Lavender Boy

Chamomile

Sam sipped chamomile tea as the sky fell down on purple fields.

It was mid-June, past the days of hammering spring rain but before the autumn mist took over the valley. The summer should have been sunny. Instead, rain pattered on the rows of lavender plants of Willoughby Farm, dyeing them a darker purple and feeding their roots.

The delicate glass windchimes on the porch tinkled gently in the wind, protected by the vine-covered overhang. Sam pulled his sweater down over his knees and watched the world whirl around him in a frenzy of crystal droplets. His cheeks were pink from the cold.

He startled at the sensation of a hand on his shoulder. When he turned to look, he saw it was only his sister. She settled down beside him on the pale wood porch. 

"Is the power back yet?" Sam asked her.

April shook her head. "The radio isn't working either. Dad's in the attic with antennas attached to his head like some kind of crazy scientist." 

"Does he have the tinfoil hat?"

"Indeed he does."

The rain started to fall harder and they lapsed into silence for a moment.

She looked out at the rain and then at Sam's tea. She groaned, "What I wouldn't do for a hot drink right now. I don't know how you managed to boil water right before the power went out."

"I'm psychic," he replied. He took a noisy slurp from his mug.

"Where's your crystal ball, Madam de Mystique Samuel?" she mocked.

"Oh, I don't need one," he said, his eyes lighting up, "Your future is crystal clear."

"Oh?"

He closed his eyes and clutched a hand to his temple. "Mmm, yes. I sense that in less than a minute, someone you know well will dump lukewarm tea on your head. A family member, perhaps?"

April's eyes widened as she scrambled away from him. Sam tried to throw the tea after her, but it splashed onto the porch. Amber liquid seeped through the wood slats and soaked into the ground.

She scowled. "Wait, I'm getting something!" Sam cried, grasping in the air with one hand. "The tea-wielding attacker! Their name... it starts with an S. Young lady," he turned to his sister, "Does anyone in your family have a connection to the letter S?"

"You little fucker," she whispered between giggles, wrenching the tea mug from his hand and getting up from her seat. "Don't get too full of yourself, or you might just explode."

Sam heard the screen door open and then whistle shut as she went back in the house. He poked a hand out from under the porch overhang and felt the rain pouring down on it. There was no hint of it stopping yet.

He turned around and opened the front door, stealing inside and throwing on a rain jacket. He slipped his feet into bright blue rain boots, and then walked back out onto the porch. Whenever it rained, like tradition, he went looking for frogs. It was silly, he knew. He'd done it since he was five and if nobody knew then nobody could hold it against him.

He stowed between the lavender rows and relished the mud caking up against the heels of his boots. The air felt so alive. The sky was pure white, covered in billowy clouds. He paused for a moment to listen to the rain. As he strained his ears, Sam realized he couldn't hear any birds. It was strange, as they usually flocked to the fruit trees at the edge of the farm, their beaks stabbing into the ripe skin of peaches. After a moment, he continued his walk, his eyes traveling along the ground, searching. 

The Willoughby Lavender Farm was fairly remote from civilization. It was about a 40-minute drive to the nearest town and the terrain was rocky and mountainous. The farm itself was on the plateau right next to a steep mountain ridge. Several fruit trees crested the edge of the ridge. They were for the birds, since no one in the family liked peaches or apricots. 

Sam didn't mind the remoteness. His mom worked from home, tending to the fields, while his dad did wildlife population surveys in the more forested parts of the mountains. April was only a year younger than him, so he had a built-in best friend.

During late July and early August, tourists occasionally came up the mountain and Sam took every chance to talk to them. During hot, dry summers when all the lavender bloomed, his mom sometimes hired a boy named Jonah, the son of a family friend who lived down the mountain.

Jonah and Sam would pass through the fields with keen eyes, stealing glances at each other over the purple hedges. They picked the lavender and trim the bushes so that visitors could pass through the rows easily. They cleared felled logs and debris from the roads. Sometimes Jonah stayed in their spare room and Sam would talk to him for long stretches in the night hours. This was the first year that Jonah would be away all summer for college tours.

Sam reached the edge of the road that went down the mountain. It met the turnpike several miles down and was a major thoroughfare for families on vacation. Sam hoped that the signs for the farm hadn't been blown over by the wind. 

Sam made his way down to the creekbed with light, careful steps. He examined the muddy ground, turning over sticks and rocks and hoping to find a small amphibian as he worked his way downstream. He climbed over a felled log and stepped into the creek. He pretended, for a moment, that he was a dancer, and gave the trees a small bow. Through the mist, he could imagine the dusty rays of spotlights shining down on him.

As he continued downstream, his eyes were drawn to a dark shape on the side of the creek. He crossed to the other side, nearly slipping on the moss-covered rocks.

Sam's feet splashed to a halt in the mud.

The shape, he realized, was the body of a young man, lying limply at the creekside like a discarded ribbon. Sam quickly dropped down to his knees. He rapped his knuckles on the man's collarbone to wake him up, feeling for a pulse with his other hand. 

Calm. He needed to remain calm, Sam thought to himself. 

"Wake up! Sir, wake up!"

He pushed the man flat on his back and tipped his head back. He leaned in to check for breathing. He heard nothing. Was he... Sam stopped his train of thought. No, he couldn't be. A weight dropped from his diaphragm to his stomach and spread the cold, metallic ache of panic. Sam wouldn't let him die.

Here we go, he thought, the adrenaline running through his veins flushing away any apprehension.

He leaned in and touched his lips to the stranger's, exhaling into the man's lungs. He pressed his palms down and felt smooth ribs flexing under his weight. Without hesitation, he began compressions, counting out loud. 

"One, two, three..." he panted, continuing until he reached thirty. He leaned down again and forced air into the man's unresponsive lungs. 

He was about to continue when he thought he felt movement. He paused.

The stranger slowly opened his eyes and Sam stopped moving. His eyes were grey, a gentle gradient from silver to charcoal, with dark streaks coming out from the pupil. As Sam watched, they seemed to ebb and flow like water.

He had dark-tinted skin and tattoos crawling up his forearms; his lips punctuated with metal snake bites. Despite his appearance, his facial features were strangely delicate. Beautiful, even. He couldn't have been older than twenty.

Sam reached under the man, gently pulling him up from the ground and gradually into a standing position. He put his arm over his shoulder.

The young man let his head fall onto Sam's shoulder and Sam froze.

"You smell like lavender," the man murmured.

Sam stared at him for a long moment. 

"You're gonna be okay," he whispered as they crossed the creek, "Just stay awake. Keep your eyes open. Count your breaths."

His eyes caught a glimpse of purple through the trees and together they stumbled forward. He heard a soft sound and turned to look. A weak smile stretched across the stranger's face, more like a grimace.

"Thank you."

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