by Bev Wagar
Creeping bellflower tempts the courtyard residents.
I wrote this story after an encounter with Campanula rapunculoides in a public garden at which I worked. In a well-intentioned attempt to fill gaps, fellow volunteers had planted some blue flowers they had found. Of course they had to be removed, but I was struck by the powerful and probably innate attraction to “pretty flowers“.
When a new flower popped up in the courtyard, Goldenrod didn’t pay much attention. When the mysterious newcomer arrived back in May there was no hint that her heart-shaped leaves and coarsely toothed margins would grow into a tantalizing, purple-flowered beauty. Goldenrod, who had lived pretty much everywhere, really ought to have recognized the downward-facing blooms arranged so artfully along one side of her smooth, upright stem. But he was too enthralled to think. His yellow petals quivered and, when she finally noticed him, he nearly flopped over with excitement.
“Moi, c’est Isabelle LaFleur,” she cooed. “You may call me Belle Flower.” She batted her five-petalled corolla at him. “Mon dieu—what handsome stamens you have monsieur… .”
“Goldenrod,” he replied, a little too quickly. Belle sidled up to him—she sure was a fast one—and he caught himself thinking about her roots. Ashamed, he gave his head a shake, hoping a shower of pollen would distract her. Seeing that a dignified retreat would be impossible, he gruffly shook her off. Goldenrod mistrusted this temptress—but how long could he resist her charm and persistence?
Unconcerned, Belle turned and looked around.
“This, how do you say? Courtyard? C’est magnifique. So different from my homeland.”
“Yes, we do love this place,” said Goldenrod, arching his stems in a fond gesture towards the flowers, shrubs, and trees. “It’s not all peace and harmony, but we’re a healthy, functional community.” Belle stifled a yawn. “Je suis très fatigué. Mon chéri, where might a lady find a bed in this beautiful place?”
Goldenrod asked her to wait and, after talking with several courtyard residents, led her to a site already occupied by Goutweed, the hermit pariah who had outstayed his welcome by several decades. Goldenrod secretly hoped Belle would leave Goutweed alone. But she greeted him warmly and Goldenrod suspected they were old friends, judging by the mutual winks and nods.
That night Goldenrod slept fitfully, dreaming of purple flowers.
At dawn, Harebell dropped by with the Prosecutor in tow. “Brother Goldie,” she began in her usual delicate manner. “I must warn you about my European cousin who has so thoroughly beguiled you. You’re not the first to be blinded by her floral display. I beg you—do not let her stay here. She does not belong. She will seed herself everywhere. And her roots! They are devilish. Belle Fleur will push most of us out. You may be able to withstand her advances, but the rest of us will perish.”
As Prosecutor cleared his throat and stepped forward he noticed a strange looking piece of root at his feet, thick and white like a parsnip. Harebell jumped back when she saw it.
“This abomination is from our seductive visitor. It’s a tuber that grows underground from her horizontal rhizomes. They travel great distances and they’re the source of Belle’s incredible power and energy.”
Prosecutor’s face became pale. “This calls for an urgent meeting.” He persuaded the hummingbirds to stop bickering long enough to summon everyone to the courtyard right away.
Belle was not pleased about having to face court proceedings but she cooperated on the promise of being pollinated by her old friend Apis mellifera, a bee from the old country. The local bees had been pretty reluctant and Belle was at the point of becoming self-fertile for lack of insects.
In the packed courtroom everyone sat quietly, waiting for the trial to officially begin. On the stand, Belle struck a pose and bestowed a come-hither look on the mostly staminate front row, their stems erect and sepals agape.
The Prosecutor was direct. “Belle LaFleur, if that is your name, the court would like to know when you will be leaving.”
“Cette gentille quartier sera mon nouveau pays,” she cooed. “I will not be leaving. All the flowers and creatures here are so joyeux and cooperative. They will surely welcome a newcomer with my, eumm, qualities.” The front row nodded enthusiastically. Everyone else was aghast or embarrassed.
Harebell demurely broke the silence. “Please allow me to say a few words about my cousin. We call her creeping bellflower, even when she is putting on the femme fatale act. Her beauty and guile hide a sinister cruelty that will change our lives forever. Some of us will not survive her relentless desire for more and more land. She can outrun us all. Her elusive rhizomes are more powerful than even Physostegia, our beloved but disobedient sweetheart of August.”
Physostegia, from her spot at the back, smiled and swivelled her topmost blooms around. “Don’t expect me to take her on. Prosecutor is right—that creepy bellflower must leave the courtyard.” Then she addressed the front row. “Fellas, open your eyes. Look at what LaFleur is doing.”
There they were, in plain sight: fleshy white roots descending, pushing into the soil.
“Let’s get ‘er, boys,” shouted Goldenrod. One of them found a ceramic pot a human had left behind. It was just big enough to hold her. Belle’s charm had turned to rage and she quickly ripened some seed to hurl at her captors. Thankfully Silphium stepped in and intercepted the seeds—thousands of them—in his big clasping leaf cups. Later it was rumoured that he allowed the seeds to germinate on a flat, mossy rock, then scraped the seedlings onto a bare, dry alvar to die. Others said he methodically crushed them on a rock.
“What shall we do with her?” asked Goldenrod. Prosecutor replied, “Just keep her isolated for a few days and then I’ll deal with her. But don’t tell the others. Let them think she died of shame”.
Groundhog, who had been eavesdropping on the proceedings, took Prosecutor aside. Normally the courtyard plants avoided Groundhog and his appetite for roots, but the Prosecutor saw his concern and let him speak.
“Me and my buddy Alan we love roots—all kinds of roots. How about we get to work on those yummy bits of tuber that weird lady dropped all over the place? They’re not very deep yet. Let us at ‘em and I promise we’ll leave the dandelions alone for a year.”
“No need for a bargain,” said Prosecutor. “Feast all you want. We would be very grateful.”
Alan and the crew were so vigilant and thorough that Isabelle LaFleur, despite constant attempts, never returned to the courtyard. And every spring, an unusual hole, just wide enough for a groundhog, appeared in the fence around the vegetable garden. It was a gesture of thanks from Goldenrod, who kept the groundhogs’ gap open for one day.