Trouble

Have you ever smelled ferns under sunlight? Ferns are not the ones who like sunshine, and tend to congregate in shady and moist areas, hiding under the old and broad trees canopy. But every now and again a family of ferns will turn up in the birch wood. Birches let plenty of sunlight through, especially when young, and this is when you can actually smell the ferns, - dusty, oily green, with a light wood note. This is the opening note of Boucheron's "Trouble" - ferns under the sun, sprinkled with lemon dew. So, where is trouble in that? As one is wading through the ferns, often reaching to the waist and above, it is nearly impossible to see what is underfoot. The soil is soft and always slightly moist under their broad "leaves" (ferns are not leafy species technically), the air above them is fresh, with a light soil tincture, making this blend of aromas rather pleasant and refreshing. And then comes a HISS. The world stills in a heartbeat, the body freezes in whatever position it was before that cold and rasping sound, silence falls all around, except the heartbeat in one's ears and throat: one, two, three, four... Fear rises in waves of indolic jasmine with every beat: five, six, seven, eight... Is the snake still there? And where "there" is? Is it an adder? A smooth viper, or just a terrified grass snake thinking itself even in more trouble than a human frozen in their steps? Is it going to attack? Has it attacked? Has it run away in a silky smooth, slithering motion?.. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve...jasmine grows heavier, almost burnt. Sunshine is blasting from the skies making one blind and hot, oh so hot... What was a rather fresh day is now filling in with heat and rich and resinous scent, adding to the jasmine-tasting fear and unconcerned herbal-woodiness of the darn ferns. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen... People are saying something, but no sound makes it to one's ears, all senses are directed at the dark spot among the ancient plants where the Trouble is hiding in its invisible layer. Sixteen, seventeen eighteen, nineteen... Don't breathe, don't move, don't blink! Survival instinct roars in one's head, - Trouble! We are in Trouble! The woods move slowly with the breeze, spicing amber with their dry smiles at a silly human who dared to venture amongst them. Then the world shudders around you... It's your friend, shaking you awake and back to life, shouting that there is nothing in the ferns and even if there were it is long gone, as you've been standing like a frozen crane mid mating dance for good 5 minutes no less, and no viper is that patient to wait for one to attack. You blink, once, twice, let the breath out of the lungs and then back in... It is still hot, the swirls of dry amber and jasmine are still permeating the air, the ferns are giving out their dusty-green vapours, soured with a persistent lemon note, sun is shining and the forest's voices are back in their cacophonous choir. Trouble, where is the Trouble?! Was there one to start with at all? Only the trees and ferns know the answer, but they are still laughing and swaying in the wind.