by Dan Leonard

 

 

Once, people believed names had power.

Eight-year-old Dione—dye-OH-nee—still did.

People called her Diane. Or Dion. Or once, inexplicably, Donna.

“Dione,” Nonna always corrected. “Say it the way it was given.”

On April first, Dione came to Wilmington with Nonna’s myrtle for the Azalea Festival’s Heritage Flower Show.

MYRTLE — ITALY
Sacred to Venus, goddess of love.

Inside Dione’s locket was one tiny myrtle leaf.

“Keep a little home with you,” Nonna had said.

Azaleas bloomed. Ribbons fluttered. Everyone fussed.

Dione wandered.

That was where she found the other Venus.

VENUS FLYTRAP
Dionaea muscipula

“Dye-oh-NEE-ah,” Dione whispered.

“Dione. Dionaea.”

She smiled.

“We almost match.”

 

The little plant sat open in the sun.

It looked almost like—

Dione touched her locket.

Then a fly landed inside.

A boy beside her leaned closer.

“Watch.”

Snap.

“There! Got him.”

Dione waited.

Nothing.

Slowly, the two green halves opened.

 

The fly was alive.

He straightened one wing.

Then—

he bowed.

Dione opened her locket.

Two halves.

One hinge.

Something precious inside.

She looked again.

“You’re a locket.”

The green fringe trembled.

“Finally,” said a voice soft as grass beneath the wind.

“You noticed.”

The fly stepped deeper inside. Golden pollen dusted his legs.

“Flowers need travelers,” Nonna always said.

“Who are you?” Dione whispered.

“My name... is Venus.”

 

Dione touched the myrtle leaf.

“Nonna says myrtle belongs to Venus.”

“It always has.”

“Her myrtle crossed an ocean.”

“I’ve heard about oceans,” Venus said. “Birds talk. So do people passing through.”

Venus looked toward the Cape Fear.

“I’ve never left.”

The river moved toward the sea.

A gull crossed overhead.

The fly lifted his wings.

“Every spring,” Venus said, “someone tells me where they’ve been.”

She glanced at the lowering sun.

“No one asks where I’m going.”

A tiny Venus seed lifted in the breeze.

Dione followed it.

Almost—

almost—

then it jerked backward and fell.

Dione picked it up and blew it into the air.

Again it rose.

Again something pulled it back.

“Every time,” Venus sighed.

Dione frowned.

She looked harder.

This time she saw it—

a thin golden thread running from the seed, across the gardens, toward the Cape Fear.

Another golden thread shimmered from Venus.

 

Dione looked at the sign.

VENUS FLYTRAP

Then at Venus.

“You’re not the trap.”

She looked again at the golden threads.

“You’re the one trapped.”

“For two hundred and sixty-seven Aprils,” Venus said.

“I’ve counted.”

The fly buzzed sharply.

Then he bowed again.

Dione watched him.

“That’s a very fancy bow for a fly.”

Venus rustled her fringe.

“He’s had practice.”

“What do you mean?”

“He was not always a fly.”

 

Once, before Brunswick Town had a name, Riven was Prince of the Kingdom of Woven Tides.

The king and queen had chosen his bride.

She was kind. Clever. She had excellent posture.

The whole court called it perfect.

“But do we love each other?” Riven asked.

The king and queen exchanged a look.

“It matters to me,” Riven said.

So Riven sought Venus, goddess of gardens, beauty, and love.

“How will I know if someone truly loves me?”

The goddess studied his crown.

“Take off the crown and you’re still a prince.”

Riven frowned.

“Then who would I have to be?”

“Someone no one bows to.”

“And then?”

“When you know the answer, you’ll come home.”

 

Riven set down his crown.

“Do it.”

The goddess touched his forehead.

Riven grew smaller.

Smaller still.

His fine coat vanished.

Two wings appeared.

Six tiny legs.

“A fly?”

The goddess smiled.

“No one bows to flies.”

People shooed him.

Swatted at him.

Called him a pest.

But pollen traveled with him.

Then a spring storm drove him to the Cape Fear.

Wind tossed him.

Rain battered his wings.

Something green opened below.

 

Two halves.

One hinge.

A little green locket.

“Come in.”

Riven landed inside.

A golden shimmer gathered around his wings.

The spell had begun to take him home.

“And then?” Dione asked.

Venus drooped.

“Then someone came along at exactly the wrong moment.”

The next morning was April second, 1759.

Arthur Dobbs saw the little green plant.

Its locket was open.

A fly rested inside.

A raindrop fell.

Venus closed around the little fly.

 

Dobbs stared.

“A fly,” he murmured.

Then—

“A trap.”

Dobbs wrote what he thought he had seen.

He meant no harm.

But some words are heavier than the people who write them.

FLY.

Riven’s golden shimmer froze.

TRAP.

Venus’s locket locked.

Golden threads pulled tight around Venus, her seeds, and Riven.

FLYTRAP.

 

Centuries passed.

“You would not believe some of the teeth they’ve given me,” Venus said.

Dione laughed.

Nearby, tables folded and ribbons came down.

Dione touched her locket.

“Today is April first.”

“My favorite day.”

“Nonna said April first belonged to Venus. A day for hearts to turn.”

“For a few hours,” Venus said, “the old magic loosens.”

“How much time do we have?”

Venus looked west.

“Not enough.”

(Illustration note: The story moves through the centuries—from Dobbs’s letter and early botanical drawings to Darwin, books, and increasingly exaggerated depictions of the flytrap.)

 

“And when the sun goes down?”

“The old name closes around us again.”

Dione looked at Riven.

At Venus.

At the golden threads.

At the sign.

VENUS FLYTRAP

Diane.

Dion.

Donna.

Dione touched her locket.

The last ribbon table folded.

The sun touched the Cape Fear.

Flytrap, the old name whispered.

Flytrap.

Flytrap.

Venus’s lockets began to close.

“Oh, not again,” Venus whispered.

Dione placed Nonna’s myrtle leaf beside her.

She read the smaller name.

“Dionaea.”

The golden threads flickered.

Dione waited.

Nothing.

 

The last edge of sun hovered above the river.

Dione touched the myrtle leaf.

Then her locket.

She looked at the little green plant.

“Ah,” she whispered.

“You’re Venus.”

 

Every green locket in the marsh opened.

Wide.

The golden threads snapped.

Beside Dione, the little fly began to glow.

Wings became sleeves.

Six tiny legs became two booted ones.

Prince Riven stood in the grass.

Behind him shimmered Woven Tides.

His crown was still there.

Riven bowed.

Then he stepped home.

 

Dione held a tiny seed to the breeze.

“Go on.”

Almost—

almost—

this time, nothing pulled it back.

The seed sailed toward the Cape Fear.

Venus opened one locket toward Dione.

“Thank you, Dione.”

The next morning Dione asked,

“Where will you go?”

“Anywhere I want.”

“Where first?”

Venus looked at the marsh.

The pines.

The shining Cape Fear.

“I think I’ll stay here.”

“But you can go anywhere.”

Venus opened every locket toward the sun.

“Exactly.”

 

And on April third, something new opened.

(Illustration note: Beyond the old boundary, a tiny new Venus has opened. The original Venus remains at home beside the Cape Fear.)