The Library at Hellebore

by Cassandra Khaw

I held the fruit up to the gray light and turned it one way and then another, recalling some apocrypha about wasps and their role in the pollination of the plant: I’d avoided figs for that reason. There was a hole at the very base of the fruit, wide enough to admit an insect, something Rowan discovered seemingly at the same time, much to the horror of everyone in his immediate vicinity. “Do you think some wasps have death cult suicide orgies—” “When you see the fig,” began Professor Fleur in her quavering voice. “When you taste it, when you crack it in half in your hands and lick the sweet florets, you do not think of the wasp. Although you should. Without it, we wouldn’t have this bounty.” She gestured at us to halve our figs, splitting hers with just her hands. Juice ran down her fingers like plasma, dripping onto the grass. The air stank of a heady sweetness. “It is important we honor the wasp.” From across the garden, Minji asked, “Is it true that there are dead wasps inside every fruit?” “Dead?” gurgled Professor Fleur. It’d take me another eight weeks before understanding that was how she laughed. “No. Made holy. Sainted.” “Holy,” Minji repeated after a moment. “What a choice of words.” The inside of my fig was vulvic red, soft and flushed, whorled with yellow seeds that at certain angles almost looked like eyes but at others resembled the walls of a lamprey’s mouth, but instead of teeth there was only flesh.