The Twilight Orchid

The Twilight Orchid blooms every one hundred years. Its life cycle has been documented for nearly one thousand years, in different cultures and languages, in the notebooks of botanists and philosophers and curious minds.

Over the generations, many have theorized that the Twilight Orchid is a gift from the gods and given to earthlings as a symbol of the gods’ power and proof of our helplessness. Some worship the plant and others disregard it as frivolous folklore. Wherever you land, there is no denying the flowers’ effect crosses countries and religions, communities and homes.

We don’t know why its delicate, fanned petals open only to the fading sun, or why the same plant bears petals of a different color during each bloom. Its stalk is always bright green, the color of spring grass and as tall as the statues in its honor; its leaves spiraled into themselves like a closed fist holding a secret. The sepals deepen in color in the decade before bloom. By the final day, the calyx is the color of a damp forest floor. That’s when we know we’re close.

My name is Ludisia. Perhaps an unusual name to you, but it is an honor to be named after an orchid. I am named for the Jewel Orchid, known not for its flowers but for its foliage. I was born in a flower generation, meaning I am one of the lucky ones to see the Twilight Orchid bloom in my lifetime. And today, or rather tonight, the Twilight Orchid will bloom.

It is well-researched that there are fewer than one hundred Twilight Orchids in the world. Although separated by thousands of miles, each Orchid blooms the same color as its sisters each cycle. And unlike any other living organism, the Twilight Orchid does not or cannot reproduce. It has been said these one hundred Orchids are the only to ever exist, surviving disease, harsh weather, and human interference. They are resilient and yet their seeds produce no new growth. Therefore, these flowers are held in special conditions and carefully cared for by professionals under an international treaty with armed guards monitoring the comings and goings of Seekers.

I wouldn’t consider myself a Seeker, although I’ve traveled to three different Orchid gardens. In my nineteen years of life I have watched the peduncles grow and change. I monitor live-feeds and mark in my notebook any observations. I’d like to be a Special Botanist, a title reserved only for the highly-educated government scientists tasked with keeping the gardens healthy. The students in flower generations have a better chance of earning the title of Special Botanist than any other.

In school, we learned the last bloom was the color of a ripe tomato. People took that as a sign of love and a baby boom over the next thirty years gave us the largest population growth in known history. Two hundred years ago, each Twilight Orchid bloomed the softest shade of yellow. It was called the Entrepreneur Bloom by historians since so many people used it as a sign of courage to start businesses. The flowers speak and we listen.

Right now, I am walking to the Orchid garden near my home. This particular Twilight Orchid and I have a bond. I’ve named her Cassandra and I visit her every day. I am practically giddy as I walk along the sidewalk with the low sun kissing my cheek.

When I arrive at the front gates, there are hundreds of people crowding the roped off plot where Cassandra stands tall. Her calyx is so swollen, at any moment she could open. I wiggle my way to the side of the crowd and stand on an overturned flower pot. With an unobstructed view of Cassandra, I wait.

Groups of Seekers and other zealots begin singing or praying, or both. I see a woman with a wildness in her eyes stare unblinking at Cassandra. She alone begins to hum one soft note. Within seconds the crowd joins. Their hums start low and grow louder with each passing moment the sun drops in the sky. The energy in the gardens is thick with anticipation, and the hums of the throngs sound as if a million bees are descending upon us.

When the sun hits the horizon, the humming stops. The immediate absence of sound startles me, and I hold my breath as Cassandra moves. Slowly, intentionally, her sepals widen. I exhale. Minutes pass in agonizing increments as we collectively lean in. What color will she bloom? The world pauses while Cassandra and her sisters foretell the next one hundred years.

Only a red sliver of sun remains on the horizon. The sky is a glowing curtain of pink and orange, the promise of night just a whisper away. As the sun performs its final bow, Cassandra stands tall and opens fully.

Gasps radiate through the crowds. Cassandra opens and I see her petals clearly: a shade of black so dark it is as if midnight itself swallowed them. Some spectators begin running out of the gardens with faces marked with confusion and angst. Others fall to their knees in prayer to Cassandra. While people move around me fervently like bees in an upturned hive, my eyes are fixed on Cassandra. What has she done? I catch a glance at the woman who began the chant and her wildness has spread from her eyes down her body. Her arms wave high above her head as she shrieks. The soldiers that I couldn’t see before are surrounding Cassandra, their backs to her, their hands tightly grasping their weapons. She has done her duty to bloom — to destine our race for a century. I feel both in awe of what I just witnessed and an anxiety over the reaction of the group.

Some cultures believe black flowers signal new beginnings. Could Cassandra’s black bloom be a good thing? But what is more a sign of death than a blackened petal? I step off my overturned flower pot, my heart pounding, and race home, paying no mind to the evening draping the streets in a blanket of darkness. The world will be different from now on. Tomorrow the sun will rise and the Twilight Orchid’s petals will begin to droop and the clock will begin again. And then?

I cannot foresee what this means for our world, our country, our city, for me. I arrive home quickly and take the steps to my room two at a time. With my bedroom door closed, I find my botany textbooks and toss them all onto my bed. They land heavily with a muffled thud, and I open the book nearest to me. This is my calling.