Page 25 of Among the Screaming Trees

“Russian knapweed.”

“Okay, take photographs of your gifts because once they wither, it will be harder to identify them, and your Larchers.”

“That’s a brilliant idea.” Tali made notes about her Larcher. He was tall but quite broad, like Dr. Bonner. She said he was okay, but his breath was a little sour. Oh, and he gave her Syringa vulgaris; common lilac. I recall the guy vomiting into a planter outside the Moose and Goose and hoped her Larcher wasn’t him. Or his friends. Not the one who called me a bitch. Wait a minute, the more I remember, I swear Finley was in that group. Not the one puking in the bush, one of the support crew standing around doing fuck all to help.

I photograph each one, even the knapweed. Then I number them one to four, trying to identify a particular feature my Larchers may have had.

“Eye color?”

I sigh. “All dark brown, bordering on black.”

“Those contact lenses! Most wear them.”

“Ugh. This is harder than I imagined.”

“That’s why you have the year to work it out. Most Ashes take a while to identify their gift, let along who it belonged to. And that’s with one botanical, you have four!”

Her squeal has next door thumping on the wall, telling us to keep it down. That’s Poppi Kuvelic. She’s sharing with a gorgeous Korean student with skin like glass, who did not participate in the Larch. Merda and Poppi walked back from the woods together, and we almost collided with them in the foyer. On seeing my arms full of gifts, Merda had lost her shit, waving her carnation around like a finger pointer.

“Four is just fucking selfish,” she spat, the blossom smooshed under her breast when she crossed her arms.

“Fuck off! It’s not like she asked for four. Last year when you got three, it’s all we heard about for, like, five months. Short memory there, sweets.”

“You probably picked them yourself and no one chased you,” Poppi said, joining Merda in stoic solidarity. “A fucking Aldereyne.” She sniffed. “I’m surprised you didn’t get juniper for your dad to drink, or drown in, as gin.”

“That’s enough. Take your carnation and orange blossom, fitting for the basic bitches you are, and go make each other miserable. We’re done with your shit, and some of us warrant more than gas station flowers!”

We could still hear their bitching as our respective doors thumped closed.

“How are your notes coming along? Any distinguishing features?”

“Nope.”

“Hand tattoos, or a watch? Sometimes a ring can give them away long before their botanical does.”

“No tattoos, and one wore gloves. No watch, no rings.”

“Fuck. But the one in gloves must have done so for a reason, right? Why bother hiding your hands?”

“Hands are hands,” I say, exasperated. “They were all around the same height, but because I was only standing for part of it, I can’t pinpoint how tall. Taller than me, obviously, but six-one, six-four? Hard to tell. Plus the mask and the hoods on their heads. They looked imposing, you know?”

Tali nods, lost in a haze. “Only standing for part of it.”

“I knew you’d zero in on that part.”

“You know me too well. But alas, we need to uncover the identities of five masked men. Tell me more about their masks. Mine was plain black, at least yours were detailed.”

Detailed, yes. To the point of uncovering some quirk to point to a student? Not yet. “Almost sepia-toned skull masks with the mouth section cut out. We could kiss, but it was still restricted to just the lips.”

“And all four were the same?”

Were they? Close enough. There were minor variations to some patterning on the cheeks and forehead, but yeah, they looked like a matching set.

Her face morphs into tortured shock. “Wait, you suppose they were working together, like a team?”

Perhaps. Although three of them had cornered me while one stood by a tree smoking a cigarette, a proper cigarette too, not a vape. “What is it?” I ask her when her hesitation becomes too much.

Finley is part of a group of four. Him, Tyler, Edwin and Theo.