Microscopes and Canvases - Chapter 34

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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Chapter 34
The next morning, Beatrice arrived at the Museum earlier than usual.
Her eyes had opened of their own accord—or rather, to be honest, she hadn’t slept at all. She wanted to peer through that magnifying glass at the tiny forest waiting there, to watch those droplets beading inside the glass jar, and the sooner the better.
“Oh, you’re here early, Patrick?”
As she opened the door, Patrick looked up from where he sat at his desk. He’d already begun work; several specimens had been transferred onto glass dishes.
“I came in early for the moss lesson. Shall we start right away?”
“Yes, let’s begin at once.”
Pleased by Beatrice’s enthusiasm, Patrick smiled and pulled up an empty chair for her.
“We’ll start with the most common varieties.”
He pushed the moss specimen and magnifying glass toward her so she could see clearly.
Fine, leaf-like structures spiraled around each slender stem, and delicate spines protruded from their tips.
“You’ll notice the stem and leaves are distinctly separated. Those thread-like filaments are sporangia—when they mature and burst, that’s how the moss reproduces.”
“So moss doesn’t have flowers?”
“No flowers, and no seeds either.”
“Then how—”
“It reproduces by spores alone. An ancient method.”
Beatrice lowered the magnifying glass briefly, then raised it again, carefully moving the lens to follow where Patrick pointed.
“Most plants have vessels that carry water and nutrients from the roots to the leaves. Moss doesn’t have any of that.”
“If there are no vessels, how does it survive?”
“It absorbs through its entire body.”
Patrick moistened the tip of his finger and let a droplet fall gently onto the moss. In an instant, the moss drank it in, its color deepening visibly.
“See? Like a sponge. The whole moss body is an absorbent. That’s why it can live with just a little moisture, but it must always stay in damp places.”
Beatrice nodded slowly and pressed the moss lightly with her fingertip. Cold, soft—there was something refreshing about it.
“There’s something that looks like roots but isn’t—we call them rhizoids.”
Patrick lifted the edge of the moss to show her underneath. Fine, thread-like structures clung tightly to fragments of stone.
“They barely absorb nutrients. They’re just anchors, really—they hold the moss fast to rock or bark.”
“Anchors.”
Beatrice repeated the word softly to herself.
“Moss can establish itself on bare rock, with nothing there at all. Trees and flowers need soil first. But moss doesn’t. It grows without any.”
“Really?”
“The moss that grows first clings to the rock, and when that moss dies, it becomes soil for the next layer. Grass sprouts there. And given enough time—perhaps thousands of years—a tree might eventually grow where that moss first took hold.”
“Like a pioneer, then?”
“Exactly. Moss is the first to claim ground that was barren. That’s why we call it a pioneer plant. Your word for it is fitting.”
Beatrice gazed down at the green moss on the glass dish. She thought she was beginning to understand why Patrick cared so much for something that seemed so insignificant.
“Shall I show you something else?”
His voice was careful, almost tentative—as if he feared she might find it tedious. Beatrice answered quickly.
“Yes, please show me.”
He pulled over another glass jar and removed its stopper. Inside was a broad, flat green plant that grew pressed close to the ground.
“This is a liverwort. There’s barely any distinction between stem and leaf—just a flat sheet clinging to the ground. Long ago, people named it that because they thought it resembled an animal’s liver.”
“A liver? That seems like a stretch.”
“I think so too.”
He smiled and bent his magnifying glass to the surface of the liverwort.
“Still, this form is far older than mosses. It carries traces of when plants first emerged from water onto land. Every time I look at these flat, humble things… I feel something strange, almost sacred.”
Patrick’s last words were almost murmured to himself. Seeming a little embarrassed, he lifted his eyes from the magnifying glass and fiddled with its handle instead. With a soft click, the brass lens collapsed and expanded again.
Beatrice found herself watching his profile once more. It was strange, but her gaze kept drifting to that absorbed expression. She felt as though she’d glimpsed the quiet passion of the man who’d stood motionless in the Ballroom, clutching his thesis.
By the time Patrick finished his explanation of the liverwort and they were refilling their teacups,
Beatrice’s eye fell on a locked specimen box at the corner of the desk—the box holding the dried red-hearted moss that had been the source of their earlier conflict.
“How did you come to love moss, Patrick?”
Beatrice asked the question somewhat impulsively.
“Hmm…”
His expression grew so grave that she worried she’d misspoken. Did this have some story behind it?
For a long moment, Patrick sat silent in his chair, his gaze fixed on the specimen box atop the table. Then he spoke slowly.
“Several years ago, I took a solitary walking journey.”
His fingers trembled slightly as they touched the teacup.
“I was traveling partly to observe plant colonies. In truth, it was a difficult time. I simply wanted to walk for a very long time, thinking of nothing at all.”
He was telling someone the circumstances of his discovery of red-hearted moss for the first time. He chose his words with great deliberation, careful not to reveal too much.
“I’d intended to do some collecting near the Wetland as a change of pace, but the weather there was unusually volatile. Suddenly I was engulfed in fog. I lost my way.”
He was cautious not to let slip why he’d sought out such a distant place, or what suffering had gripped him as he wandered through the mist.
“I was trying to escape the Wetland, but the fog was so thick I couldn’t see anything. Then I mistepped. I fell into a crevice between rocks and cut my leg on the edge. It bled quite heavily.”
“Oh no…”
“Screaming did no good. The fog meant no one could find me. I tore my clothing and bound the wound, but I was terrified the infection would set in before anyone arrived.”
He lifted a small, dried fragment of moss with the tweezers from the old specimen dish he’d set beside her, then lowered it gently onto the circular water stain left by the teacup.
The brittle gray fragment, so parched it seemed ready to crumble, slowly absorbed the moisture and swelled before her eyes. Beatrice found herself holding her breath, watching the small transformation unfold.
“But fortunately, there was dry moss growing in abundance right there beneath my feet. I remembered hearing once that people in ancient times used moss to staunch bleeding. I was frightened, but I had no other choice, so I pressed that unfamiliar moss to my wound and waited. And remarkably, the bleeding began to slow from that moment on.”
“I see.”
“I collapsed entirely from exhaustion, and wasn’t rescued until two days later. At first, I was certain the leg would be gangrenous. But when I came to my senses, it was perfectly intact. The wound was already healing. There wasn’t even a trace of infection.”
He fell silent for a moment. A faint smile flickered across his mouth—the expression of someone who still couldn’t quite believe it himself—before fading away.
“I thought I was finished. That day, I felt as though I had died and been brought back to life. My body… and….”
Patrick paused briefly, then continued in a measured tone.
“My weary heart as well. The time of wandering and suffering had ended, and it was the day I found my purpose in life.”

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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