and turning, beheld Pamela emerging from beneath the sculptured portal.

Pamela's manner placed him at his ease. She came lightly along the path, and met him near the broken fountain. Her face was brightened by a kind expression of pleasure and Zack smiled back as he put aside all dark musings and sinister thoughts and walked the garden with the lovely green-eyed gardeneress, as welcome as Persephone and as wise as Athena.

[Coran]

Wonderful Panther! You're skills as a writer continue to amaze me. Please keep up the good work! I cannot wait to read more!

[The Game]

Another amazing addition. I love the nature of the Zack/Pamela relationship, I love the subtle hints toward Pamela's future, and the style of the story is perfect. It's very realistic, and very cultured, which makes it immensely interesting.

[Panther]

Coran - Thanks again for the compliments on my writing!

Thegame - I'm glad to see the reserch that went into Ivy's character paid off if you're picking up on all the hints of her fuutrre. Its interesting that you say the story is realalistic - I was worried it was going to come off sounding ... dreamy.

This next part is short, but, fair warning, its setting things up for the beginning of the end.

[Panther]

There were times after working with Pamela in the laboratory that Zack found himself reaching for his texts to make sure he understood what she had said correctly. Often he wondered if his professors had taught him anything, for all his botanical knowledge seemed naught next to Pamela. After one such occasion Zack suddenly realized with a thrill that she knew more than her own father, the acclaimed most brilliant botanist alive. And yet, for all their close conferences, she still did not like the focus to be on herself.

There was something fascinating yet almost horrifying about how she handled toxins and chemicals in the lab, casually working with things he would normally not touch with a ten foot pole; oftentimes her only protection was a pair of gloves. She was a fantastic blend of hypnotizing beauty and knowledge and an aura of mystery and danger, and Zack was so blinded by the first he could not acknowledge the second, despite all the inscrutability that had been gathering ever since his first sight of her.

It mattered not what Pamela was; be she angel or demon, he did not care; Zack was irrevocably within her sphere, and must obey the law that whirled him onward, in ever lessening circles, towards a result which he did not attempt to foreshadow. However, he felt dimly conscious of having put himself, to a certain extent, within the influence of an unintelligible power.

Dr. Isley loaded him with calculations and measurements and examinations and experiments, all of which Zack worked on with feverish impatience, looking forward to when he would have Pamela's undivided attention in the garden, despite the fact he learned very little more of her in their talks. All his focus was on that daily interval. Meeting with Pamela in the garden was no longer an incident in Zack's day-to-day life, but, without much exaggeration, the whole space in which he might be said to live; for the anticipation and memory of that time made up the remainder.

Nor was it otherwise with the daughter of Isley. If, by any unwonted chance, he failed to come at their appointed moment, she stood beneath his window, and sent up the rich sweetness of her tones to float around him in his chamber, and echo and reverberate throughout his heart as he threw aside pencil, pen and papers: "Zack! Zack! What slows you? Come down!"

But, with all this intimate familiarity, there was still a reserve in Pamela's demeanor which Zack did not understand. Walking in the garden they had looked into each other's eyes and seen love coming from the depths of one soul into the depths of the other, and yet, as if it were too sacred to be whispered by the way, they had never even spoken of love. And there had been no seal of lips, no clasp of hands, nor any slightest caress, such as love claims and hallows.

He had never touched one of the gleaming ringlets of her hair, nor brushed his lips against her own. On the few occasions when Zack had seemed tempted to overstep the limit, Pamela grew so sad, so stern, and withal wore such a look of desolate separation, that not a spoken word was requisite to repel him.

"Pamela," he asked once, but only once, beseechingly, "Why do you put this …this fence between us?"

But she didn't answer; her face sad, and he dared not pursue it further.

But when Pamela's face brightened again, after the momentary shadow and after Zack had stepped back into the reserved role she silently demanded, she was transformed at once from the mysterious, questionable being, whom he had watched with so much awe and horror; she was now the beautiful and straightforward girl, whom he felt that his spirit knew with a certainty beyond all other knowledge.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


A considerable time had now passed since Zack's last meeting with Bagley. In fact, he had scarcely thought of him for whole weeks, and would willingly have forgotten still longer. He knew sympathy for his feelings was not to be expected from Professor Bagley.

Late one morning, however, he was disagreeably surprised by a message from Lisabetta that Professor Bagley had called and, quote, was 'delighted that Zack was taking the time out of his busty schedule to have lunch with this poor old teacher who seldom had any one to talk to outside of classes and it was always a pleasure to see him even though the sight of Zack, so like his father when the senior Saule had been working for Bagley, did only make him feel old, but all that aside Zack did not have to trouble bringing anything but himself to a meal that would not be complete without the young doctor's presence.'

Zack growled at this blatant use of psychological blackmail and guilt tripping as he grabbed his hat and coat and rushed out to go find a liquor store to buy a kind of wine he knew the professor liked. He paused long enough only to tell Lisabetta to make apologies for his absence from both the Isley's that afternoon.

[Livewire]

I enjoyed this chapter immensely, Panther. :) Your style of writing is unique and I enjoy reading your work very much.


Waiting for more! :) -L-

[Daughterof_Evil]

Just incredible, Panther. The prose is delicate and beautiful, blunt and at the same time coy. Genius! I like that Zack seems to change the more and more he becomes enraptured with all the strangeness that is Pamela. I have a feeling that Dr. Bagley is all too correct...

Keep up the great work!!

[witness]

Panther, you've really outdone yourself this time! The writing style is incredible and I am in awe every time I read the next chapter. One thing I must add on to everyone else's comments... I agree that Dr. Bagley knows exactly what he's talking about. I'm wondering if Dr. Isley is conducting an experiment to see whether or not Pamela can ever be so close to another human being. Zack is such a sweet guinea pig!

[The Game]

Again, simply magnificent. I love the way you are portraying the pre-Ivy Pamela, it's right on the money in my view. The Pamela/Zach relationship is as interesting as ever, and the story is amazing. Keep it up, Panther, don't make us wait too long for the next edition either! :)

[Panther]

Gracias, Merci Beucoup, Arigato, and THANK YOU!

I was ready to do cartwheels when I saw all these respones!

Livewire - I cannot say this enough - I love it that people respect my writing. It helps me believe /someday/ I /will/ be a published author!

D. of E. - I don't know how to thank you for you incredibly kind words of praise - arigato!

Witness - thank you for the compliments on my writing!

thegame - I'm so glad you like this interupation!

Everyone, I'll I can say in response to all your speculations is: keep reading!

I love feedback!

[Panther]

Professor Bagley expressed much delight that Zack had agreed to come see him. He thanked the young doctor for the bottle of wine and brought him to a small restaurant that was a professed favorite of his. Bagley greeted the maitre de by name and he and Zack were escorted to the second floor of the establishment to a private balcony table, overlooking much of downtown Padua.

At the start of the luncheon the professor chatted carelessly about the gossip of the city and the university, of a publicity stunt a comic book company had pulled, and of an Olympic scandal involving two American contestants, a thug, and a lead pipe - clearly in no hurry to get to his point.

And Zack knew there had to be a point to all this. And while on one hand he was in agony for the professor to get to it, on the other hand he loathed the thought of being confronted with it. As the meal drew to a close, dishes cleared and replaced with two coffees, the kindly old professor took up another topic.

“I have been reading an old classic author lately,” said he, “and met with a story that strangely interested me. It is a tale most scientists today would scoff at but I think it might interest you.” Zack tried to interrupt but the professor shushed him with a waggle of fingers and blithely continued:

“In the time of the ancient empires there was a prince of India who sent a beautiful slave girl as tribute to Alexander the Great. She was, quote, ‘as lovely as the dawn, and gorgeous as the sunset’; but what especially distinguished her was a certain rich perfume in her breath – richer than a garden of Persian roses. Alexander, as was natural to a youthful conqueror, fell in love at first sight with this magnificent stranger. But a certain sage physician, happening to be present, discovered a terrible secret in regard to her.”

“And what was that?” asked Zack, turning his eyes downward to his coffee to avoid the professor’s eyes, trying desperately to sound casual and slightly bored with the whole affair.

“That this lovely woman,” continued Bagley, with emphasis, “had been nourished with poisons from her birth upward, until her whole nature was so imbued with them, that she herself had become the deadliest poison in existence. She had been sent as an assassin, not a present! Poison was her element of life. With that rich perfume of her breath, she blasted the very air. Her love would have been poison! Her embrace death! Is not that a marvelous story?”

“A childish fairy tale,” responded Zack, nervously starting from his chair, trying to sound impatient. “I marvel how you find time to read such nonsense, given your more important studies.” He reached for his coat.

“Sit. Down. Zack.” said the Professor, unperturbed and suddenly very serious. Zack obediently sat.

“Speaking of perfumes,” went on the professor in a lighter tone, “tell me, what singular fragrance is this I smell? It is faint, but delicious, and yet, after all, by no means agreeable. Were I to breathe it long, I think it would make me ill. It is like, but not like, the breath of a flower.”

“I smell nothing,” replied Zack nervously, “nor, I think, is there any fragrance, except in your imagination. Odors,” he lectured quickly, “being so closely related to mental thoughts of the sensual and the spiritual, are apt to deceive us in this manner. The recollection of a perfume, or the bare idea of it, such as in your childish story, may easily be mistaken for a present reality.”

“Yes,” agreed Bagley solemnly. “That is possible – but if I were to fancy any kind of odor, it would be that of some foul reeking chemical, which my fingers are likely enough to be imbued in. Our mutual friend Isley, however, tinctures his medicaments with odors richer than those of Araby. Doubtless, likewise, the fair and learned Miss Isley would minister to patients draughts as sweet as the maiden’s breath. But perhaps woe to him that sips them!” he concluded with a short laugh and something that was not quite a real smile.

Zack’s face fought to decide on which of his many contending emotions to show. The tone in which Professor Bagley alluded to the pure and lovely daughter of Isley was a torture to his soul; and yet, and yet the insinuation caused a thousand dim suspicions to blaze up and now grin at him like so many demons. But he strove hard to quell them, and to respond to Bagley with a true lover’s perfect faith.

“Professor,” he said, trying for the calm of a young martyr, but angrily grinding his teeth, “you are an admired friend of my family, especially my father, and I wish to feel nothing towards you save respect and deference. But I ask you to observe that there is one subject on which we must not speak. You do not know Pamela Isley. You cannot, therefore, estimate the wrong – the blasphemy – that is offered to her character by a light or injurious word.”

“Doctor,” rejoined Bagley in an admonishing tone, “before you decide to play the knight in shining amour, riding in to defend a lady’s honor, perhaps you should find out if there is anything worth honoring! I know what lies behind the Isley name.”

Zack pushed back his chair. “I don’t have time for this,” he said with annoyance.

Professor Bagley spoke quickly with a slight desperate whine in his voice. “Listen, young Zack, you can afford to ignore me! And I can be quiet no longer. That old fable of the Indian woman has become a truth, by the deep and deadly science of Isley, and in the person of the lovely Pamela! You are in grave danger my friend!”

Zack pulled the chair back in, placed his hands palms down on either side of his cup and leaned forward. “What are you implying? That I’m being poisoned?” he asked, putting every ounce of contempt he could summon into his voice, acting as though he stayed only to barley humor the old man.

“Oh Zack!” exclaimed the professor, throwing his hands up in aggravation, “If only it were that simple! Listen, I must explain the circumstances under which I broke off all contact with your patron. I have procrastinated long enough.” The professor sighed and anxiously rubbed a hand through his gray hair before beginning. Zack leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms; hardly the picture of the most attentive listener possible, but still listening.

“When Dr. Jeremy Isley – ‘Woody’ to his friends,” began Professor Bagley, “first moved to Padua we began working on botany together, here at the University and at his new house; I helped set up his private laboratory and garden. We were quite the double act, Woody and I, which made the later disagreements that much worse. We often discussed science in all its divisions and several times he brought up the subject of experimenting on humans.”

Zack leaned forward slightly, interested against his will.

“I was always against the idea, and not just because it was illegal, although I will admit that I am a terrible coward.” Here Bagley paused to smile in a self-decrepitating manner, then grimly went on.

“He often raised the issue about how if the human race wished to survive then there was a need for new protection against the mutating bacteria that penicillin could no longer fight and the poisons and pollutants of our own making. I always argued that gambling with people’s lives, and, I admit, one’s own career, was not worth it. At one point he declared he was not going to sit idly by as people delivered themselves to hell in a handcart, which at the time I choose to ignore as mere blustering. However, he had some scientific theories along with his talk. He had some speculations about hyperization of immune systems. He had theories on how to make the human immune system able to fight back anything.”

The professor paused to take a sip from his coffee. Zack looked as though he was going to say something, but after a mere twitch of an eyebrow remained silent, and Bagley went on.

“He showed me some of his notes to try and persuade me, but after studying his conjectures I feared the consequences that his experiments could possibly render on the subject’s brain. I believed, and still believe, mental instability could result. Insanity is a high price to pay for invulnerability, wouldn’t you agree Zack? After awhile he gave up persuasion and we continued with strictly botanical projects on what I then believed to be the same friendly plane. But then…”

Here the old professor had to pause and stared upwards for some moments to regain his composure. “Then … his wife died. Poor Lillian. She was…” he waved his hands to show an apparent lack of words, then kept talking. “I guess she was everything one would wish for in a life mate; loving, caring, nurturing, funny, mature and childish at the same time. She had a wonderfully sense of humor, and I did enjoy talking about the history of botany with her. Lillian could chatter for ages about people like Dr. Tulp and Carl Linnaeus, and hold her own in scientific debates with Woody and myself. ‘Peter,’ she once said to me in that wonderful voice of hers, ‘isn’t it funny how people associate flowers with love, when in fact the blossom represents the end of the cycle? Shouldn’t love be about beginnings?”

The professor paused rubbed his forehead tiredly. “She always reminded me of someone from a 19th painting of a French model in a Turkish bath. Have you seen the portrait of her? Lillian in the garden?”

Zack nodded mutely.

“Doesn’t do her justice,” said Professor Bagley, dismissing the artwork with a wave of the hand. “Perhaps to use a more appropriate metaphor, she was like a beautiful exotic plant uprooted and then nurtured in an even more exotic environment. Her death in childbirth was terrible and tragic and devastating, but there was some…thing about Isley’s manner that aroused my suspicions. Everyone grieves differently, but still…”

Bagley frowned and gazed off into the middle distance before continuing. “After one and only one incident of what I would call true grief he immediately zeroed in totally on his daughter and his experimentations, making no distinctions between the two.”

“What – what was that ‘one incident of grief’?” asked Zack huskily, sounding as though he had meant to say something else.

“He destroyed a valuable piece of statuary he and his wife had purchased in Venice. A marble sculpture or bench or something or another. Took a sledgehammer to it and turned it into an ancient ruin. But no matter, that done, he went on.” Zack tried to imagine Dr. Isley young and healthy enough to take a sledgehammer to anything.

“He took a very weird interest in his daughter’s progress,” said the professor. “Like she was another one of his experiments. ‘Look how healthy!’ he would exclaim all the time when I went over to check on him, waving notes in my face of day to day fitness. On one such occasion I was in the garden, waiting for old Lisabetta to fetch Isley, having, frankly, at that point no desire to go to his laboratory myself and see for sure what he was doing.”

“ ‘Ignorance is bliss’?” asked Zack with a sneer.

“‘Ignorance is bliss until it kills you’” rejoined Bagley darkly. “Anyway, Miss Isley was playing in the garden, about five years old at the time. She was skipping and dancing about with the energy of extreme youth when, pretending the stones of a fountain were a tight wire, she lost her balance and fell in the water. Naturally I ran over and plucked her out immediately, though for sure the water was not that deep. I hauled her out by the frill of her dress. Dripping wet, she laughed and kissed me on the check. Upon this contact I felt a burning sensation as though I had been touched by fire, not flesh. Isley hurried into the garden at that moment and we proceeded to argue. I demanded an explanation, he hedged, but after much fierce debate I had the truth of it. He was experimenting on her, making poison her element of life.”

Zack groaned and hid his face with one hand.

“Her father,” continued Bagley, ignoring Zack, “was not restrained by natural affection from offering up his child, in this horrible manner, as the victim of his insane zeal for science. For, let us do him this justice; he is as true a man of science as ever distilled his own heart in an alembic. After screaming at each other for more than an hour – what was said need never be repeated verbatim – I left and never returned nor spoke to Isley again. I quietly tired to indirectly oppose him, but failed, and coward that I am, lifted not one finger against him or his experiments, until now.”

Bagley caught Zack’s eye and looked straight at him in deadly seriousness. “What, then, will be your fate? For beyond a doubt, you were selected as the material for some new experiment. Perhaps the result is to be death; perhaps a fate more awful still! Isley, with what he calls the interest of science before his eyes, will hesitate at nothing.”

Zack got up again. “Excuse professor, but there are several lab cultures I should be getting back to and I do not wish to waste your time either, which I’m sure must be busy, filled with classes, paperwork, and, hopefully, therapy,” he said, ending as sarcastically as he could while he again reached for his coat.

“You still don’t believe me, do you, Zack?’ asked the doctor, shaking his head mournfully.

Zack stopped in his movements to leave and stood stock still, glaring at the professor. “Spare me your slanderous hearsay, professor. Give me one reason to believe any of this. Give me science. Give me facts. Give__me__proof!”

“Ah, well, I thought it would come to this,” said Professor Bagley sadly as he regretfully reached into a pocket. He drew out a small plastic device and laid it on the table between the two coffee cups. “Here is blood tester. If you’re are anything like your father, which I believe you are, I doubt you have knowingly partaken of any drugs, legal or illegal, lately. Yet were you to use this to test your blood you would find a toxicity level that would make a nuclear scientist shudder!”

Zack hesitantly picked up the small apparatus and gazed at it, his face stern but inscrutable. There was along pause. “Then you have not seen Pamela since she was five,” he said placidly, sounding slightly spaced out.

“Actually, I have seen her – on very rare occasions in the university library, usually accompanied by her father. She is entirely his creation, but the question is, is she entirely at her father’s command? Even Frankenstein’s monster proved to have free will at the end.”

“*******it Bagley!!” exploded Zack suddenly, “Listen to yourself! How can you speak of her like that? She’s a person, not a science experiment! Of course she has free will! She’s as free as I to do and say and think and act however she wishes and I-” Zack stopped suddenly, biting off words. Then, resolute, went on with absolutely no decline in volume. “And I love her! I don’t know what game you’re playing at but I am not going to be-”

“Zack! My poor Zack.” interrupted the professor, with a calm expression of pity, “I had no idea things had progressed to this! But do not despair, it is not yet too late for the rescue. Possibly, we may succeed in bringing back this miserable child within the limits of ordinary nature, from which her father's madness has estranged her. I have been experimenting with several antitoxins – ostensibly for a certain government project I was contracted to do, of which I many not speak of in any further detail, but I believe it will help both you and Miss Pamela.”

“And have these antitoxins been tested?” asked Zack ironically, regaining some of his old composure.

“On everything except humans,” the professor said casually, matching him for irony. He smiled, “You know the laws, I’m sure. But I know my science even better! This will work, I assure you. But first you must cut yourself off from Isley and convince his daughter to do the same.”

“This is ridiculous,” muttered Zack, putting on his coat.

Professor Bagley nodded at the blood tester in Zack’s hand. “Test it then, if you dare. See how much proof you can handle.” And with a curt nod of the head, got up and withdrew, leaving what he had said to produce its effect upon the young man’s mind.


*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


‘Isley will be thwarted yet!’ thought the professor as he descended the stairs. ‘Such a man is Isley! Such an incredible mind! But such disregard for the rest of the world! Perhaps a visit is in order. Overdue, in fact. Yes, tonight, after the evening lecture of pounding into silly sophomores more of the basics of cellular biology.’

[Coran]

Sorry it took me so long to reply Panther. Life has been rather hectic lately. First of all, once again, this is a great chapter. I can't wait to read more, though I can see a great tragedy coming up for both Pamela and Zack, though I can't wait to see exactly what it will be. Keep up the good work.

[witness]

so my thinking is not in vain, he could very well be used for one of isley's experiments! poor poor zack. and yet, he still doesn't believe. what do we have to do? clap until he wakes up from his stupidity? :: claps :: i believe in bagley! i believe in bagley!although, i'd probably be in love with pamela by this time too. so...when's the next chapter, huh?

[Livewire]

So Professor Bagley suspects Zack being used for experiments! If only Zack would believe him! But, alas, he is too infatuated with Pamela to take heed. Poor Zack! :( What is to be his fate? Panther, please post soon!



Waiting for more! :) -L-

[Panther]

Thank you everyone for reading this and for all your support! Thank you Livewire, Coran and Witness for your replies! I'd love to go own and to post feedback to what looks like some great updates on eveyone's elses stories but I have very little access now and will not have any access until Sunday/Monday - but feel free to reply to this post!

a very rushed,

[Panther]

Was it possible? Was it actually possible? Could all this madness be a reality?

When Zack got back to the Isley mansion he let himself in and went straight to his rooms without seeing anyone. He had to be alone. He had to think.

He lay the blood tester Professor Bagley had given him down on the bedside table and proceeded to pace around the room. Round and round the room he went. A few times he picked up the device and looked ready to smash it or throw it away. Once or twice he almost used it. Always he put it back down and proceeded to pace some more.

I’ll use it and prove Bagley wrong. But what if he’s right? But this is ridiculous! Why am I bothering to think about this? It should just be thrown away. No, I should use it and then throw it way and show him the negative results. But what if he be right? My God, is there something in my blood not meant to be there? Have I been wrong all this time about Pamela? Or worse – right in my suspicions? Round and round these thoughts went in Zack’s head.

Throughout Zack’s whole acquaintance with Pamela he had occasionally been haunted by dark surmises as to her character. Yet, so thoroughly had she made herself known by him as a natural, most affectionate and guileless creature, that the image now held up by Professor Bagley appeared strange and incredible.

True, there were other, darker, recollections connected with her, but they dissolved in the pure light of her character, had no longer the efficacy of facts, only mistaken fantasies, by whatever testimony of the senses they might appear to be substantiated.

And yet he doubted. Everything Bagley had ever said in regard to the Isley’s created a worm of doubt in his mind that would not be shaken off. Poison, thought Zack angrily, is that why I have been held at arm’s length for so long – being coldly and analytically examined to see if I was fit for … for… for what?

Unable to answer his own questions he finally he decided to use the device and triumphantly show the old professor that he was wrong and a slanderer and it would quell all doubts and suspicions.

He picked up Bagley’s gift and proceeded to test his blood’s acidity. Going through the motions of a basic lab experiment calmed him slightly as he coolly drew a drop of his own blood.

Done, he put down the device to await the result.

Zack caught a glance of himself in the mirror and stared, trying to assure himself this was the look of health. His eyes were as clear as ever, his face skin a healthy hue; he was neither gaunt nor fat.

He was fine. Perfectly fine.

With that thought, he turned his eyes on the device. A thrill of indefinable horror shot through his frame, on perceiving that the read out informed him what the toxic level was in the sample he had just tested. His own blood!

Zack went white as marble, and stood motionless before the mirror, staring at his own reflection there, as at the image of something frightful.

Then he shuddered - shuddered at himself! His blood was a toxic as the Anagallis arevensis he had experimented on last week. How… ? His mind raced, the ‘immunizations’, working in the lab, walking in the garden, her very presence had been poison!! But … was it done under her father’s biding as a mere puppet? Or as her father’s minion? Had she willingly conspired in this monstrous undertaking – poisoning him for God only knows what dark purpose?

Recovering from his stupor, he began to watch, with curious eye, a spider that was busily at work, hanging its web from the antique cornice of the apartment, crossing and re-crossing the artful system of interwoven lines, as vigorous and active a spider as ever dangled from an old ceiling, somehow having evaded Lisabetta’s cleaning efforts.

Clinging to a tiny spark of hope, Zack reopened the cut he had just made in his right forefinger and, bending towards the insect, delicately touched the small creature, depositing a drop of blood on the spider. The spider suddenly ceased its toil; the web vibrated with a tremor originating in the body of the small artisan. Zack peered closer; the spider made a last convulsive spasm with its legs, and was dead.

“So,” muttered Zack to himself, “it has come to this. I have I grown so poisonous, that this carnivorous insect perishes from my own substance.”

At that moment, a rich, sweet voice came floating up from the garden: “Zack! Zack! It is past the hour! What slows you? Please come down!”

A dark cloud passed over Zack’s face as he heard a voice that only a little while ago he thought he would have gone to the end’s of the Earth to hear. Zack moved forward, paused, hesitated, turned half about, but again went on. He rushed downstairs, descending to the garden, and, in an instant, was standing before the bright and loving forest green eyes of Pamela beneath his own window.

A moment ago, his wrath and despair had been so fierce that he could have desired nothing so much as to wither her by a glance. But, within her actual presence, there came influences which had too real an existence to be at once shaken off; recollections of the delicate and benign power of her nature, which had so often enveloped him in a religious calm; recollections of many a holy and passionate out gushes of her heart, when the pure fountain of her heart and mind had been unsealed from its depths, and made visible to his mental eye.

Recollections that should have proven no matter what mists of evil enveloped her, she was still, in a sense, pure and untainted. And yet they didn’t. But while he was in such a state as to be incapable of such logic, her presence had not yet utterly lost its magic. Zack’s rage was quelled into an aspect of sullen insensibility. Pamela, with a quick spiritual sense, immediately felt that there was a gulf between them, which neither he nor she could pass. She felt something was wrong, but did not ask what.

They walked on together through the garden, sad and silent, each apparently lost in his and her own thoughts, to the marble fountain, and to its pool of water, in the midst of which grew the shrub that bore the gem-like blossoms. Zack was aghast at the eager enjoyment with which he found himself inhaling the fragrance of the flowers.

“Pamela,” he asked abruptly, “where did this plant come from? I have never seen anything like it before outside of this house.”

“My father created it,” she answered simply.

“Created it!” repeated Zack. “Your father pursues genetic engineering as well? I thought he concerned himself only with the study of hybrids!”

“He is a man fearfully acquainted with the secrets of nature,” replied Pamela sincerely. “And,” she chided gently “genetic engineering is, after all, only a type of studying hybrids. This plant I regard as my twin sister. Her green blades first thrust from the earth the day I was born. At the hour when I first drew breath, this plant sprang from the soil, the offspring of his science, of his intellect. Oh please don’t touch it!” she continued, observing with terror that Zack was drawing nearer to the shrub.

“It would be dangerous to you,” she went in a calmer voice as he moved his arm away from the midst of the fountain. “But I, dearest Zack, I grew up and blossomed with the plant, and was nourished with its breath. It is like my sister, and I have loved it like one, for want of any other company.” She hesitated, then, with a look of brave resolve, asked, “Have…have you not suspected why?”

Here Zack frowned so darkly upon her that Pamela paused and trembled. But her faith in his tenderness reassured her, and, putting aside doubt, went on.

“There was an awful fate,” she continued, “the effect of my father’s love of science, which estranged me from all society of the usual kind. Until you came, dearest Zack, oh, how lonely it was.”

“Was it a hard?” asked Zack in a restrained voice, fixing his eyes upon her.

“Only of late have I known how hard it was,” she answered quietly, her eyes downcast demurely, “until recently my heart was asleep and quiet.”

Zack's rage broke forth from his sullen gloom like a lightning-flash out of a dark cloud. “Curse you and your heart!” he cried out, with venomous scorn and anger. “And finding your solitude wearisome, you have severed me, likewise, from all the warmth of life, and enticed me into your region of unspeakable horror, you poisonous thing!”

“Zack!” exclaimed Pamela, turning her large bright green eyes upon his face. The force of his words had not fully found its way into her mind, she was merely thunder-struck.

“Yes, poisonous thing!” Zack spat out, beside himself with passion. “You did this! You have . . . have . . . smited me! You have filled my veins with poison! You have made me as hateful, as ugly, as loathsome and deadly a creature as yourself: a world’s wonder of hideous monstrosity!” He did not stop there. “Belladonna indeed,” sneered Zack, “your father named you well - beautiful lady and poisonous plant!

She gasped as his words sank in. “Zack,” she pleaded beseechingly, “please believe me when I tell you I may be the fruit of my father’s unholy obsession, but that my love for you-”

“Do not speak to me of your ‘love’!” he shouted at her fiercely.

“What has become of my love?” murmured Pamela, with a low moan out of her very heart’s core. “Holy Virgin pity me!”

“Hah!” he laughed without mirth. “You! Do you still pray?” cried Zack, still with the same fiendish scorn. “Your very prayers, as they come from your lips, taint the atmosphere with death. Yes, yes; let us pray! Let us to church, and dip our fingers in the holy water at the portal! They that come after us will perish as by a pestilence. Let us sign crosses in the air! It will be scattering curses abroad in the likeness of holy symbols!”

“Zack,” said Pamela calmly, for her grief was now beyond passion, “Why do you join yourself with me in those terrible words? I, it is true, am the horrible thing you call me. But you! What do you have to do, save shudder at my hideous misery, leave this garden and mingle with the rest of the human race, and forget that there ever crawled on earth such a monster as poor Pamela?”

“Do you pretend ignorance?” asked Zack, scowling down upon her. “Perhaps a scientific demonstration is in order if my words fail to impress you!”

Zack threw any and all remaining caution to the winds and forcibly pressed himself against a protesting Pamela and kissed her soundly on the lips, holding the sides of her face firmly with his hands. Struggling, she broke away from him and they both drew deep breaths, eyes locked onto to each other tensely.

She stared at him in terror with wide, worried eyes – waiting. When several long moments went by and nothing happened she let out a gasp of compression. “No,” she said faintly, vainly trying to deny it.

“Yes,” he said with a growl, his eyes flashing angrily. “See what it has come to? I am now as poisonous as any flower you ever tended to. Look what has become of us; we kill all but each other and our flowery followers. Behold! The venomous and deadly King and Queen of the forests!”

“No...” she said weakly, still shaking her head in denial, “…no... NO!” the last word almost screamed.

“What more ‘proof’ do you need?” asked Zack furiously. “Do you still deny it?”

“I see it! I see it!” shrieked Pamela. “Is this my father's science as well? Zack; it was not me! Never, never, never! I dreamed only to love you distantly, and be near you a little while, and then have you gone on, leaving me with the memory of happiness. For, Zack, believe it, though my body is nourished with poisons and may be an unholy thing, my soul is as human as any others, and craves love like any other. But my father! He… he is the one who has united us in this fearful sympathy. But go ahead: Spurn me! Tread upon me! Kill me! Oh, what is death, after such words as yours? But it was not I! Not for a world of bliss would I have done it!”

And, spent, she burst into angry tears and wept into a sleeve.

Having three sisters, Zack knew lies when he heard them.



And she was not lying.



That he knew with even more certainty than he knew the toxicity level in his own blood.
He gazed in horror at the weeping Pamela as he realized his anger was being directed at the wrong person.

“I - I’m sorry,” he managed to stammer, his emotion temporarily exhausted. “I was wrong. I see…” he faltered and then continued, “I see now your father acted without your knowledge.”

She wiped her eyes and sniffed, “Do also see know why I tried to keep you away, despite my…love? I had no desire to hurt you. Or to make you as I am. As alone and dangerous as Medusa.”

There now came across Zack a sense, mournful and yet tender, of the intimate and peculiar relationship between Pamela and himself: They stood, as it were, in an utter solitude, which would be made none the less solitary by the densest throng of human life. Ought not, then, the desert of humanity around them to press this insulated pair closer together? If they should be cruel to one another, he thought, who was there to be kind to them?

Sadly he said, more to himself than Pamela, in an almost whisper, “Now, if our breath be happily as fatal to ourselves as to all others, let us join our lips in one kiss of unutterable hatred and love, and so die!”

In desperation he kissed her again, and this time she responded.

“But how?” she wondered out loud when they broke apart for breath, “How did he do it? How did he make you such? He records everything he does and I have access to absolutely everyth-” she stopped so fast she practically bite off her tongue and her jaw literally dropped as the answer hit her.

“What?”

“There’s a room I’m not privy to, it’s a room entirely private to my father. I… I always assumed it to be for his own private introspections. Its up there,” she pointed at one of the inner windows on the second floor.

“How do you get in?”

“Through a locked secret door,” she answered simply.

“Of course,” he muttered, “How typical of the good doctor.”

“But we could just go in through the window,” she suggested, “given your lock picking skills.”

“And how do you propose we reach the window, dear? Fly?” asked Zack a tad sardonically.

She glanced around, bit her lip, and then said, “Promise me you won’t freak out.”

“I think I’m beyond the point of being surprised,” he said dryly.

“Your words, not mine” she replied with equal dryness. Then she turned away from him and faced the garden like a conductor stepping to the podium and facing the orchestra.

A mere turn of the wrist and a mass of thick green vines begin to writhe and slowly stretched out and waved as gently as seaweed in a current. Another gesture from Pamela’s delicate hand and the greenery gradually twisted itself into a botanical stairway directly from the ground to the window of the forbidden room.

She turned to Zack, silently inviting comment.

“So the subjects bow before their queen” was all he said calmly.

Then, with a gallant gesture and: “Ladies first,” they began their ascent up the structure that was Jacob’s ladder, Jack’s bean stalk and the double helix all leafily twisted into one. When they reached the window it was a simple matter for Zack to manipulate the window lock and break into the room.

[Livewire]

Panther, you never cease to amaze me with your amazing writing abilities! I don't know what to say except- wow!!! I had no idea Pamela wasn't aware of what was happening with Zack. This was an excellent chapter. Please post as soon as you possibly can!




Waiting for more! :) -L-

[witness]

Oh no! I never realized that Zack would become like Pamela! I thought that he was going to die from being experimented on by Dr. Isley. Although, it is kinda cool that Pamela actually has someone that she can be with and not actually kill by her touch. If I were Zack, I'd get over it and just marry the girl. Woo woo!

Wonder what they'll find in Dr Isley's labaratory??? Can't wait to read the next chapter!

[Sable Phoenix]

I just stumbled across this story today. I have to say, it's simply amazing. I don't know of anyone today who could pull off writing in the style you are currently using. And the story... wow. Just incredible.

I do have one suggestion... Every once in a while as I read, I noticed that the you would use the wrong word. This could be a side effect of using such a verbose style, but I believe a dictionary might help. I wish I could remember the example that really brought this to my attention, but I can't. At any rate, maybe some more careful proofreading would help.

That being said, I still think that this is an incredible story. I am reminded, with your style and setting, of a Jules Verne novella, something like The Island of Dr. Moreau. It's really very wonderful to read.

[Panther]

My apologies that this post took so long. I had some errr ...technical difficulties. I promise I won't take so long with the next post.

Livewire - I continue to blush at all this praise - sorry about the wait

Witness - keep reading and find out!

Sable Phoenix - I'm glad you were so pleased to find this! I'll double proof check. Editing always has been my weak spot, but I'll try to improve. Interesting that you mention Island of Dr. Moraeu ...

[Panther]

Frankly, Isley’s private sanctum failed to live up to Zack’s expectations. There was nothing to suggest a Frankenstein-type lab; no horrors of Moreau-like proportions. It resembled a private office or study. Sure, there was a microscope on the desk and a few other scientific instruments, but nothing incriminating.

There was a dark red carpet with geometric designs on the hardwood floor that looked expensive and Turkish. A mahogany desk and a matching mahogany chair, both inlaid with ivory patterns, were situated in the middle of the room, probably dating back to the late colonial era. There was also a very large modern filing cabinet that took up almost a whole wall.

Two ornately carved bookcases took up a corner of the room. Zack wandered over to them to survey the titles while Pamela tried her luck with drawers of the cabinet and desk. Zack was somewhat surprised by the eclectic collection of authors:

Machiavelli, Darwin, Paine, Calvin, Freud, Ambrose, Levenhock, Confucius, Marx, Aquinas, Nietzsche, Voltaire, Robespierre, Plato, Newton, Shakespeare, Aristotle, Jefferson, Linnaeus, Euclid, Locke, Hobbes, Watson, and McCormick to name a few.
Zack mused to himself about possible connections between these greats of politics and science while he scanned the shelves. However, his attention was jerked back to the room when Pamela gave a screech of exasperation at the locked cabinet. He smiled grimly; a lock was no deterrent to a determined Zack. Zack applied himself to the locks and after a few minutes of resolute work he managed to get the drawers open.

He worked forward from the A’s while Pamela worked backward from the Z’s. After a few minutes browsing and rifling through the papers Zack swallowed nervously, then asked in an ultra calm voice, “Pamela, did your father ever have any other assistants?”

“No, why?”

“Just curious,” he said lightly, pushing aside the very unnerving file he found on a number of other young scientists. They were all like him, except they had notes written on their files in red ink like ‘drinks to much’, ‘overweight’, ‘does not take academics seriously’, ‘connections could lead to too many awkward questions’, ‘polygamous tendencies’, etc.

Pamela opened her mouth to ask something. “Found something,” he exclaimed hastily to prevent questions, pulling out the papers on him. “My file. I am apparently filed under something called ‘Project Adonai’. Mean anything to you?”



“no.”



It was a very small ‘no’, with lots of meaning behind it. He waited. She said it. “I know nothing about my father! All these years and . . . nothing!”

“Well let’s just see what the doctor prescribed for me, shall we?” he said lightly, trying to break the tension.

“How can you be so flippant at a time like this?” she demanded angrily.

“I’m trying to deal, and it hasn’t sunk in fully yet.” He flipped through the sheaf of papers, thicker than he had anticipated. “This man is sick!” he exclaimed after a few minutes of reading. He glanced at Pamela, “No offense.”

“None taken,” she said weakly. “But what did he do?”

“Well, for starters he has a file on me going back, like, forever. Is he scientist or stalker? Then there’s this list of substances I’ve been exposed to. Listen to this: ‘Subject A’ – that’s me I take it – ‘must be gradually acclimatized to his new environment. Best approach will be first doses administered in small amounts with his meals.’ And here,” Zack pointed at the bottom of the page, “here’s some of the stuff I’ve been eating. I can’t even pronounce half of this. Some scientist I turned out to be, huh?” he asked rhetorically with a sigh.

Pamela glanced at the list and frowned. She muttered something that was probably derogatory in what sounded like Italian and then said, “He invented some of the things on the list.” She paused uneasily. “And, well, so did I. . . . Sorry?” she added uncertainly, looking at him sidelong.

Zack looked down into her green eyes and his heart melted at her troubled expression. “Pamela,” he said, sincere with affection, “ ‘being in love means never having to say you’re sorry’,” and kissed her sweetly.

When the kiss was finished she giggled and said, “You’re trying to distract me.” More seriously she added, “Let us continue to search for answers,” and she turned back to the cabinet and feverishly began to rifle through papers, afraid of what she would find but determined to find it anyway.

Under the ‘P’s she found diary-like scientific journals on herself. She flipped though them, scanning the entries, and read a few aloud:

“ ‘A surprisingly development; while my experiments have permentantly weakened my health, the exposure in the lab and garden has made contact to Belladonna’s outer epidermal layer poisonous at no cost to herself. Luckily Lisabetta has bought the story about her skin condition and Belladonna actually enjoys the collection of gloves I have gotten her. This is an entirely environmental develop and separate from the rest of it. I have decided not to tell my daughter the whole truth until the time is right to expand. When she begins to ask questions I will only say she has been influenced by living and working among my private poisonous plants collection since before she could walk.’ ”

Pamela flipped forward through the entries and read out some more. “ ‘Proof of a success. Part C1 of the experiment has worked. The aloe and chlorophyll in her blood allow her to have control over and sensitivity with plants’”.

She read further silently and then looked up and spoke again, sounding slightly stunned. “So this is how I was born with a ‘natural’ immunity. ‘Hyper-immunity’ he calls it here in his notes. So much for that ‘accident of birth’ line my father gave me. I’m just choke full of toxins and venoms from both plants and animals. I am immune to all, quote, ‘poisons, viruses, bacteria, toxins, and fungi,’ end quote.”

“No wonder you’ve never gotten sick.”

“God,” she burst out, “I hardly feel human anymore! He’s early experiments also gave me a toxic biochemistry – I manufacture poisons. Listen, ‘She carries toxins in her blood stream, her lips will transfer poisons to all without similar bio-toxicity – i.e. her kiss is deadly.’ My father experimented on himself first. Look here, that’s why he’s sick – deliberately poisoned himself in his first experiments in immunizations.”

They read more and more as they grimly and silently worked their way through the alphabet. But when Pamela reached the L’s her hand shock as she saw a file going back to before she was born. Her eyes widened and she had to force herself not to gape as she read first the label, and then the papers.

“My… my father did not limit himself to his own body in the early days of his experiments,” she said in horror.

Zack pried the file from her nerveless fingers.

He glanced over the notes and gasped, then gulped, “I don’t suppose there’s any chance he meant the flower Lilium …?

“No. No, this is no botanical experiment; he is clearly referring to …Lillian …Rappaccini …Isley. He experimented on my mother while I was in vitro. His experiments were the reason my birth sent her into shock. Her body couldn’t handle my altered bio-chemistry.” She stared off into space, dazed.












“We killed her ,” she whispered.











There was absolute silence.









CRASH!!! Pamela smashed both her fists onto the desk and swore a string of curses in Latin, Italian and English.






Zack remained morosely silent while she ranted. “Perhaps there is some sort of antidote for what he has done,” he suggested despondently when she was forced to draw breath. “Professor Bagley-”

“Bagley wouldn’t know an antidote if it bit him in the ***,” she snapped.

“Then we’ll have to confront your father with…. this,” said Zack with a sweeping gesture of the arm that encompassed the office, the garden beyond the window and themselves.

“I suppose so,” she sighed. “Sanctus virgo mater,” she muttered prayerfully. They both glumly surveyed the office, looked at each other and then descended back out the window, down the plant staircase, and into the garden.

Pamela and Zack clasped hands at the bottom and made their way silently and slowly to the middle of the garden.

He kissed her lightly on the forehead. “It seems we are now fated for each other,” he said as they sat by the broken fountain, “thanks to a little puppeteering done by your father.”

“Please don’t speak of him now,” she begged him, “not now; please, please, please, please just kiss me again!” She bent her face close to his, her eyes closed.

And he did, again and again and again, refusing to reflect on the price that had come with the granting of his heart’s desire. Their spirits darted forth in articulated breath, like tongues of long-hidden flame.

They were sinking down together into the greenery, clutching each other as if they sailed a sinking boat, and they were drowning in a sea of green.

[Daughterof_Evil]

Incredible.

Excellent.

Superb.

I cannot seem to describe it with feeble words, Panther. You have become Queen of all Mercy Towards the Villains stories. Professor Isley has obviously done things he cannot be forgiven of, and his poor experiments are his own kin! Bravo, Panther. Just, bravo.

[Coran]

Wow... once again I have been amazed by your writing abilities Panther. This story is just wonderful, and it causes a person to think about Poison Ivy in a totally new way. Keep up the good work.

[The_NewCatwoman]

:eek: :o :D I /finally/ finished what I missed. I can only describe this as... masterful. You have twisted my heartstrings beyond repair. I have never been too fond of Ivy, as I'm sure you know I'm a Catty girl, but this,... this was just... fantastic.

Congratulations, you have truly created something here that should be in place of her origin, if there is one, at DC.

Truly Gracious,

-tNC

[Panther]

D of E - again, you flatter me and I simply wish that you continue to read and also continue to post your own awesome story.

tNC - I think to make someone interested in a charater they weren't praticualy fond of is one of the biggest compliments I could get. And I am blushing from head to toe that you think this should be canon at DC. I hope you continue to read and respond, and good luck with your own great stories!

Coran - thank you so much for your continued praise!

To all - thank you everyone who has read. First - thank you again! Second - I've thought about and will limit myself to one comment before this next post:

Although this is certainly not the last post, the reactions to it will determine whether or not I eventually post the currently under production sequal.

[Panther]

Several oversized Ginkgo biloba leaves served as shelter as they lay together on the garden floor surrounded by blossoming Abrus precatorius and Eschscholzia californica. They were both quiet, and as their body temperatures gradually cooled, their problems returned to them, as real as they had been before their interlude d’amour.

It’s not hopeless, thought Zack, still holding Pamela in his arms. Besides, he thought, might there not still be a hope of his returning within the limits of ordinary nature, and leading Pamela – the redeemed Pamela – by the hand?

“Pamela,” he said, suddenly breaking the silence, “let us go out and see the world! Let me bring you out into the light, which is just where you belong – naturally.”

“ ‘Naturally’?” she asked him sadly. “Oh no, my dear Zack, you are mistaken. I’m nothing but a botanical exhibition, a sample that must be kept under glass.”

“Dear Pamela, our fate isn’t that desperate yet. God knows what your father has told you of Bagley; but while the professor may not be a genius, he perhaps can still help us.”

“Perhaps,” sighed Pamela, “but first we must confront …him.” She glanced at Zack and found herself lost in his eyes. Why had she never noticed those beautiful specks of gold before? Because she had never been inches away from his face before? But they were so bright! Like the yellow pollen in a dark purple flower.

Zack, meanwhile, was making a similar assessment of her eyes, trying to decide what, exactly, shade of green they were. Emerald green? Holly green? Sea? Ivy? Jade? They seemed to be a swirl of shades, perfectly mixed together. He leaned closer and closer until their noses touched. “Please marry me,” he said, and then kissed her before she could reply.




Deep breaths.




“Yes,” she said with determination and they kissed again.

Eventually they began to redress, fixing rumpled clothes, and picked themselves up off the ground. Pamela, however, stopped in the middle of pulling on her gloves, white with red embroidered roses today. She pulled them off, examined them analytically for a moment, and then joyfully flung them away into a flowering patch of Ribes speciosum.

When they were dressed Pamela and Zack got as far as the central fountain before they felt the need to stop and kiss each other again. “I love you,” murmured Zack when they both came up for air.

At the same moment, the figure of Dr. Isley emerged from the portal, and came slowly towards the marble fountain. As he drew near, the pale man of science seemed to gaze with a triumphant expression at the beautiful maiden and youth, as might an artist who should spend his life in achieving a painting or statue, and finally is satisfied with his result.

Upon seeing him they broke apart and gazed at him somewhat guilty and with no little amount of apprehension. They glanced at each other nervously, and then turned back to the doctor.

Dr. Isley paused, his bent form grew erect with conscious power, and he spread out his hand over them, in the attitude of a father imploring a blessing upon his children. But those were the same hands that had injected poison into their lives! Zack trembled; Pamela shuddered very nervously, and pressed her hand upon her heart.

“My daughter,” said Isley, “you are no longer lonely in the world! Pluck one of those precious gems from your sister shrub, and bid your Zack wear it. It will not harm him now! My science, and the sympathy between you and him, have so wrought within his system, that he now stands apart from common men, as you do, daughter of my pride and triumph, from ordinary women. Pass on, then, through the world, most dear to one another, and dreadful to all besides!”

“This was not in the job description,” said Zack in such a deadpan voice it was impossible tell if he was joking or not.

“As I said before,” commented Dr. Isley dryly, now directing his attention to Zack, “you did not read the contract in full; it was all laid out quite clearly that you would partake in my experiments.”

“But as your aide! Not as…as… as your guinea pig!!” exclaimed Zack, anger replacing calm.

“I performed experiments on my wife and on my daughter – why should my aide be any different?” asked the good doctor calmly. Zack stared at him, amazed at the doctor’s serene demeanor.

“Dad,” said Pamela feebly but clearly struggling to be composed, “why did you inflict this miserable doom upon your own child?”

“Miserable?!” exclaimed the elderly Dr. Isley, his turn to express surprise. “What do you mean, you foolish girl? Miserable, to be endowed with marvelous gifts, against which no power nor strength could avail an enemy? Miserable, to be able to quell the mightiest with a mere touch? Miserable, to be as terrible as you are beautiful? Would you, then, have preferred the condition of a weak and feeble woman, exposed to all evil, and capable of none?”

“I would rather have been loved, not feared,” murmured Pamela, turning away and staring downward almost calmly at her refection the fountain’s pool.

“But you are loved! I have loved you since before you were even born - and now, my experiment is near completion. Open your eyes, silly child, he loves you and he can love you. He is perfect! Do you realize how long I spent separating the wheat from the chaff? I searched long and hard to discover the ideal specimen for this project.”

She winced at the scientific words as he pressed on excitedly, “I had to find you someone who would be worthy of you in every way. He is your intellectual equal, and now, thanks to my administrations, he is physically worthy of you. Go forth and prosper, my children; bring humanity to its next level and make the world a second Eden!”

“Father. You’re insane,” she said in a voice of stunned comprehension as she gazed at him in a sudden new, repulsive light.

“You want us to… what exactly? Go out and conquer the world?” asked Zack, clearly from his tone sharing Pamela’s opinion of the state of the doctor’s mind.

“You two are to be lovers, not fighters. Love one another, my flower children, and spread that love. The aphrodisiacs worked well on both of you. Excellent job my girl. After all, you made it.”

“What?” asked Pamela, head snapping up in shock.

“It was your experiments in pheromones and aphrodisiacs that allowed everything to progress so smoothly. I simply instructed Lisabetta to add a certain… let us say ‘spice’ that I provided her with to the meals you shared with Dr. Saule.”

“In…everything?” asked Pamela timidly. Zack had a look of shock on his face and seemed to have been rendered temporarily speechless.

“In the coffee, in the tea, dinners, lunches, breakfasts, snacks, drinks – everything was liberally laced with your own aphrodisiacs, dear.” He paused to frown judiciously. “Admirable looseners of inhibitions, but they still need work. You still need to work on the formula for creating emotions rather than working with the preexisting ones.” said the doctor calmly, as if merely outlining yet another ordinary experiment.

Now Pamela gaped at him, also speechless. She and Zack had truly been guinea pigs, lab rats, bent to her father’s will. The sheer audacity of the scheme rocked her, both mentally and physically. Tottering, she collapsed onto a marble bench and took several deep shuddering breaths.

“Congratulations my dear daughter,” the doctor continued, now a tinge of self-satisfaction in his voce, “my little Belladonna. Your poisons will ensure success and let you triumph over all adversity.”

“Was there not, from the first, more poison in your nature than in mine?” she asked with quiet and calm venom from where she sat, not looking at him.

“You are so innocent, my dearest daughter, you don’t know what an evil place the world is, especially for a woman, a young woman like yourself.”

She stood up, indignant. “Father, I’m not idiot, I’m well aware of what state the world is in. That does not excuse your actions! How could you have done such things?” she railed at him.

“I did it because I loved you, Belladonna! Is it wrong for a parent to care for and protect his only child?”

“And the limitless possibilities for this technology never crossed your mind?” she questioned angrily.

However, her question went unanswered, for suddenly Zack’s whole body spasmed unnaturally and he began to choke. “Pamela!” he croaked in desperation.

“Zack! Zack!” she shrieked in panic. He clasped his hands to her arms as he collapsed to his knees, eyes very wide, desperately trying to say something as his face turned a weird shade of red. He fell to the ground and began to shake as though he was having a seizure. He made on last unnatural twitch and then suddenly was very, very, very still.

Dr. Isley bent down and delicately put his fingers to the young man’s neck, and then stepped back, shaking his head regretfully while Pamela sank down and clutched her hands on either side of her love’s face. “We have to do something!” she said several times, then began to speak rapidly about ambulances and getting help.

“Pamela,” said her father in a gentle and yet chilly tone, “he’s gone; he’d be stone cold by the time an ambulance got out here, and besides, how would we explain the toxins in his body? We must be practical.”

Pamela’s face crumpled and she flung herself over the body, wailing loudly; protesting, denying, and lamenting. Dr. Isley began to speak, more to himself than his daughter, about dosages and Eupatorium rugosum and delayed reactions and other jargon.

Pamela looked up, glared, and as her manner suddenly hardened, in a fit of anger worthy of her ancestress Catherine de Medici, she flared at him, “Well, congratulations my dear father, you’ve created the perfect daughter: beautiful, intelligent – and untouchable.” She got up and tried to stare her father down. “Happy now? I’ve just killed my love! Is this the upshot of your experiment?”

He shook his head and said a little sadly, “It didn’t work, I miscalculated somewhere along the line. Some sort of unforeseen reaction or,” he paused to give his daughter a very hard stare, “over exposure.” He looked away and sighed. “I’ll have to review my notes on Project Adonai.”

“How could this happen?” moaned Pamela, more to herself than her father, but he answered anyway.

“Even scientists make mistakes,” he said philosophically.

“Mistakes!?” she exclaimed, appalled, “Is that what this,” she gestured at Zack’s body, “is to you? A mistake?”

“A tragedy then. Remember: coniecturalem artem esse medicinam.” [Medicine is the art of guessing.]

“Et ut sementem feceris, ita metes,” she snapped. [And as you sow, so shall you reap.]

“Well, trust me, I did not wish it to turn out like this,” he said and then sighed, “I suppose we will have to find someone else, Belladonna.”

He didn’t notice as she visibly winced when he used the once beloved nickname.

“Oh well,” he continued in resignation, “it will be better this time now that you will know the whole plan. I will explain all, my dear. It is going to be a grand and glorious thing, Belladonna! I suppose it was foolish on my part to use you as the-” he broke off and began to try and drag the body away, but Pamela angrily finished for him.

“As the what? The innocent pawn? The virgin bait?? The holy mother f***ing cheese?!?!? Let me known when I’m getting warm!” she shouted furiously. “Keep your sh*t head plan! I’ll have no part in it!” She drew breath and then began to yell again. “He just proposed!!! Was that part of the plan too????”

He dropped a limp arm and looked his daughter in the eyes to say sincerely and calmly, “Pamela, you are agitated and overwrought. I suggest you retire to your room, administer to yourself a sedative, and then-”

She didn’t bother to stay to hear him finish. She flounced out of the garden, flinging a few insults in Latin over her shoulder as she left.

[witness]

Why?!?!??!?!?!?! Why oh why did you have to kill him?????? That's so sad!!!!!!! I can't believe this! This truly is a tragedy!!!!


Is this really the end to the story??? Was it the final chapter?


What a horrible way to leave it off if it was! I knew that he would die, but did he really HAVE to die? Wahhhh...... I wish it would have turned out alright. To tell the truth, I was expecting Pamela to kill her father right there on the spot. You know, a little twist of irony.

Geez, Panther, way to wrench a guy's heart out. I agree with everyone else. Coran is right, it made me look at Poison Ivy in a totally different light. Not as the villian, but the victim. TNC is also right. This story should be "THE" origin of Poison Ivy for DC.


This can't possibly be the end to this story, can it? You still haven't told us who was there at the beginning of the story. The two in the graveyard. One could make a guess, but tell us anyways! Please, oh please let there be another chapter!!!! We have to find out what the consequences for everyone's actions will be!

[Daughterof_Evil]

What a marvelous part! And heart-wrenching, too! I can't believe this has happened, especially when Pamela was so happy...that her father planned this all along! And now he talks about Zack like he wasn't anything more than one of his shrubs! How cruel! I agree with the others--this should be the absolutely, positively official origin of Ivy!

More, please!!

[The_NewCatwoman]

Not /Zack/, oh come on..... How about we say he went into a paralytic, hypothermia inducing coma, and he just looks dead....

No? Darn...

Alls well anyway:(... I really liked what you did with this story, and I know it'll only get better.

I'm just sorry he had to go like that, I wonder what his father will think....?

I won't even share my opinion on the professor.

[Sable Phoenix]

Un-FREAKING-beLIEVable!

There were so many twists in that last installment that my head is still spinning. Why did poor Zack have to die such an inglorious death? I mean, I suspected he was doomed from the moment he stepped foot into that pestilential garden, but to just have him just drop on the spot?! And just after proposing to Pamela!?

Holy crap.

Dr. Isely is a sick, deranged, and truly loathsome individual.

You know, Panther, it is really incredible what you've done with this story. I had no idea how wrapped up in it I was until Zack toppled. I too add my voice to the clamor... this should be the one and only Poison Ivy origin story. I don't care if there's one already (if there is, I don't know it), this one should replace it.

By the way, this should NOT be the final chapter; you need to resolve the first scene with the gravestones. And as far as a sequel, I can only say: ENCORE!

[Panther]

To everyone: I'm very sorry Zack is dead too. When I first imagined the plot structure, it didn't seem that big. I've killed off characters before. But this was the first character I bothered to fully developed before bumping 'em off. And wow - what a difference a few details make. Like realizing he liked scary movies and egg drop soup and could pick locks.

His death was one of the last parts I wrote, and even then I had to force myself to sit down and stop putting it off. I tried alternatives, trying to save him or revie him, but no, sorry. This is a tragedy, as Witness said, no getting around it, I'm just surprized everyone is so shocked since I was afraid it was going to be too obvious from the beginning. I guess it was obvious and at the same time a forgettable 'detail' as the romance developed - if that makes any sense at all.


Witness - Wow, what a respone. No, this is not the last chapter. When the story is over, trust me, you won't have to ask. And yes, there will more on the opening graveyard scene, but more than that, I'm not saying.

DofE - Well, if the Daughter of Evil asks for more, who am I to refuse? I'm so glad you think so highly of it!

tNC - Yes, he's really, really, dead. No sharing of thoughts on Isley? Ok. I can imagine.

Sable Phoenix - I'm so flatterd you think this should be cannon!



*Lyrics in the following post by Jerry Leiber & Mike Stoller

[Panther]

As Pamela made her way from the garden back to her rooms she saw Lisabetta in the first floor hallway. She frowned at the sight of her father’s fellow conspirator.

“Lisabetta,” said Pamela coldly, “you’re fired.”

“No need, Signora,” said the vecchio donna calmly, “I see what has happened and I already quit. You no longer need me and I never liked your father. He is an intelligent man but his heart is cold. ’Saints protect you, mia caro.” Pamela suddenly realized one of the only links she had to her mother was leaving. She resisted an urge to scream.

“Goodbye Lisabetta,” was all she said sadly as she watched the old women heft up her carpetbag and walk out the front door. Pamela closed the door behind her, but didn’t bother to lock it and slowly went back to her rooms.

In her bedroom Pamela thought she was going to cry but instead she proceeded to fume. It was too early for grief. She was mad.

She paced around her room a few times, then sat down at her dressing table. It was the kind with a vanity mirror and a curved countertop that could hold a wide variety of cosmetics and knick-knacks. On the tabletop she also had a framed photograph of her mother; in it Lillian was sitting in a sunny garden in Italy, eternally smiling for the camera. Some days Pamela would smile back at her mother, but not today.

Pamela gazed into the mirror, staring into it until she began to be overcome by a feeling of depersonalization. Then she glanced back at the photo and smiled back in pure mimicry. She looked back into the mirror. Then back at the photo. The mirror. The photo. Mirror. Photo. Photo. Mirror. It suddenly struck her how much she resembled her mother in size and shape of face and dis-resembled her father. Except for the hair – the rose red hair, a genetic gift from her father.

Pamela got up and meandered to the bedroom window that faced the garden. She did not look down; instead she looked across and saw the window of her father’s study room. Twilight was descending and he had turned on a light. No doubt he was in there reviewing the Adonai notes.

Suddenly she grabbed a dictionary off her bookshelf and looked through the A’s for Adonai. Nothing. On a hunch, she pulled out a literary reference book and flipped through the A’s; she found ‘Adonai’, right between ‘Adam’ and ‘Adonis’.

“Bastard,” she muttered, eyes skimming over the entry, while silently apologizing to the resting spirit of her grandmother. “Arrogant, pompus, egotistical, bastard,” she said through clenched teeth. All that talk of science, all those years of championing enlightenment. Bull. She couldn’t trust a single word from his mouth to her - past, present, or future. She shut the book with a snap as she consciously acknowledged the fact she had a plan.

Can’t create emotions? she fumed to herself as she left her room. She silently crept into the laboratory and began to create something she named off the cuff - Project: Innocence Lost.

Mixing the results from two of her experiments, one with frontal lobes, the other with Triticum vulgare, she wondered distractedly why witches were always portrayed in movies and books as being old. She could certainly mix a damn good modern day magic potion. Laughing, she began to sing Love Potion # 9 while boiling her solute.


I took my troubles down to Madame Ruth
You know that gypsy with the gold capped tooth
She's got a pad down at 34th and Vine
Sells them little bottles of Love Potion #9

I told her that I was a flop with chicks
I been this way since nineteen fifty-six
She looked at my palm and she made a magic sign
She said, what you need is Love Potion #9

She bent down, turned around, gave me a wink
She said, I'm gonna mix it up right here in the sink
It smelled like turpentine and looked like India ink
I held my nose, I closed my eyes, I took a drink

I didn't know if it was day or night
I started kissing everything in sight
But when I kissed that cop down at 34th and Vine
He broke my little bottle of Love Potion #9

Love Potion #9
Love Potion #9
Love Potion #9


*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Pamela fixed her father’s dinner tray, the usual procedure whenever he apparently had locked himself in for a late night of study. She carefully picked his favorites from the limitations of his special diet and then carefully applied the results of her project to the meal. The clear liquid mixed seamlessly into his food and drink, absolutely odorless, tasteless and otherwise undetectable. She thought of the iocaine powder from The Princess Bride and began to giggle hysterically.

She managed to calm herself down and finished preparing the tray. Pamela considered for a moment, and then scribbled a note to her father.

The note read simply:

Father,

Let us discuss your plans in the garden after dinner.

Belladonna


She left the note with the tray in the usual place she left his meals when he was absorbed in his work. After she left the tray in the outer study room, she exited, but did not go very far, only out of sight. She pressed herself into an alcove in the hallway and waited with a deadly patience.

Sometime later Dr. Isley opened the door and saw the tray from his daughter. He read the note and smiled briefly, pleased she had come around, but then he looked up, startled.

“…Jeeeereeeemy…” a soft female voice quietly floated down the hall and past his study.

He looked outside the room and glanced up and down the hall in a cursory fashion. Nothing. He shook his head in irritation and dismissed it as a mere figment of his imagination. He picked up the tray and went back to his notes.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Pamela did not go directly back to her own rooms. Instead, she went to her mother’s old room, a boudoir separate from the bedroom her parents had shared. The room contained many of Lillian’s private things, all of which had lain dormant for many years now.

Pamela opened the door, but hesitated at the threshold. She had never been forbidden inside, but the room had always had an eerie feeling to it. She’d realized what it was about the room that had creeped her out after reading the psychological suspense novel Rebecca. Like Mrs. DeWinter’s bedroom, this room seemed to be waiting for its owner to come back after she had only been gone for a few hours. On what were probably her father’s standing orders, Lisabetta had always kept the room in immaculate order.

A pair of pearl drop earrings lay delicately on the chest of draws. An ivory fan had been left forever on the seat of rocking chair, commissioned to her mother’s exact proportions as a birthing present, never used. A folding wooden screen with a delicate floral pattern painted on it stood in one corner, not allowed to gather dust.

Pamela strode into the room before she lost her nerve and went straight to an old wooden chest. Inside of which she knew was stored a dress and wig that had been put away long ago – the day the paint had dried on a certain portrait.

She took them with her back to her room and got ready for the next step in her project. As Pamela dressed she considered, for the final touch, which gloves to wear. In the end she decided on the solid green ones, soft silk the color of the jungle.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Dr. Isley finished his dinner and got up to file away the papers he had been making notations on that afternoon. As he stood up he felt slightly dizzy. He put one hand on the desk to steady himself, and the feeling passed. But as he descended down the main stairs to the first floor the feeling returned, this time accompanied by a slight feeling of dissociation, as if he had suddenly stepped out of Time itself.

He unlocked the garden doors and entered, the odd feeling increasing, but at the same time his meta-cognition began to slip, and he stopped questioning his feelings of detachment from sanity.

He walked to the center of the garden. Two drinks in crystal fluted glasses stood on a marble bench, with a note next to them. ‘My apologies. I’ll be down shortly. –Belladonna’ said the note. Isley also noticed the body was still there. He sighed, it would have to be gotten rid of somehow or another. He’d have to come up some story to cover the whole thing up before he began his search for a replacement. And do something about how Pamela had felt about him. Making sure she was attracted to him had backfired in this case.

Isley sat down on the white bench, his bones aching, and slowly drank down the crimson vintage. He savored the crisp aftertaste. 1932, he mused, a very good year. She had chosen his favorite merlot; how well she knew him. Truly she was perfect, both as daughter and assistant.

Suddenly a movement caught his eye. A woman stepped into the moonlight filled center of the garden. A cascade of coal black curls tumbled down past her shoulders, underscoring her milky white moon bathed face. Her dress was reminiscent of the Italian Renascence and the pale blues and creams looked even paler by moonlight. Her features and stature resembling that of a Grecian goddess statute, the moon making her skin glow like opals.

“Lillian?” he gasped. Then, briefly regaining his senses, he exclaimed, “Pamela?”

“It’s Lillian,” cooed the woman with a fluttering of eyelashes.

“Lillian! No, no it cannot be!”

“Yes, yes it can be,” replied the woman throatily. “I’m here, Jeremy.”

“You’re here,” he said in a calmer voice, his eyes losing focus slightly as the drug firmly took hold and entrenched him in the desired suggestible state.

“Do you love me?’ she asked, prettily pouting her dark red lips.

“You know I do Lillian! I started rebuilding Eden for you!”

“Then why did you kill me?” she asked calmly, her voice registering no emotion.

“My experimentations were still in their infancy at that point. It was the only way. And now the dream becomes a reality. The fruit of my labors has blossomed!” His voice became more and more animated. “And she is beautiful. She will see it my way soon and be my Adonai come to earth. And we shall conquer!” On the last sentence Dr. Isley clenched his hands at his sides, looking heavenwards.

“Sic transit gloria,” she warned, brushing a gloved hand against his face. He looked down at her.

“Do you understand?” he asked, his tone more emotion laden than it had been in years.

She nodded. “Yes,” she said gently. Under breath she murmured, “You did love her, so I’ll make it quick. To him she said, “And now it ends, goodbye.” And she kissed him, and in the instant before he felt the poisons stopping his heart, he believed his wife was alive once more.

[Sable Phoenix]

Holy. Freaking. Cow.

Now I'm just sitting here half-stunned. I really don't know what to say.

It's positively disturbing and very sad at the same time to see the madness descending upon Pamela. Singing and giggling as she plots the dementia and death of her father as revenge for the murder of her love.

Panther, you're incredible.

[Coran]

Greetings Panther,
First I would like to appologize for not replying again sooner. I have been busy with RL problems and such.
Once again you continue to amaze and astound your readers. The tragic passing of Zack was really just to much and now Pamela's apparently demented state is really something. I'm curious how you take this on to yet the next step... to where she basically hates all men, and decides to become the protector of plant life that she has been trying to deny. Keep up the great work.

[The_NewCatwoman]

Whoaaaaaaa!

It's amazing, but slightly understandable, the lengths that she would go to enact revenge. He taught her by example, killing is a means of acheiving, and emotions are to be regarded in the lowest sense. Wow, did that just come out of me? Hmmm... Well NEway, I enjoyed this part aswell. That guy was nuts, and I can hardly pity him.

-tNC

[Daughterof_Evil]

Utterly beautiful, Miss Panther. I couldn't help but smile when you made note of The Princess Bride...I know how much you adore that movie. And then Rebbeca; it set the tone perfectly to mention it, even briefly. I had always thought of that book when reading this story before, probably because of the similarities between the alienation of the occupants of the Padua estate in step with the alienation of the occupants in the DeWinter household. Truly the former mistress of both homes haunts everyone involved.

Poor Pamela has finally lost it. Surrounded by traitors and crazies, she has to become one of them to cope with all of the horrible revelations that have fallen upon her. Perfect, indeed. Dr. Isley got more than he bargained with his little Belladonna.

That can't be the end, can it? There must still be some Panther-style wrap-up, some tasteful finale? I guess only time will tell.

[Panther]

Sable Phoenix - Holy chocolate milkshake! I stunned you? Wow. I thought for sure the whole story was going to be slightly predictable given the opening sceane. Thanks for the feedback!!

Coran - Thank you for the flattery! I hope your computer problems have been fixed.

tNC - I hope you are feeling better. Gosh, that sounds lame, but I don't know what to say except to offer condolances again - and how many times can I say that? :( You certialy hit the nail on the head - Isley did indeed, if unintentionaly, teach by example.

DofE - I'm glad you agree with my connection to Rebecca. It seemed to be the perfect way to describe the hold Mrs. Isley still had on Dr. Isley - despite the fact Lillian and Rebecca were worlds apart. BTW - When do we see more of X? And no, this not the end of Flower Children. The story is not over for a bit. Repeat: when the story is over, you won't have to ask. And if you think's she lost it now - just keep reading!

Thank you everyone for reading and for all of your flattering replies. I hope you continue to read the story and respond.

[Panther]

Professor Peter Bagley arrived at Isley's house. His knock got no reply, and when he tried the door, it was unlocked. He entered the house, inexplicable feelings of unease crawling up his spine. He called out, but no one answered.

He went down the hallway and as he reached the mahogany double doors, intricate with botanical carvings, he pulled out his car keys. On the key chain was an old silver key he had never gotten around to returning after his falling out with the doctor, and he had stubbornly not taken off even though he thought he'd never use it again.

He used it now to let himself into the garden. In silence he walked through the paths, observing the fantastic collection; more wondrous and much larger since he'd last seen it far too many years ago. In wonder the professor exclaimed out loud, "What is this? Has nature gone mad - or is this something worse? Man gone mad?"

Then he made a face as he caught a whiff of something unpleasant, completely unlike any flower scent. But before he could wonder what it was he saw Miss Isley in the middle of the garden by the broken marble fountain wearing a very old fashioned dress and holding what looked like a wig in one hand.

He approached her and gasped in horror as he realized she was standing next to two bodies - Dr. Zack Saule and Dr. Jeremy Isley. She heard the professor's steps and looked up. Her green eyes blazed, but her anger wasn't directed at him; indeed the professor wasn't even sure she recognized him.

"He's dead," she fumed, seething with rage, "Zack is dead!" she howled. "And my father….he….!" But she became so chocked with anger she couldn't speak. Professor Bagley started to come nearer but drew back as she suddenly held up a silver bright metallic handgun.

"Miss Isley." He licked his lips nervously. "Pamela," he amended in what he hoped was a soothing voice. "You remember me, right? Professor Peter Bagley? Remember your old 'Uncle Petah'…? You're a smart girl, you don't want to do anything rash."

She smiled weirdly.

"Pamela, give me the gun," he said softly but sternly.

"Cauterize the wound, cleanse the world," she said and pulled the trigger. A spurt of flame came out and danced merrily at the end of the barrel. It was just a novelty lighter.









Just a lighter.




Suddenly Bagley realized what the smell was that now permeated the garden.














Gasoline.





"Pamela - NO!" Bagley cried out, but, too late, she lit a gas soaked vine and a trail of fire blazed it's way up the inside wall of the house.

"[You think you're the Light?]" screamed Pamela in Latin, ""

The professor gasped in horror as, with a soft whoosh, the garden quickly went up in flames and the fire quickly spread to the rest of the house. Over the roar of the flames explosions could be heard coming from the third floor as the fire found the lab and all of the explosive material in it.



And now grief found [i]her.



"My love kills!" she sobbed as bent over Zack's now cold body. She kissed him one last time, stroking his cheek gently as the flames found there way to her and began to lick eagerly at all the vegetation around her.

Bagley was pulling and shouting at her, trying to get her to follow him, but he might have been trying to move a tree for all the attention she paid to him.

Quietly she murmured, " 'Dust thou art and unto dust thy shall return; and ye, first sinner, ye shall forever more toil in the dirt and labor in agony. And the angel with the sword of flame shall guard the tree of life and shall driveth ye from the garden, weep thost may.'"

From what seemed to be a far away distance Pamela heard a voice shouting: "Pamela, Pamela, we have to leave! Do you understand me? We must go! Pamela!"

She ignored the voice and kept crying, but in her mind she was shouting:

No! I don't want to leave! I want to stay! I want things to go back to the way they were before and stay that way forever! Why can't I stay? Why didn't you stay?



Zack?







Zack!







































Zaccheus!








_

[Calico]

It took me several days to work through this, and I hate to admit, but it was a little slow at first, but - whoa! - did it ever work up to an amazing, wonderfully intricate, heart-breaking tale. And the prose you use is incredibly rich and varied. I love words, and I love reading them in such a brilliant manner.

[The_NewCatwoman]

Yes, I am feeling a whole lot better, family came from all around. It was an experience. :)

NEway, I was very pleased with this part, and found it quite surprising that Pamela had a lighter instead of a gun. I really hope she gets atleast a little of her sanity back, it would be a shame if she went completely nuts this soon in her life.

Oh well, adios, avoir, goodbye, caio, hasta luego!

-tNC

[witness]

Yet another awesome chapter from you Panther! I think it's amazing that Pamela was so distraught over her loss that she didn't even have any regard for the plants and the garden. Especially the plant in the fountain. I would have thought she would have saved that one at least.

I cannot get over this. This story is one of the best that I have ever read. It is truly amazing at how well you're doing at telling this story. I cannot wait for the next chapter! Please post it soon!!!

[Panther]

Calico - I'm so glad you've enjoyed reading this. I had a lot of fun with words in this story, and with the slow build up of tensions.

tNC - The hard thing I've found with writing is so often since I know exactly what's going to happen, I don't know if it will surprize the reader or not. Nice to see it worked here. Things aren't quite ready to settle down yet, but feel free to judge at the end if she's ready for Arkham yet.

witness - how on Earth will I ever write another story that tops praise such as yours? :) Thank you,

and thanks everyone for reading!

[Panther]

*Lyrics in the first song partially seen in this post are by Jerry Leiber & Mike Stoller, the lyrics to the other song partially sung in this post belong to me.

**********************************


Bagley managed to drag her out just before it all went down. But, once outside, she insisted on standing nearby and watching the place burn. The professor gave up persuasion and left her there to go call for help.

The flames roared high into the black night sky, lighting up the darkness with a terrifying orange light. Timbers creaked and groaned, rubble was falling everywhere as priceless works of art went up in flames alongside years of research and everything burned to the ground. Fire is, to say the least, a very democratic element.

Never again, Pamela vowed silently, the dance of flames reflecting in her eyes, would she let her emotions rule her head. Emotions were false. Emotions were fake! Feelings were false and weak and fake! Nothing but a particular configuration of molecules - chemicals and hormones mixed in certain amounts.

She should know, she had studied them under microscope, dissected them in the lab, boiled them in test tubes and now, now she was done with them. They would now do her biding - not the other way around!

She fumed; the man she had looked up to as a god had manipulated her and betrayed her.

"Isley…" she whispered, then in a defiant shout she declared, "NO! Never again shall I bear the name of my father!" She was quiet for a moment and then pondered quietly, "Perhaps 'Belladonna' would be better since it is so apt… no, it will be just another reminder of my sordid past."

As she watched the flames she thought of the magnificent plant that would never grow in the midst of the fountain again. "Oh my poor sister!" she cried, "How could it all be over?!" She watched the roaring flames and for a split second she through herself back in church, watching the morning sunlight pour through the stained glass windows.

She shakily made the sign of the cross with one hand as she said to the flame filled night, "Yes, my sister, I will do penance, I will protect your family, I will never let this happen again, that will be my penance."

Fresh tears started to form, and suddenly she remembered her sister's common name, at least the original name that she would have been born to had not 'their father' tortured her DNA to make her bear such strange fruit: Toxicodendron rydbergii - and in layman's terms…


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Poison Ivy.



"Yes," she said out loud to the flame filled night, "to honor you I will think of your name as mine from now on… poison ivy," she murmured. Then louder, "Yes, poison ivy! Poison Ivy!!

POISON IVY!!!

POSION IVY!!!!


POISON IVY!!!!!



POISON IVY!!!!!"



Louder and louder she repeated the words until she was shouting it out and the name was echoing eerily and she was laughing at the same time, the laughter that comes from a joke only the insane can appreciate.

Still laughing she began to speak in an announcer's type of voice: "Ladies and gentleman, come one, come all, for the fright of your life! Allow me to present to the world, this recently bloomed exhibition, neither flora nor fauna, a rare, delicate flower-girl of pure poison! You can look, but you better not touch."

She laughed harder and began to sing, still quite melodious, despite her hysterics:

" 'She's pretty as a daisy,
But look out man she's crazy.
She's gonna do you in
if you let her under your skin
Late at night while you're sleeping,
Poison Ivy comes a creeping all around."

She stopped singing and was babbling now, hardly knowing what she was saying as she spoke in the announcer type voice again. "Villainous vixen of vines, no longer a mere sapling, talk about flower power: pretty as a rose - but twice as deadly as it's thorns, watch out, you'll need more than calamine lotion to deal with this toxic waste dump weed, come and try and poison her with the worst thing you got - she'll reject anything you throw at her and ensnare you in the process, the irresistible, that vine entwined beauty, Poison Ivy!"

Tears suddenly came back and she sobbed, "Oh, hold me! Hold me back!" But there was no one there to embrace her and no one there to restrain her from leaping off the edge of that terrible, invisible precipice that she stood on the brink of in her mind.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Firefighters and policemen found her near the blackening mansion, hysterical, half laughing and half crying by the ruins, keening over the smoking rubble.

"And as the frost, spring's mean foil
Melts away, deep beneath the rich lush soil
Another seed, fiercely loyal,
Stretches out, hears life's creed-"

she was singing as a firefighter lead her away from the site and the professor fussed over her.

As Bagley steered her away from the wreckage he shook his head and murmured sadly, "Such a waste, such a pity about the boy, and everything, all that research and knowledge, gone."

Pamela put her hand in her pocket and fingered the seeds she'd saved and almost replied:

'Omnia mea mecum porto.' [All that is mine, I carry with me.]

But then she remembered Latin was a dead language.

[Daughterof_Evil]

Just...incredible.

The details were beautiful, the emotions heartrending, the entire part just tore you up at the seams! Here Pamela is, hopeless, and she finds refuge in madness. I have to tell you, this is not the Ivy of TNBA, who seems coldly mercenary in her persuit of wealth, but the Ivy of BTAS, whose own loneliness has driven her to crime and insanity. You've really given us the background of a misunderstood character, and supplied us with a competent and luxurious story that we all know leads to tragedy.

Thank you, thank you, thank you! Awaiting the ending, though I must admit I don't ever want this to end!

[witness]

Absolutely loved this chapter, as I'm loving every bit of this story. Don't worry about future stories. You're an excellent writer, and I would be happy to read your stories. Even if they aren't in this style of writing. Actually, I think that this style fits just this story. If you can do another story, then more power to you.

One thing I must add, the last line was great. Really gives you a sense of where she's at right now with all of her emotions, thoughts, etc.

[The_NewCatwoman]

*sigh* What can I say? What CAN I say? This was perfect! It got me thinking about TLH and Dark Victory's Ivy(yes, I think I'm obsessed) and how your version is so much more /human/. As DoE said, she was reduced in TNBA to a money grubbing b--ch, I can't really say for B:TAS because there're only certain episodes I watch, but she seems that way in most conceptions. I'm glad you've given me a new perspective on her personality.

-tNC

[Sable Phoenix]

Your last installment was great... where's the next? Now that Shadows of Angels has come to such an abrupt end, this story will be the only one keeping me going!

Okay, okay, maybe a little melodramatic. A little.

[Panther]

Thank you everyone! I love feedback!!

DofE thank you for your wonderful compliments, it means so much to know it worked. Definitly the hardest part of this whole story was knowing it would lead to tragedy.

Witness - yeah, I'm not that great with one liners, but that one just seemed to be fitting - I'm glad it worked.

tNC - you think your obessed? You should see how much Poison Ivy material I researched when I started writing 'Flower Children'. Thank you very much for the compliment on Pamela's personality.

Sable Phoenix - here you go, the next installment. I think I should warn you though (unlike some people I could mention :rolleyes: *cough*DofE*cough*) that this is the second to last post of 'FLower Children'. So I would say, 'don't get to attached' but it seems to be a bit late for that...



* I mean absolutly no disrespect to Jews, Christians, or Muslims by lumping their Gods into one. And no offense meant to Dr. Barbara McCormick. I respect her, even though Prof. Bagley doesn't seem to.

[Panther]

Pamela was in the middle of a dark wood filled with Salix babylonica, Sequoia sempervirens, Robinia pseudoacacia and Trachycarpus fortunei trees, and oh look, a flowering bush of Myrica californica, wasn't that supposed to be extinct?

But there was no time to reflect on that; she moved quickly, lead by the hand by a tall figure, shrouded in a black robe that was sometimes green - the color kept changing.

The forest at certain times became living scenes of famous paintings. Georgia O'Keefe's huge flowers burst open in hot dessert climates, trees and flowers and fields blurred into Monet's French countryside landscapes, other trees dangled succulent forbidden fruit as a snake slithered by, and she swore at one point they walked through the lush jungle setting of Paul Guguin's well known Where Do We Come From? What Are We? Where Are We Going? painting, except that here the symbolic people seemed oddly faded and the dense plants, sharp river, azure sea and misty mountains stood out brightly under the tropical sun.

The jungle became a dense wood again and she glanced up suddenly to see a magic carpet fly by. It zoomed through and above the treetops. She smiled at the sight until quite abruptly the carpet disintegrated into one long piece of string that tied around her fingers in a cat's cradle. She flung it off her hands in disgust. As she continued her way through the forest she vaguely hoped someone would put it back together later.

Pamela kept trying to explain to the person that lead her onwards that a certain type of pine tree needed fire, or else the cones would never open and the seedlings would never start growing, but she couldn't remember what genus it was. "Shush," said the person, "listen to the grass grow!"

Who are you who are you who are you who are you who are you who are you?

They reached a grove remarkably like the middle of her father's garden, except here in the middle instead of a shattered fountain there was a canopied bed made of vines, flowers, trees, grass and bones.

Four dignified trunks were the post of the bed, their leafy branches meshing into a canopy above the bed made of flowers. Green vines twisted around the trunks. The sod-based mattress was supported by a headboard and footboard of two bleached white skeletons, supporting the bed in unnatural positions.

She was told, not unkindly, "Here's your bed; you made it, now you have to lie in it."

A vine tenderly pulled back the blossoming blanket and grabbed her wrist, enjoining her to bed. "But I don't want to sleep anymore!" she cried, as comfortable as the bed looked.

"Don't worry," she could hear the smile in the tone of voice as the form of the figure shifted like smoke, "you won't be sleeping. It will be your throne."

Pamela looked again, and, oh, how silly of her, of course that was a throne! The trunks twisted together, branches crossed over one another to make armrests and a seat, flowers and leaves burst from the top of the back, and the skeletons held up the armrests.

The two skeletons grinned at her evilly. From lipless mouths the sound of whispers came from the skulls.

"Bringer of death," accused the first.

"Protector of life," the second reassured.

She stepped forward.

However, suddenly blocking her way was the archangel Michael in all his glory. White feathered wings spread out wide, fifteen feet across or more, his entire frame glowed a bright aura of gold, and he looked down upon her with the sneering countenance of a Roman emperor.

"I swear by The Light, Yahweh, El-Shaddai, Our Lord, Adonai, Elohim, Jehovah, Allah, and even the Secret Name of God that Free Will is a very plague upon Heaven and Hell both!" he exclaimed in a voice like thunder. "But I must ask thee: dost thou wish to serve a god or be a goddess?"

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Pamela woke up and, groaning, turned over as her dreams scattered like a flock of wild birds. She had absolutely no incentive to join reality, but, too late, she was up.

As she regained full consciousness she became aware of a pounding sensation in her head. She had a vague feeling of having been asleep or at least partially asleep for a long time.

The sight of Professor Bagley standing with a steaming mug in the doorway jolted her all the way back to the grim reality of the present and what had happened.

"Ah, you're awake. Good. How are you feeling?" he asked in a friendly manner as if her world hadn't just been turned completely upside down.

She scowled at him. But, "My head …hurts," was all she managed to say in a confused tone.

"You're feeling the after effects of shock and an extremely liberal dosing of sedatives," explained the professor. He crossed the threshold and entered what was no doubt the guest room in his house.

She glanced around the room, taking in the décor; early 1960's conservatism clashing horribly with modern science equipment stored haphazardly in the corners along with what looked like every single issue of Botanist's Monthly. Then she looked back at her host and asked slightly suspiciously, "What did you give me?"

"A variety of benzodiazepines mostly," he answered in what was probably his teacher's voice, "those are anti-anxiety drugs, and I also gave you some tricyclic antidepressants. Both are forms of drugs which help sleep by regulating respiratory muscle tone and work at the synapse, blocking the reuptake of the neurotransmitters serotonin-"

"-and norepinephrine. Yes, I know how antidepressants work," she interrupted in an exasperated tone of voice. "Don't forget who you're dealing with Bagley; I'm not one of your empty headed Bio 101 students."

"Er, yes, quite," said the professor, slightly taken aback. He dropped the lecture tone and spoke to her on equal terms. "I'm afraid you had to be given a massive overdose. You had a very bad case of shock."

"How much of an overdose?" she asked quietly, looking downwards as she delicately traced the geometric design of the bedspread with one finger.

"Let's just say it would have certainly killed me," he said dryly, then continued in his usual jovial tone, "But all you'll feel is a little nausea before it all wears off. You rejected a lot of things before I was able to get you sedated. And I don't know much you remember, but you were such a state, babbling and the like, I thought it prudent to keep sedating you to try and help you sleep through the worst of it."

She rubbed her eyes in exasperation. A little nausea? Everything hurt. "If this is sickness, then the novelty has already worn off," she said grouchily.

"The side-effects will fade soon. But the larger dosage was necessary due to your…" he grouped for words "…unique situation," he finished delicately with a waggle of fingers.

"Say it, Bagley," she growled, "I'm a freak. End of story."

"Hardly the end," said professor Bagley placidly. "I would like to consider this a beginning. There are some examinations I would like to make." He paused. "But there's the funeral of course," he added nervously.

She moaned and hid her face in her hands.

Bagley spoke again, "I have been doing a lot of talking lately with the authorities and such-"

"I'm sure that must have been hard for you," she muttered sarcastically, taking her hands away from her face.

He ignored her and went on. "The Padua Police Department and Fire Department believe that myself, yourself, your father and…" he hesitated at the name and then bravely went on, "and Dr. Zack Saule were in Woody's private laboratory and, due to some mishandling of chemicals on you father's part, a fire broke out in the lab and rapidly spread to the rest of the house. You and I managed to escape and I went for help, but unfortunately Zack and Woody were trapped by falling debris. The coroner examined the bodies, but the fire damage was so bad and the examination was so cursory - typical small town efficiency - that there is no reason not to suspect it was anything but a horrible but completely accidental tragedy and the case is being written off as a-"

"Stop," said Pamela wearily, holding up a slim hand, "I get the idea." She threw back the bed covers and swung her feet over the side, preparing to get up. She glanced down and then up, suddenly realizing she was wearing only her chemise. "I hope you don't expect me to go about in my undergarments," she said snidely.

"Sorry about the dress," he said apologetically. "It was a mess from the smoke damage and beyond repair. There's a robe," he nodded at the bathrobe draped over a chair, "and there's a few things I picked up for you in those bags over there. The Padua Fire Department salvaged a few remains from the fire, but nothing wearable."

She sighed, "Well, it wasn't like I was gonna wear it again anyway, it was such a pain to walk in. I think I'll avoid long dresses from now on." She stood up and slipped on the bathrobe. "When are the funerals?" The question came out before she could stop herself.

Bagley slipped the mug into her hands, which she accepted mutely as the professor spoke. "Pamela…" He paused and she braced herself. He spoke quickly, "Zack's older sister came to collect his remains and took them back to his hometown for internment Arrangements were made very quickly. I spoke with her when she was here and explained you were being sedated due to the shock, and so I'm afraid…" he trailed off; uncharacteristically at loss for words.

"I missed his funeral," she finished for him sadly. She closed her eyes and saw in her mind's eye the last time she had seen Zack, on the ground, cold and pale. She tried to imagine earlier times with him, but instead her mind replayed, again and again, the moment he fell to the ground, poisoned by her own love.

"The family wanted it done immediately. It was decided not waiting would be for the best - for everyone involved," said the professor by way of apology, interrupting her thoughts and spreading his hands out in a gesture of helplessness. "It was going to have to be a closed casket reception anyway."

They both winced and Bagley, in an attempt to get his foot out of his mouth, switched topics slightly, "I made my condolences to Ms. Saule on your behalf and she-" he broke off, mentally kicking himself for not talking about the weather or the state of the roads or something else dull and safe like that.

"What?" asked Pamela dully, sipping the coffee gratefully.

"It is nothing," replied the old professor lightly, too lightly.

In a quiet undertone Pamela said, "I have just undergone more pain than any one person should ever have to bear in so short a span of time or even in an entire lifespan." Her volume increased as white-hot anger replaced her steely calm "One insignificant detail will not make it any worse." Her voice rose to a shriek. "Now tell me!!"

Professor Bagley sighed, then spoke, softly, "She said that she imagined Zack's final time must have been very happy since he had achieved his goal of being a scientist."

Pamela made a sad grimace, and then visibly wiped her face of all emotion. "Thank you Professor Bagley," she said in a carefully controlled voice. "You may go. I wish to shower and change. Then I believe there is work to do."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

And there was lots of work to be done. Pamela threw herself into everything that had to be seen to with grim determination while feeling totally numb.

In a fog she saw to all the details of tidying up the last business of her father, arranging things like a machine. When the professor offered his help she curtly told him she could handle it and he allowed her, feeling work was best for her at this point.

She was the sole inheritor of her father's possessions, most of which had just burned to the ground. But there had been fire insurance and she signed all the necessary papers and collected the money as well as her father's more pecuniary assets.

She quickly sold the ruin of the house and the grounds to Padua University. She was vaguely aware of plans to turn the land into a psychological research facility, but didn't really care. After paying off all debts she put the rest of it in her Swiss bank account, a present from her father when she had turned fourteen.

She was only truly jerked fully out of her emotional stupor when the funeral company asked what would she like carved on the gravestone besides the name and dates.

The representative of the internment business tried to press a piece of paper with sentimental platitudes and popular biblical and other maudlin quotes.

"Nothing," she said firmly with a disconcerting stare, "Name. Year of birth. Year of death. That's all."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

In between the work of putting her father's last affairs in order, she agreed to allow professor Bagley to administer some tests, on the condition that it was kept absolutely confidential. She started off by telling him (mostly) everything that had happened.

Throughout the story professor Bagley was oddly quiet, reducing to only shaking his head sadly at points, unable to express in words what he felt. At the end of her narrative he only remarked: "Well, let us not speak ill of the dead," and began the blood work.

The test results proved conclusively that her immune system was hyperactive, allowing her body to instantly reject all poisons. With this 'natural' immunity to poisons and a hyper-immune system, along with her fascinating ability to actually produce toxins, her biochemistry was practically a toxic biohazard.

"Miss Isley," exclaimed the professor rather excitedly at the end of his examinations, looking at a print out of some of the test results, "you're un-definable!"

"What did you find?" she asked incuriously, rolling her eyes and wondering why if scientists could take the idea of subatomic particles on faith, why couldn't they take each other's word.

"Well, for starters, your immunity is definite programmed in - my God how did he get so far ahead of the rest of the scientific community? - and part of the poisons were pre-programmed as well," he remarked. He shook the paper excitedly with plastic gloved hands.

"Only part?" she asked in surprise.

"Your lips will always manufacture venom but the poisonous touch of your skin will eventually fade - it needed continuous feeing. My antitoxins will help make it fade sooner. After awhile you will no longer absorb and give off poisons though the skin."

"So I won't always need my gloves," mused Pamela quietly.

"No, not for much longer," he said distractedly as he rifled through his notes.

She examined her hands thoughtfully, ungloved for the examination. She sighed. " 'Old habits die hard, or not at all,'" she recited.

"Whom are you quoting Pamela?" he asked curiously, looking up from one of his charts.

She stared down at her hands. "My father," she said quietly.

A silence stretched uncomfortably until the professor hastily went on with his result findings. "You'll definitely lose your 'touch' after prolonged absence from your toxic home. But your basic DNA structure will remain unaltered. You'll still fight off anything and create poisons through your lips. You know, I believe a heavy coat of make up might mask it, otherwise it might be very dangerous to-" he bit off the rest of what he had been about to say as sudden comprehension dawned. "How close were you and Zack?" he asked.

She bared her teeth. "Come here and I'll show you how close we were," she growled.

"I see." He sighed and shook his head and then said thoughtfully, "I wouldn't be surprised if there had been some mutations in that garden even Isley didn't know about."

"When will this damn nausea wear off?" she demanded, partly just to change the subject.

"You're probably going through some sort of withdrawal. You probably reached a point where not only could you tolerate poisons - you needed them," he hypothesized reflectively. "Not that I would recommend taking up residence in a toxic waste dump. I'm sure it will fade soon enough." He waved it away as if that settled the matter.

He then asked her a long list of medical questions from a questionnaire, most of which were answered with either a brief and exasperated 'yes' or 'no'.
"Thank you Pamela," he said at the end. "One more question, what is 'adonai'?"

She glanced at him sharply. "Why do you ask?" she asked slowly and carefully.

"It was one the few coherent things you babbled in you delirium. Repeatedly."

Pamela sighed and then recited tiredly, eyes ceiling ward " 'Adonai is the Lord God in His relation to the earth and the carrying out of His purposes of blessing the earth. Adonai is pillars of ascending Light which manifest the Lordship in the material worlds.'"

She felt as though the words from the reference book would be forever seared on her brain. She glared at the professor. "Adonai was also the name of my father's last project - it involved using me to rule the world, or something like that."

"So he truly was…"

"Completely round the bend with delusions of grandeur; a sociopath with a twisted messiah complex?" she finished for him snidely. "Indeed." Suddenly she laughed and proclaimed: " 'and if ye eat of the fruit from the tree of knowledge, ye shall both be like gods, knowing good and evil.' " Abruptly she changed moods and asked almost fearfully, "Professor Bagley - am I crazy?"

"Barbara McCormick was crazy, what with all that talking to the corn; what you're going through is called grief."

"I thought she said the corn talked to her?"

"Either way, it wasn't normal, even for a geneticist."

"Well if that's all," said Pamela in a very firm voice that said this interview was over, 'I'd like to go back to putting my father's affairs in order. And mine as well."

"I want you to know you can stay here as long as you like," said the old professor kindly.

"Why do you care so much Bagley?" she asked, suddenly infuriated by the fact he never seemed to get upset. She meant just in general but he took her to mean in specific.

"Pamela, why should I not care about you? I knew your parents and I knew you when you were just a toddler. I am your godfather and-

"What?!" She gaped at him. "You? My godfather?"

"You never knew?" He sounded too surprised to be hurt.

"Why should I? I honestly can't say what exactly my father's stance on religion was, but it certainly wasn't orthodox - it was always Lisabetta who took me to church - and everything father said about you is- was" she hastily corrected herself, "negative."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Pamela wrote a very long letter to the Saule family expressing her sorrow for their loss. She did her best to make it sound as though she had only been a coworker but had to rip up six letters due to all the tears that blotched the paper before she managed to write one that was sendable.
She received a letter in return quite soon afterward from one of his sisters, and the warmth of feeling that shone through the words - the sympathy being expressed for her - made her break down even worse than she had at the time of the fire.

The old professor came back from classes to find his young guest unabashedly sobbing at the kitchen table. He sat down next to her, glancing over the letter on the table now spotted with tears. He hesitated, and then gently took one of her gloved hands in both of his. "I'm so sorry my dear," he said softly.

She sobbed harder. "Don't tell anyone oh please don't tell!" she begged him irrationally, not even fully knowing what she asking from him.

"I won't tell," he said soothingly, knowing exactly what he was promising, stroking her hair as if she were his own daughter, "I won't tell a soul." He hesitated and then lied, "It'll be ok. Someday. I promise."

"Thank you professor," she sniffed, trying to get control of herself. "You don't know how much it means to be able to trust in someone right now. I'm not naive, I know just about anyone else would have gone running to either the press or the government by now." She giggled weakly through her tears. "One with a stage the other with a cage," she said, and then began to repeat it in a sing-song voice: "One with a stage the other with a cage. One with a stage the other with a cage."



Professor Bagley chose to sedate her again.



I must never even think of him again, she thought sadly as she drifted off into a drugged sleep without even realizing what she was thinking. She dreamed she faced a panel of supernatural beings inquiring harshly whether she was a daughter of Eve or daughter of Lilith. Cannot I be both? she begged in futile effort.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

And suddenly, it was time for the funeral. Pamela woke up that morning and stared at the ceiling for a full half hour managing not to think about it, until professor Bagley knocked on the door and quietly reminded her it was almost time to get ready. She got up. A thought crossed her mind:

At least I don't have to worry about what to wear.

[Daughterof_Evil]

Heartfelt, beautiful, and...

I HEARD that, Sable Phoenix!

Anyway, I just thought this part was glorious is its emotional complexity. I can't even imagine to which new levels you'll bring us in the final act!

[Panther]

Thank you so much DofE! I'll have to do a mass thank you soon, but now, just in case there's any heartstrings I haven't pulled yet, here is the last part...

[Panther]

At the funeral Pamela was dressed all in black: black heels, black stockings, black dress, black gloves, complete with a long black veil covering her face. She felt like one of the Goth girls at a high school – the outsiders on the fringe scorned by the rest. Black is not my color, she thought unhappily.

During the funeral service random thoughts like this filled her head. She attempted to follow the words of the service, and found her eyes transfixed on the golden platter in between the two gold candle sticks on the alter.

She sternly kept her gaze there and only there; Jesus on the cross, the alter to the Virgin Mary, and even the stained glass windows held too many reminders of still fresh wounds. When the minister mentioned the phrase ‘bringing in the sheaves’ her mind suddenly leaped free onto a whole new plane of thought:

The leaf that spreads in the sunlight is the only holiness there is. There is no sacredness in people’s faiths. It is out in the fields, and the green that looks skyward is the only true spirituality. You don’t need to seek religion in the buildings of man; it’s out there in the forests, worshiping the sun.



At the cemetery she numbly watched the coffin lowered into the earth, thinking of the most mundane things, such as the scientific names of all the flowers piled on the grave, or observing a line of ants weaving their way through the grass, or a hole in someone’s stocking.

“Our Father, who art in heaven,” the priest was intoning solemnly. Pamela allowed the tiniest smile to play across her face as she looked down at the coffin slowly being lowered down and thought in malevolent satisfaction, ‘You’re not; oh no father, I know where you are.’

A gathering of black clouds moving closer and closer obscured the sun. A storm was coming. As she exited the graveyard a church bell tolled the hour and in her head the sound seemed to be someone moaning: ‘gone, gone, all is gone’.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Bagley saw the last group of guests to the door. The funeral reception had been more of an academic gathering than anything else. Most hadn’t seen Isley in years and had spent a large portion of the evening talking about the latest scientific discoveries or the latest university gossip – both with the same ardent interest.

The professor now began to clean up the remains of the reception. He loaded the recycle bin with empty glass bottles. Damned physicists, he grumbled to himself. He took the needle off the appropriately somber music that he had playing on his record player and suddenly realized how quiet the house was, too quiet.

He went to the guest room nervously calling out Pamela’s name and discovered the room had been left exactly as it had been before she arrived, bed neatly made and the few things that had been salvageable from the fire were gone, as well as the basics he had gotten for her.

He saw the note on the bedside table. He picked it up without bothering to look at it, slowly plodded back to the kitchen, sat down heavily, poured himself another drink from an almost empty wine bottle, and read the note:


Dear Bagley,

I decided a change of scene was in order; I’m heading out. I’ve got nothing to lose and certainly nothing to hold me back – no offense. I have no set destination in mind, but I definitely want to explore some new environments before I grow roots somewhere else. Thank you for the information on the grants. I’ll look into them but I’m just going to see what develops; after all, there’s a brave new world out there for me to discover. So many places to see and plants to discover! Don’t worry about me, no matter what, I will not become my father. And don’t expect me to come back. I’m never coming back here. Thank you for all you’ve done – and I mean that sincerely.


There was no signature; instead a stylized flower was at the bottom of the note.

“Damn,” said the professor softly as he put down the letter shaking his head.

Dare he go after her? He had shown precious little interest in welfare before. But it was one thing for her to be contained in that conservatory with her father – quite another for her to be out in the world by herself. And in her state of mind! Travel could well be the perfect therapy, but deep down the professor could not forget his own words…


“God damn it Jeremy, we’re talking about insanity here!” Peter Bagley exclaimed, deliberately using Dr. Isley’s first name instead of his nickname to try and stress the seriousness of his words on him. “Not to mention the fact you’ve barely begun in your field and already you want to defy all laws and regulations on human experimentation!”

The two scientists were in Dr. Isley’s laboratory on the third floor of his new house, still very much in it’s infancy with boxes and cartons all over the place and various wires and supplies laying about. Peter Bagley felt ready to wring his hands, still grubby from the work he and Isley had been doing earlier in the inside garden of Isley’s house, readying the beds for seeding. Now they were back in that old debate about the ethics of human experimentation, but Peter had a nervous feeling they were beginning to move out of the strictly hypothetical territory.

“Peter, you’re talking about extremes,” drawled the doctor calmly. He was one of those people who did not live up to the reputation redheads have. “Anything can have an extreme. M&M’s can give you cancer in extreme amounts, but you don’t see the FDA banning them do you? This hyperization of immune systems–”

“Jeremy, this isn’t just worst case scenario! Look, I’ve gone over your conjectures many times trying to find some flaw in my own work but its still here. I fear the consequences these proposed experiments could possibly render on a subject’s brain.” He slapped a worktable emphatically. “Mental instability could result.”

“But it does work,” countered Isley smoothly, seeming to become calmer the more excited Bagley got. “It will allow the human immune system to fight back anything – that’s a miracle and you know it.”

Peter Bagley glared at him, squinting slightly as the late afternoon sun began to make the window panels that made up the inner wall of the lab glow. “But the costs - !” he exclaimed. “Insanity is too a high price to pay for invulnerability, Jeremy, and that’s just the first. Ever stop to consider your career? Your reputation? Your welfare? We can’t go through with this. I helped you set up this lab, but not so you could play at being Dr. Frankenstein –”

Suddenly there was the sound of light footsteps running quickly up the staircase to the third floor laboratory, taking the steps two at a time from the sound of it. Mrs. Lillian Rappaccini Isley burst into the room, her long black hair flying loose behind her, eyes shining with excitements.

“Jeremy! Jeremy!” she cried in her melodious voice, “Guess what! It worked! We did-” she suddenly broke off as her eyes lighted on Bagley. “Oh!” she exclaimed in surprise, her excitement calming down slightly. “Hello Peter!” She stopped to draw breath. “How nice to see you!” she greeted him with her usual brilliant smile and gave him a hug. She was shorter than both of them and petite was the only way to describe her, looking, like always, a model from a Degas painting.

“And how are you Lillian?” Peter asked, curious to hear what had brought her up to the lab in such a state, knowing the woman was incapable of keeping a secret.

“Well….” she said with the proverbial look of the cat that swallowed the canary, “Jeremy deserves to hear it first buuuuuuuut I’m pregnant!!! We’re gonna have a baby!”

“Oh my darling that’s wonderful!” cried out Dr. Isley. He swung his young wife around in his arms. They were different in so many ways, yet it seemed to make them only that much more perfect together, like ying and yang. “Are you sure?” he asked anxiously as he put her down.

She laughed her wonderful laugh. “I took the test five times just to be absolutely sure. Blue, blue, blue, blue, and blue!” She then kissed her husband very soundly.
“Good work doctor,” she said throatily, ruffling his red hair with one hand, the other draped around his neck.

“Congratulations,” said Peter from the sidelines, only a tad stiffly.

Lillian turned her face towards him. “Of course you’ll be godfather, won’t you Peter?” she asked/stated.

Peter nervously ran his fingers through his brown hair. “Me?” he asked, his voice coming out as a squeak. He coughed. “Ahem. But - but I’m not Catholic, Lillian. Isn’t that a problem?”

“I don’t see it as a problem,” she declared, resolute. “Besides, since the child wasn’t conceived naturally, a non-Catholic godfather shouldn’t be a big deal.”

“Not conceived naturally? What are you talking about?” Peter asked her, but casting a stern and suspicious look at Jeremy.

“Oh Jeremy - you didn’t mention?” She turned from Jeremy to Peter to explain. “Well, we discussed having children, but there’s a genetic disease on Jeremy’s side of the family he was worried about passing down. However, there’s a simple way to screen it out if you use artificial insemination, so that’s what we did. And I just found out that it worked!” She beamed at the two men, alight with happiness.

“What clinic did you go to?” asked Peter, wondering idly if it had been the one he had briefly interned at before he had decided he was not going to be a gynecologist.

She sat on one of the stools at the main workstation Peter and Jeremy had managed to set up. “Oh we didn’t. It was Renaissance Man Isley with some help from his lovely assistant Rappaccini.” She batted her eyelashes mock demurely. “The baby will be absolutely perfect, I can feel it.” Chin in hands she looked at her husband dreamily. “I hope you don’t expect me to sit for that portrait you want done of me with me looking all fat and pregnant. Peter, do help me convince my husband to get out of the lab once and a while?”

“Of course,” drawled Peter. “But now I’m afraid I must be going, so congratulations again.”

“Oh, do come and celebrate with us Peter,” said Lillian winningly.

“So sorry Lillian, I must get ready for my classes. My inaugural class is fast approaching.”

“Ah yes – the tenure track begins! You really should have gone into field work,” pointed out Lillian.

Peter smiled gamely. “Unfortunately for botanists, fieldwork requires working in actual fields and I am a man of civilization. No dust and dirt for me, thank you. I enjoy the bare necessities of life like flush toilets, real beds,-”

“-regular meals,” teased Lillian, gently poking him in the stomach.

“I wouldn’t miss a meal by Lisabetta for the world!” he declared. “But now I’m off to let you two kids celebrate.” He looked at Jeremy as sternly as he could. “Think about what I said, will you?” he asked, imploring not quite in his tone as he tried to sound causal.

Jeremy smiled thinly at his lab partner. “I look forward to going back to our plant projects once we get this lab fully up and running.”

Bagley left the laboratory, sighing, hoping to God – both the Catholic and Protestant versions – that he had managed to get through to his friend


Professor Peter Bagley now stood in the kitchen, suddenly feeling his age, and juggling several conflicting emotions: pride, worry, envy, aggravation, sorrow – and also humor at her sheer audacity – the belief only seen in the young that the very world could be conquered if one only tried hard enough. Well, give her a chance to see the world then.

He glanced down at the letter and smiled. They always come back, he told his conscience knowingly. No need to rush after her now. Besides, there was always a chance he had been wrong about the whole mental instability thing. No point jumping to conclusions and raving about letting loose a modern day Moreau project. No call for taking any responsibility yet when nothing had actually happened. You’re a coward Peter, and a fool, whispered his conscience nastily. I *promised*, he told himself angrily.

Finally he sighed and then got up and went to his liquor cabinet to get something a little stronger. He toasted the empty room with a shot of vodka.

“Best of luck to you.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

She glanced out the wide windows at the international airport terminal as she prepared to board the plane. It had been very last minute, but, something she learned a long time ago, money talks.

She felt a small pang of regret at leaving so quickly, but then sternly reminded herself that there was nothing to leave behind. There was nowhere to go but forward. Yes, travel would be best to start. See what develops.

Whatever happened, she was not going to be her father. Why, she thought, she might someday be hailed as a hero – Dr. Pamela Isley, champion of Mother Earth and savior of defenseless plants everywhere! I will change the world, but not like my father intended, I will do some good.

She flipped through the brochures and info on destinations, grants and careers; life stretched ahead of her and beckoned her onwards. She flipped through the papers and saw a notice from a cosmetics company called Chez Gerard looking for people with botany training to work in the perfume department. It was tempting, but, she reminded herself:

“I am, and always will be, first and foremost, a botanist.”


*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


The present:

“ ‘-And so it’s roots begin to feed.’”

The music box’s song came to an end as she stood by the grave, letting the years wash over her like a tidal wave.

“Damn you,” she said resentfully to Professor Bagley, still not looking him in the eye. “Damn you for the memories.” There was a slight pause as she glared at her father’s grave. “I should kill you right now,” she added sullenly.

“And I haven’t even told you my second reason for being here yet,” the professor said in a jovial voice, not intimidated by someone he remembered once as a dancing toddler dressed up as the flower princess.

“Which is ---?” She asked sharply but with a faint note of apprehension.

Quickly he spoke, “I think I can cure your condition. There’s been some phenomenal research lately in gene therapy and we’ve made some great strides recently in the studies your father was pursuing. If you would consent to come back to the labs at Padua University for some examinations and tests-”

“I’d rather rot in hell,” she interrupted with deadly calm. “I like my ‘condition,’” she spat the word maliciously back at him, “as you so delicately put it,” she mocked. Bitterly she added, “I’m off on the next plane out of this God-forsaken town. I dug all of my roots out of here long ago.”

“Fine,” he said amicably, as if the matter was of little consequence to him, “I won’t force the issue. You know where to find me if you change your mind.” He paused, perhaps waiting for some other biting remark from the woman, but she was silent.

Then Professor Bagley spoke again, and behind his cheerful manner, his words carried a dangerous edge. “You know, it took me a while, but I finally have it all: the funding, the paperwork, the permission, the facilities, the technology - and I don’t intend to be delayed much longer.”

There was a long pause, and then: “You’ve…changed,” she exclaimed softly.

He smiled. “Ten years will do that to a person,” was his cheerful reply.

She winced as her own words were thrown in her face – and then felt a shiver of fear tingle up her spine that would not be pushed down. He was not afraid of her. The realization struck her dumb. Bagley, the biggest coward in the universe, the man who made Scooby look courageous, he was not afraid of her. Her! She who could make the rest of the world tremble at her feet!

The professor now concluded with a smile, “I’ll know where to find you the next time you get caught continuing your war on the non-vegetative world. Legal papers in hand to do blood work and such, whether you like it or not.” Smugly he put on his hat and made a move to leave the graveyard.

Damn him, she thought. Out loud: “Professor Bagley!” she called loudly, still facing the graves. She had to ask. Despite absolutely everything she just had to ask him. “Was it…” she hesitantly looked over her shoulder and finally made direct eye contact with him. “You know all about myself and Za- err- Dr. Saul. What we felt… was it… could it have been… love?”

He gave her a look of pity, sighed, then chuckled and said/sang, “Dear Pamela, ‘who can explain it, who can tell you why, fools give you reasons, wise men never try.’” And on that note, literally, he left.

She stood completely still for a long time, poised as if straining to hear something that couldn’t be heard. She then bent down and planted a single bright red seed in the barren soil around her father’s grave, created in her laboratory especially for the occasion.

Instantly a huge green vine burst from the dusty earth and snarled itself around the gravestone. The thick heavy spiked green limbs gripped the marble in a squeeze so tight the marker shattered into a dozen gray fragments of rock and rubble. A spray of flowers as red as the crimson seed sprang up amidst the green and gray and seemed to drip like blood, like poison, over the burial ground.

“Rest in pieces, my Creator,” she said bitterly.

She turned to go. Another memory tried to make itself known, this time of a very long talk she’d had with someone and a promise she’d made on a moor in England – something else before Gothom – but she shook it off, chased it, scared it away, and then continued her gloomy way out of the cemetery.

As she slowly walked out of the graveyard, she reflected on many things, especially one of the last things she had said to her father:

‘Is this the upshot of your experiment?’


The End

[Calico]

Poor Pamela, doomed from the start by an egomaniacal father :( I've never seen such a compassionate take on a villain. If Batman only knew....

Excellent job!!! Bravo! Encore!

[Daughterof_Evil]

Just heartbreaking.

So Pamela has lost trust in someone once so kind to her, but she still harbors rage towards her father. Very interesting. This is definitely an uncommon take on the traditional villain, and I thank you immensely for delivering it to us in a way only you can. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Till next time!

[witness]

I'm gonna make a quick comment about the previous chapter to this one. I loved, absolutely LOVED, the dream sequence where she was under a heavy amount of drugs. The hallucination, or dream, or whatever was stunning. First to have someone to tell you to choose if you want to be a goddess or not. Then to have that throne whisper such true statements, "Bringer of Death," and "Protector of Life"..... man that was awesome stuff!


And for the finale, you've given us what I had figured were the two in the graveyard. I was hoping that it was Zack's grave that she was visiting, but she couldn't keep thoughts of her father out of her head. So she decides to destroy the last memory of him. His gravestone. Very nice ending to such a terrific, wonderful, enticing, heartbreaking, thrilling, and very tragic story.

I do hope to see another one of your stories here soon!

[The_NewCatwoman]

Excellent! Absolutely wonderful! Sorry I haven't replied until now. It's rather sad that Pamela ended up doing somewhat the opposite of what she said she would. I really hope there's a sequel or something to this. Poignant if I've ever seen it indeed.

-tNC

[Panther]

For starters, here is the song that goes with the music box that Pamela sings off and on through out the story. I draw the line at Italien sonnets and iambic(sp) pentameter, so its just basic rhyme:

The Timeless Seed

Down, down, underground
Where the earthworm can be found,
Doth spring to life the tiny seed,
and so its roots begin to feed.
And then shall green appear above the soil,
Representing so much toil.
Its flower bows before the sun,
as if to say 'God's will be done'.
Summer comes and summer goes
and as Nature puts aside her garish clothes,
The flowers dry and seeds migrate
across the land and then will wait
to someday take part in the eternal fate,
knowning nothing of what's at stake.
And as the frost, sprig's mean foil,
melts away, deep beneath the rich lush soil
another seed, fiercely loyal,
Strecthes out, hears life's creed,
And so its roots begin to feed.


Credits:

A large and ecletic collection of things went into this story. Ideas were ripped off from things as diverse as the Bible (mostly the book of Genesis), 'The Tempest', my psychology and biology classes, 'The Mysterious island', 'Metropolis' (the silent version), 'Forbiddon Planet', readings about California, all of Kage baker's books, random books, shows, newspaper articles (I had great fun putting in little references here and there to the year 1992), and songs that all at some point grabbed my interest and seemed relavant to this story. And, of course, every manifestation Poison Ivy has ever taken.

For 'Flower Children' I tried to stay as close to the animated version as posible, since that was the one I was most familier with, but I also mixed in a few things from the comics and moive to create my own hybrid that satisfied my plot. A website called 'The Flora Lounge' was a great help for varoius Ivy background details and, in thanks, I note it is located at http://members.aol.com/PlantBoy73/index1.html

The funeral scene was inspired by an article of clothing for sale at Kambriel.com. To see it go to http://www.kambriel.com/rveil.html

Now, last but certainly not least, the most important source of inspiration:

Last summer I bought a book called The Oxford Book of Gothic Tales, a collection of Gothic short stories, mostly from the 19th century. I could not believe some of the things those Victorians wrote. Honestly, the pages almost bled, that's how gory some of them were. And talk about twisted sexual represion! :o I blush thinking of some of them. A lot of them made 'Interview with a Vampire' seem like a Disney movie! One of the more milder ones was called 'Rappaccini's Daughter' by Nathaniel Hawthorne.

Instead of his usual tale of Puritans, ghosts, and witches, Hawthorne wrote about a mad scientist back in the Renaissance who used his knowledge of poisonous plants to make his daughter untouchable. Three quarters of the way through the story I realized I was reading Poison Ovy's origin story, wriiten more than 100 years before her comic debut, and by the end of the story I knew I would just have to use it as the basis for my own telling of her origin. I used it as a beginning skeleton, keeping some of the same names, and then leaped off from there to write 'Flower Children', discovering the true challenge of writing in the pseudo-Renaissance style. And I had absolutly no idea what a huge respone it would get on the board! Thank you!


Thank You's

Dank, tusen, takk, dziekuje, thanks, go raibh maith agat, obrigada, tack, shalom, salamat, gracias, dekujeme tobe, danke, shukran, grazie, merci, and arigato!

Looking over the replys to refreash my memory of whom to thank personally, it was truley intoxicating to re-read all of the glowing praise! I was truley stunned by all of your truely kind words and wonderful flattery.

Calico - Ironic you mention Batman. I thought it was intersting I managed to write an entire Batman fanfic without ever even mentioning him! Thank you for the compliment on word choice. Pardon the pun but at times I worrird it would be too flowely. :p Keep going with you excellant Batamn Beyond fic - you're an awesome wrier. A true champion of keeping the reader on thier toes!

Coran - I never expected such replies! Prasie such as yours makes me believe I WILL be a 'real' writer some day. Thanks. Can't wait to read more your work! :cool:

DofE - Thank you for replying throughout! They really kept me going, as does all feedback. Its been so great to continuly get your respones, even way back when, when I first joined and was posting some truely bad writing. I eagerly await the next installment in your masterful saga!

The Game - "Oh my gawd!" I loved that! :D You're a great writer - keep it up!

Livewire - And where's your story, young lady? You left us all hanging as to the fate of Lois Lane and her trek through Smallville. :p Thank you for your replies!

Sable Phoenix - my dear miss inventor of the word "plot rope" I'm so glad you found this a wonderful read, thank you immensloy for the comparision to Jules Verne!

Silentbob aka Jason - if you're still ghosting around then I would like to give you a tremendous THANK YOU! for coming out of retiriment to respond to 'Flower Children'. I was tremondoulsy flattered that you did so and hope to see more of you in the future - your stores were an amazing ride into the pysche of teh Joker and it would be so great to see another. :D

tNC - Well, in reply to you thougts, I must use the quote "The road to hell is paved with good intentions". She /tried/ to do what she saw as the right thing. I'm thrilled to get the word 'poigant' from you, with your masterful talent for the tragic story. I can't wait to read more of your elseworlds.

Witness - Your respone to Zack's death was as heart wrenching as having to write the scene, and its one of the main reasons I feel spurred on to write the sequel. I'm overjoyed you loved the dream sequence! I've found dreams are an excellant place to put in things that don't work into reality, but are still important. I'm sorry I couldn't have her visit Zaclk's grave too, but at this point it still hurts too much for her. She really hates her father, even the memory of him. I think that rage is one of the main things fueling her and what really makes her tick - in my universe, at least.

And a round of applause for our fantastic monitors!

And to everyone:

thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you
thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you

and thanks!