The Green Muse Annals

No one quite remembers when the Green Muse first appeared—though certain scholars insist it was sometime between the invention of tea and the first person deciding it could cure absolutely everything.

He is an ancient wanderer of gardens, libraries, and the occasional public inn, who has spent more centuries than is strictly polite gathering the botanical wisdom of the world. Author and eternal keeper of the Codex De Herbis, the Muse records not only what plants are genuinely good for but also what they are entirely useless for (which, he admits, is often much funnier and as equally helpful).

It is said he once leaned so close to the earth that the plants began whispering their secrets, and rather than argue, he simply wrote them down. Thus the Codex began: a living tome of botanical lore, part science, part mischief, occasionally found muttering to itself when no one is watching. Within its pages, leaves speak louder than words and the margins bloom with commentary.

Beside him always walks Carden the Cat Keeper Of Quiet Corners—magnificently tailed, famously unimpressed, and possessed of the serene confidence only cats and old philosophers ever manage. Whether Carden is an unusually clever feline or merely an eternal critic remains a matter of debate, though he has been known to contribute marginal notes, dismiss entire chapters with a yawn, and always insists that he does not carry his own luggage.

Together, they wander through centuries and seasons alike, gathering secrets from leaf, root, and blossom. The Muse knows that plants keep the body alive and from falling apart, while laughter keeps the rest of us from doing the same. Between leaf and laughter lies the heart of Floramania—a place where wisdom grows wild, humour takes root, and even the smallest seed remembers the light.

“Remember what the world forgets, and occasionally add a footnote of your own.”

When Carden was a mere drop of a kitten, he was blessed—or possibly pranked by the universe—with a tail so magnificent it seemed it should belong rightly to a far more glamorous feline, but it didn’t. Splendidly long, extraordinarily fluffy, and frankly a bit ostentatious. In time, held high and proud, it swished like a royal banner through the humbler lanes, gardens and homes of suburbia.

He grew into a tabby of quiet confidence, fully aware that his tail could win blue ribbons, though he preferred trophies of a more practical sort—like a patch of warm sun, a quiet corner, or a bowl of something that he didn’t have to forage for.

Carden took to the craft of gardening the way philosophers take to paradox—with curiosity, complaint, and a lingering sense of superiority. He followed gardeners like an inspector general, leaping out from under foliage just as hands reached for the next weed, providing what he considered vigorous encouragement. Over time, lingering around chickens that free ranged around vegetable patches, he picked up a smattering of Chickenese, frequently forgetting to purr and instead issuing a soft “borrrb,” the polite poultry term for all is well and snacks are imminent.

He harboured a fondness for the occasional treat of a few steamed peas, corn, and—regrettably—roast chicken, though it never seemed to trouble his conscience. Through it all, he has walked the long arc beside his human companions, and now serves as familiar and field assistant to the Green Muse himself—keeping the Codex De Herbis free of mice, hubris, and the occasional misplaced sprig of catnip.