But is it Evil?

Hedge Bindweed - Calystegia sepium

For reasons known only to the Great God WIP (Work in Progress, which at the moment is a novel with a botanical theme) I took it upon myself to write a scene from the point of view of a Bindweed.

For this I had to find out more about the Nature of the Beast than the little I already know: that, given half a chance, the thing would outgrow and strangle practically everything on our vegetable allotment (with the noble exception of the Rhubarb, who apparently makes its own weed-killer, and the Globe Artichoke, who is basically just a giant thistle with gourmet pretentions).

Plants communicate with each other, including across species. Not by whispering when we’re not listening (though to be fair this has never been proven), but by chemical messages below the soil, and occasionally above it. I have personally experienced this. Picture the scene: one spring morning I noticed a couple of cheeky dandelion flowers on our lawn. With nothing better to do, I dug the plants up. In doing so I noticed more that hadn’t flowered. And more, and more, until I’d dug up every dandelion I could see. I remember their fragrance – quite strong but not unpleasant.

The following day the several who’d escaped this intended wipe-out were all in brazen flower. I’m still convinced that they knew, somehow, that they were in danger and were doing their level best to make sure someone among them got to make seeds.

Another one from my own experience: watching the bamboo on our allotment bend away from a bonfire we’d lit next to it. You could actually see it move.

And there’s a lab in Australia who have managed to show that plants can find water just from the sound it makes.

So why not write from a plant’s point of view? In checking certain things for research (for example, the technical term for the tubular white roots which form that infuriatingly durable network from which the Bindweed draws its apparently boundless energy) I discovered they are Rhyzomes (Rhizomes in the States) and the plant itself is a Bine.

Bine?

Why had I never heard the term before?

A Vine  – for example a Pea plant or a Grapevine – throws out little curly tendrils to clasp on to whatever it has chosen for support, whereas a Bine – the Bindweed, or indeed our Beans – wraps its whole stem about its support in a helix. The Bindweed helix always turns clockwise (as you lie on the ground looking up, that is), so here in the Northern hemisphere that means it turns against the path of the sun – widdershins, as they say.

It is, therefore, obviously Evil. Which makes it an interesting character to write about, no?

 

 

Story seeds

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The back of the Seed Drawer is a weird and wonderful place. Its inhabitants, those seeds unlucky enough to have been bought in a ‘bad year’, gather dust in the quiet time between one upheaval and another.

Perhaps their purchaser was lured out early to the garden centre by an unusually warm and sunny March, only to have had all hopes dashed by an April loaded with gales and sleet. Good intentions may, on the other hand, have been stymied by the unforeseen imposition of a house move, a new job, or some other devourer of time like the sudden need to care for an elderly relative who lives 150 miles away. Or open heart surgery.

But this year has brought something else altogether.

Here in the UK those of us lucky enough not to work one of the ‘key’ jobs formerly known as ‘unskilled’ have had to stay at home – and to do so through an unusually sunny spring. Only Wales had the good sense to keep garden centres open. Us Sais here in England had to make the best of what we’d got.

What I found, on gleaning the drawer, were not so much seeds as story prompts:

Mrs Lei (a bean, not shown here) works as a Neural Miner in the dark underbelly of some evil organisation powered entirely by disembodied captive brains – a bit like The Matrix only with added pickaxes and dirt.

Munstead Strain is obviously a closer-to-home version of The Andromeda Strain (A search for Munstead reveals it is, indeed, in the Home Counties. It was even designed by somebody called Jekyll. The plot thickens…)

Double Mixed and Fiesta Gitana Mixed bring to mind rom-coms, the first one peopled with Updike-type characters only less serious, and the second with English ex-pats in Spain.

At this point I felt the need to search for mentions of these seed names: where had the companies, or gardeners, got their inspiration from? I found only one site, in the whole world, bore any mention of ‘Neural Miner’ seed and that site, by a bizarre coincidence, was the only place I could find mention of ‘Weretors of Elgebar’.

And in a further twist, since I drafted this blog yesterday, that site appears to have vanished!

So I may never know what curlicues of the imagination could have caused someone to give a plant such a name.

Midnight, on a jagged mountain top. Clouds scud across the full moon. A cluster of fractured towers loom black against the sky. A single, cold blue eye gleams, as if alive, from one of the empty windows. Elgebar, finally aligned. Tonight, the towers have awakened and will claim what is theirs…