The Greenhouse

Some fifty years prior, in the time of my childhood, an interview such as this would have been unheard of. No breakthrough-seeking freelancer would question a farm-lady on how she cared for her crops. There is nothing remarkable about Noita, aside from her inscrutability. She looks as one would expect, tanned and overburdened. But a healthy crop had not been a rare sight fifty years ago. Earth’s average temperature had been 5 degrees lower, and reporters chased headlines detailing mass deforestation, or the construction of controversial mines.

Now, as they weep in shared depression and chew on their artificially created package meals, the world wants to know why Noita’s greenhouse is blooming.

When I first heard of this phenomenon, my curiosity had also been piqued, and I had organised the meeting with more than money in mind. She was reclusive to begin with, but I figure she was more open to the idea of a low-profile freelancer than a bustling team of publicists. Viewing Noita’s isolated property had been intriguing in itself as there is only a farm-shed and the glasshouse, a peculiar spot of vibrant emerald amidst a field of dead grass.

Upon my arrival, Noita had vehemently refused questioning in any part of her property other than her greenhouse and, given the nature of the interview, I had conceded. I have since realised the insanity of this decision after two hours of nonsensical responses, and endeavoured more than once to move the discussion to the sheltered farm-shed. Noita has rejected each attempt, emphasising her own tranquility in the glasshouse. Being a journalist for fifteen years, I am aware that the comfort of the interviewee must be prioritised, and that obtaining this information is essential to my bank balance.

So, I sit, a nondescript insect beneath a murderous magnifying glass, trying to decode Noita’s increasingly cryptic answers.

“So how is it, that you have succeeded where most others have failed?” As the query leaves my lips, a bead of sweat slides from my forehead into my open mouth, the salinity intensifying my thirst. I am shocked by the putridity of the air in the greenhouse. The stench reminds me of decaying matter, and not what I would expect from a space full of flowers.

“It amazes me, how many times you can rephrase that question”. Noita’s lilting response mocks my obvious discomfort. Her weathered face crinkles in cold amusement and I shift uneasily in the stone chair I have been allocated. Her stoic demeanour irritates me, however, and I feel some of my original tenacity return, giving an edge to my voice.

“Why do you so adamantly guard this information? Why not share your success, and your produce, with others? Do you fear lack of recognition?”

Noita’s response is tinged with venom. “Perhaps it is lack of gratitude I fear. The public may judge my methods unkindly”.

I expect her to elaborate, but she only continues to stare at me with her emotionless, black eyes. Noita reminds me of a giant vulture, watching without empathy as her prey rapidly withers. Her own body shows no struggle against the humidity of the greenhouse. Perspiration soaks my hair and back, but does not glitter on her brow.

The silence becomes awkward and the air seems to condense. I attempt to distract myself by taking in the botanical abnormality surrounding me. Vegetables naturally harvested in different seasons thrive side by side, and much of the produce I don’t even recognise. Curiously shaped fruits bloom amongst the pumpkins, tomato’s and strawberry’s, their shiny surfaces reflecting the deadly midday sun.

Leather sacks hang from the ceiling, out of which sprout a variety of weed-like flora, stems reaching down in tentacular fashion. All manner of flowers and potted plants grow without constraint. Vines and stems twist together, creating vile fusions of colour and texture that are difficult to look at for an extended period of time.

As my eyesight drifts in and out of focus, I have the disturbing impression that the vegetation is creeping closer. I want nothing more than to escape the choking atmosphere of the greenhouse, so I concentrate instead on the base of each plant, and search desperately for the explanation that Noita is withholding.

The potting appears to be hand-made, as their designs are roughly executed, and unrecognisable symbols have been crudely inscribed onto their rims. Most intriguingly, the water which has collected in the drainage plates, seems abnormally dark and viscous. I muster the strength to continue my investigation.

“Do you water your plants with a unique blend? Some additional nutrients perhaps? The corner of Noita’s stern mouth tilts slightly upwards, but she does not reply. I feel as though I am part of a joke that only she is aware of. Feeling anxious, I decide to change the subject.

“Your crops are inspiring jealousy across the country, do you ever get thieves trying to steal your produce?”

“I welcome thieves, they do not bother me”, comes her vague reply.

My head is spinning, and my words seem to come from somewhere far away. I find it difficult to process exactly what she is saying.

“Thieves stealing your produce? How do you deal with them?”

“First I show them how I water my plants, then I show them inside the farm-shed”. Despite my failing consciousness, I am taken aback by her answer. It seems a completely unreasonable method of dealing with criminals, particularly given Noita’s taciturnity. My curiosity is short-lived, however, as the extreme heat drives it from my aching mind. I grasp desperately for my train of thought and latch onto the idea of the farm-shed.

“Do you use your shed as a house?” I squeeze the words out of my desiccated throat. I am grateful for the minuscule recording device hidden in my tie clip, as I am now struggling to make sense of my own questions.

“There is no need, I live in the greenhouse.” Her reply only escalates my bafflement. There are no utilities within the glass.

My head begins to pound, and nausea rises in my stomach. I push on.

“Why is it necessary to own a shed so large, what do you store in it.” My voice is shaky, and quickly losing its familiarity. For the first time, she pauses to consider the question, before answering once more in the same tone of mild amusement.

“Fertiliser.”

The response is completely reasonable, and I wouldn’t feel uneasy if not for the malicious glint in Noita’s eyes. The fetid aroma within the glasshouse infiltrates my nostrils and I feel incredibly faint, but I get the sense that I am close to discovering the answer to Noita’s riddle.

“Why tell thieves your secret, why not tell me?” I’m aware that my questions have gradually lost all suggestion of professionalism, but its all I can muster without collapsing in the the unbearable humidity. However, her response is chilling.

“I do not want to tell you, but I will show you. It is almost time.”

Her eyes seem to dissect my soul. I feel unsafe. My sweat turns cold as it runs down my forehead. Looking down to avoid her malevolent gaze, I notice strange symbols etched onto the arms of my chair, matching those on the pots of Noita’s plants. I need to leave.

I try to stand up too quickly, and end up face down on the floor. Only now do I notice the splotches of dried, red liquid that decorate the tiles. This doesn’t concern me however. Nothing does. I am rapidly fading out of consciousness, the greenhouse has me defeated.

Noita begins to chant in a language that sounds like a hideous form of Latin, and draws a ornately decorated knife from her apron. A strange implement for gardening, my addled brain thinks.

The chanting stops, and there is a sharp pain in my wrist. Noita looms over me, and her words ring in my ears.

“Let me show you how I water my plants.”