Despite Arbutus's best efforts, despite all his skills, his yellow primrose was dying. It seemed this was a masterwork not destined to be saved. The elemental sighed wearily, and stood up. He gently took the withered flowers in his strong, veined hand, and gestured. A hole opened in the earth, and he placed the flowers gently inside, like a priest.
A soft jingling sound made him look up. There was a man behind him, wearing saffron robes, and with his head, bald and shaved, gleaming in the moonlight. He held a staff topped with metal rings: it was this that had made the jingling sound. One of those nature priests from the island over the sea, Arbutus mused. The intruder was, the elemental thought, technically trespassing, but he decided he would do nothing. He'd visited Nippon, long ago, and found some of their arts -- the crafting of bonsai, the ephemerality of the cherry blossom -- to be akin to his own. They were perhaps the only humans, Arbutus thought, who appreciated not only nature, but in the artistic patterns it wove for itself every day, as well as the applications that could be developed through selected breeding and management. Some of their flower arrangements were sheer masterworks. For humans, anyway.
'Come in peace,' he said, voice deep and rich as the earth. He stood up, unfolding himself to his two and a half metres of height, towering over the bonze in his saffron robes. The face was wrinkled, but the eyes twinkled merrily enough. The bonze smiled at him. 'Kami-sama no zono,' he said quietly. In their alien language, it translated to something like 'God of the Garden', or 'Garden God', something to do with gardens anyway. Arbutus did not consider himself a god: he was an artist, first and foremost. But, like any artist, he appreciated being understood. He bowed, elegantly, bending with the suppleness of a willow.
'Thank you,' he said, deeply flattered.
'Kami-sama,' the bonze said, suddenly. 'May I have your hand?'
A strange request. But perhaps the priest merely wished to hold his hand in friendship. But that again was odd. The people of Nippon did not touch each other as signs of friendship, or first contact. They tended to bow. But, whatever their faults, they were worshippers and appreciators of nature. That seemed innocent enough. He extended his hand forward, and the bonze reached out his own. Then there was a brief flash of light. Arbutus felt absolutely no pain as his hand was severed from his wrist. The greenish sap-like fluid that trickled from the stump was already beginning to stop; flesh like bark was scaling it over, and a series of small, twig-like extensions pushed through. In a moment, his hand was whole again. He stared at the priest again, not in anger but a strange puzzlement.
'Thank you, elemental,' the bonze said. But his voice was changed: it was the voice of a young man, capricious and cruel, and speaking Arabic fluently, without an accent. And his face was flowing and rippling like the surface of a stream. His body wavered. And in an instant, the bonze was replaced by a young man, dressed in dark finery, wearing a leather gauntlet on his right hand. He picked up the severed hand -- it was darkening and hardening, as a newly severed green branch will eventually do -- and thrust it into his belt. He bowed, and a mocking smile played across his lips. He thrust his hands behind him, and a pair of plane trees, centuries old, burst into flame. Arbutus felt their wailing and agony through the very ground of the place. He staggered.
'Stop this!' he cried. His voice had lost its power: it was a thin reed frantically bending in the force of a gale. 'What reason to you have to do this?'
'My reason,' the young man said smugly, 'which is all the reason I require. He took a long slender tube from his cloak, and closed the severed hand gently over it. He began to chant.
Arbutus saw his hand change. It lengthened, became like a vine, and twined itself slowly about the tube, turning black to match the colour. He looked at it, trying to fathom its purpose. He couldn't, but knew it was evil. And to think his art would be used for this -- it was an obscenity. The young man read his emotions in his face.
'I know,' he said. 'You're so fond of how your power will always bloom. Bloom this!' The gauntlet, fingers held forward like a sword, stabbed downward. And the garden burst into flame. The last thing Arbutus heard was the young man's laughter as he faded into the swirling smoke.