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For a moment, consider the sundew. Visualize the Drosera, the largest genus of carnivorous plants on the planet. Specifically, think of the round-leaved sundew, or Drosera rotundifolia. If you’ve ever found yourself in a temperate swamp area of the northern hemisphere of the planet, you’ve probably seen one without even knowing what it was. They’re striking little plants, bright ruby pink with fleshy, oblong petals arranged in messy little stars that pile on top of each other like a stack of alien coinage. Their name comes from the drops of sticky, acidic mucilage that sparkle attractively like fresh summer dew when resting on their leaves. This is the mucilage that allows them to dissolve and digests insects; it eats through their chitin slowly and painfully, disassembling them into fuel for something without even a central nervous system. The sentient is consumed by the beastial.
Campbell was leaning over one of these plants, watching it destroy an unfortunate Harvestman. He enjoyed swamps and awful lot, so the sundew was not foreign to him; in fact, he knew a great deal about the inner workings of the little plant as a special residual interest from a wild childhood had led him to pursue studying it in earnest in college. Cooing to it slightly as one would to a child, he took the underside of one of its tea green leaves in his small, thin fingered hand, examining its delicate little veins. The harvestman was nearly done, its legs were beginning to sop up the mucilage.
“Dorian!” he called, “really, you must see this.” There was a squashing of putrid mud underneath rubber sole.
“This?” questioned his friend, nudging it carefully with the soiled toe of his boot. He had the boots custom made in preparation for this trip; he wasn’t usually an real outdoorsman and prefered kept and paved gardens to the wilderness. Campbell had convinced him that the fowl hunting was especially good out in the fens this time of year, so both men were carrying rifles strapped to their backs. The hunting had really been exceptionally poor.
“No, be gentle with it,” cried Campbell, shooing away Dorian’s foot and shielding the tiny flower with his hands. “Look, it’s eating!”
“Oh, it’s a little spider,” Dorian said as he crouched down to Campbell’s level and scoffed. “Dead to support a being that can’t even think. How cruel!”
“I don’t know if it’s cruel; it needs to eat.”
“And yet it still kills. Nature is brutal.”
“I wouldn’t say that. It doesn’t think like you or I do. Nature isn’t cruel, just blunt and stupid. Things happen the way they happen, but it’s almost never intentional. This plant doesn't emote, it only does. Circle of life and all that.”
“Do you think that Harvestman felt happy to be included in the circle of life?”
“It’s an insect, Dorian, it doesn’t feel.”
“Even the lowest worm fears death. Insects lead painfully short lives, but that’s how they were created. That’s your issue, Alan; you claim to see the world objectively, through a scientific lense, but you don’t see anything you don’t want to.” Campbell meekly began to protest at this. Dorian acknowledged his squeak with a pointed look and continued. “The world as we know it could not exist without all of its inhabitants being predisposed to being exceptionally cruel.”
“Oh, not all of us are cruel!” Campbell smiled bashfully, a gesture which Dorian returned and then stood to full height.
“Put your gloves back on, Alan, you’ll inevitably touch some of that nasty stuff,” Dorian said, gesturing dismissively at the flower. “I care for you.” He unhooked the gun from his back and moved to face the deeper forested areas of the swamp “Maybe we’ll have more luck in there. I’m looking for a Cormorant.”
“Cormorants don’t live in inland areas, especially not in woods.”
“Who knows!”
And so the two men trudged through the damp plain area into the slightly more firm-soiled forest floor. The forest seemed crafted to deal in extremes. Light shone bright and sunny yellow onto the bits of the woods in crisply defined, organic shapes, and then completely shunned other places. One could never be sure how the ground would react to the pressure of a step, sometimes a sandy parcel would completely collapse, consuming one’s foot in a squelching, wet gulp, and then sometimes an identical stretch of land could be as sturdy as a board. Songbird music flowed loud and soft, all the little animals seemingly coordinated like a choir. Sound, then silence. Strong, then soft. Light, then dark. It was all very distracting.
Campbell held a lichen-feathered branch out of Dorian’s way. “Thank you,” Dorian said, “You’re so kind.”
“Don’t want you touch any of that ‘nasty stuff.’ I care for you!” They both smiled and Dorian chuckled earnestly, pausing to lay his hand on Campbell’s. The birdsong ebbed out and both men fell silent. A pause, Dorian lifted his gun, aiming it a dark spot in a nook between two red trees, signalling that he saw something. Campbell kept quiet. Another pause, longer this time, but no shot came.
“Some sort of plant in the wind or something. No birds, unfortunately.”
“I’m afraid it’s about to get too dark to see anything. Got a watch?”
“Wouldn’t bring one on a trip like this. I’d say it's probably nearing five.” Sunset times had been gradually ticking earlier; it was late October, nearing the end of the year and the solstice.
“We can probably wait a little longer… can’t hurt to stay out in the dark too long, can it?” There was mischief, a childlike playfulness in Campbell’s voice. He was not generally a serious man, he loved life too much to be all that reserved, but he was able to indulge a single slightly odder urge when with Dorian. It was one of his many charms.
“Alan.”
“Oh, too good to play now, are you? Finally sobered up, become right and all that?”
“Don’t kid me.” Finally Campbell picked up on the change in Dorian’s mood. He was creeping towards a niche hidden in a mat of vines, eyes wide, and sharply focussed. It struck Campbell how even when Dorian was advancing towards a prospective kill, his eyes seemed youthful and bright, innocent even, like a child about to strike a friend without thinking. He glided into position.
The gun actually went off this time, and it found its mark easily. “Oh, very nice!” Campbell cried. A study wading bird flopped out onto the marshy ground with a small shower of clouded water. Campbell trotted over to it, picking it up by its scaly, dull golden feet and held it aloft. “A choice shot.” The bird’s black feathers flashed brilliant, jeweled blues, reds, and purples in the waning light, marred only slightly by the trickle of maroon blood leaking from its breast.
Dorian followed a little slower, and took the bird in his hand, inspecting the wound. “Messier than I’d like. Ah well, it can’t be helped.” He looked up at the sky again. “Okay, that seems a good a place to end it as any. We should start back for home.”
“Let’s.”
They bagged the bird and plodded back through the woods, coming back into the clearing they were before. Campbell paused to check the sundew again, noting that it had finished digesting the spider. “Poor thing,” he thought to himself, “Dorian’s right, you almost feel bad for it.”
“I wish we could do this more often,” said Campbell.
“How do you mean?”
“Well, I don’t know, some of the things you seem to like, Dorian, seem a little dangerous for my tastes. Never been much for substances. Plus, when we’re out, sometimes you’re a little… reckless for my tastes. It’s dangerous out there for people like us.”
“Life’s not worth living without a little danger.”
“Don’t you ever want a little peace and quiet? Something slow, like this?”
“Never!” Dorian smiled widely and bumped his shoulders into Campbell’s.
“You don’t take me seriously.”
“Oh, come off it. I am who I am, Campbell, and you’d do well to loosen up. All those books. And none of them worth reading! There’s so much out there.”
“It’ll catch up to you eventually.”
“Never!” He smiled again, but this time with strained, angry eyes, and then returned to walking unusually stoic. Campbell tried to begin more conversation with Dorian, but he was unwontedly quiet, especially for the evenings. Of course, usually when he started to slip into a more mischievous mood in the evenings, he was already a little bit drunk, but they had brought no alcohol with them, so he was kept sober. It was only maybe a ten minute walk to where the harder ground formed a little road for the motorcar. The only light remaining was emanating from the strip of sunset still visible through the silhouetted trees, bright like an electric mercury light bulb.
It was silent for a bit. Finally, Dorian cleared his throat and pitched his chin up a touch before turning to Campbell. “Alan,” he said, “Listen, my time with you- today, I mean, has been very enjoyable.”
“Yes?”
“But- listen- I think it’s time to end our friendship.”
“Dorian!” Campbell let out a low squeak. “Why in the world?”
“I don’t know, I’ve got things to do,” he waved his hand, “places to be. And forgive me for saying this Campbell, but you’re not very… fun. Sure, I enjoy the late nights together where you sit me down and explain me all of your science things, and I’ve always been attracted to your enthusiasm, but you never want to go out or do anything daring that I ask to do. I’m a young man! I’ve got to live a little. You’re not very good at living.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way.” This was an impersonal, sarcastic even, response, but Campbell was very clearly hurt. His hands trembled, clutching the bagged bird very tightly.
Suddenly, Dorain’s eyes flashed an intense grey. He lifted his head, expression severe, lifted his rifle, and fired a shot directly in Campbell’s direction.
“Shit!” Campbell yelled, diving towards the ground, hands over his head. “Dorian, I didn’t mean-”
“Bird.” Dorian grunted. He made no more aggressive moves, but only stared off to the middle distance with hardened eyes. Campbell lifted his head slowly and cautiously, ignoring Dorian’s extended hand when returning to his feet. He looked behind himself and saw no bird.
“You could have warned me,” Campbell said, chuckling. He did not find it funny.
“It was flying away.” Dorian didn’t meet his gaze.
“You could have warned me!” He was visibly angry this time.
“Well,” Dorian said, ignoring him and sighing, “One last ride, Alan.”
“I’m not comfortable riding with you. You nearly shot me.”
“Walk, then. The next town’s only an hour’s walk away.”
“It’s all so sudden!”
“Life’s not worth living without giving into a whim every now again.”
“It’s cruel.”
Dorian smiled. “That’s nature.” He stepped into the shiny baby blue automobile, shut the door delicately but forcefully, and drove off, spitting smoke. Campbell looked down the dirt road as the last dregs of light left the swamp. He still held the dead bird, but its flesh had gone dully cold.