The Garden

It was in the spring that I was invited for a long visit to the country home of my friend Byron. I had declined the offer on several prior occasions, making excuses of work or some other commitment of which I could not afford to break. This time, however, he insisted with such vehemence, and in truth a bit of diversion sounded quite appealing, so I consented. It was a sprawling estate, made from old stones which were now half hidden by the ivy and other lush verdure. Behind the guest house there was a large garden, full of all manner of exotic plants.

When I asked my host what manner of flora inhabited his garden, and how it was able to thrive in a climate other than its own, he made an oblique comment to the effect of the gardener kept record of such things. Every colour of the visible spectrum was given opportunity along the rows and trellises, which surrounded a central circular display. The plants which occupied that location were unlike any I could have even imagined, with several intricate vines which delicately encircled a stalk cluster that bore a floral crowne of such vibrant reds, oranges and yellows that they almost appeared to be composed of fire. When I questioned the gardener as to what sort of plant it was, and where it hailed from, he gave me a look of such despair that I left him with only silence as my answer. Nevertheless, I was completely transfixed by this unique plant, and determined myself to learn all about it that I could.

Byron was in the habit of sleeping well through the morning, due to his habit of taking laudanum and plumbing the depths of the places that would take him through the evening. I, being an early riser, was thus afforded ample time to study the magnificent garden, and the strange plant which occupied the centre. I would sit and stare at it for hours at a time, watching the morning dew slowly evaporate and the radiant blossoms open to greet the sun. I fancied it as some regal monarch, holding court amongst the rest of the flora in the garden, ordering their affairs and settling their disputes. Occasionally the gardener would walk by, staring at me for a moment with what seemed like pity before continuing on his way. I wondered at the mystery of that man. His complexion and features indicated his heritage as South American, although his dress was certainly of a more civilized sort. I had never heard him speak a word, not to me, not to Byron, not to any of the other servants whom tended to their duties about the estate. Even though how he came to be in the service of my friend was a tale I very much wished to know, my thoughts would not linger on it very long, being far more concerned with observing every possible aspect of the flower in the centre of the garden.

During my friends waking hours, the majority of which were spent in laudanum addled delirium, I was obliged to keep company with him, and we conversed of many different things. I would attempt to extricate some information from him in regards to the flower which was my fixation, or even the origins of his odd gardener. None of my inquiries yielded any results as my friend would invariably profess ignorance of such subjects and steer the conversation back to poetry or politics. It was fortunate that his waking hours often were spent in such extreme levels of hallucination that he entered a near catatonic state, and at those times I was able to steal off to the garden to sit staring at the flower.

One afternoon, as I sat cross legged in a reverie, beholding the object of my fixation, Byron happened upon me and questioned me as to what I was doing. I responded by telling him of my complete immersion in the study of the flower which occupied the centre of his garden, and that it was my intent to remain doing so as long as I should find myself able. He made a few quips about the sheer absurdity of my proposed activity, and the delicate flaws which it revealed of my character, then implored me to join him on the western patio. When I declined he became most irate, stating that if I did not wish to hold his company then perhaps my visit to the country estate should draw to a close.

I nodded my assent, but in truth was not listening too intently to his tirade, choosing instead to keep my focus on the flower. I hardly even took notice when he stormed off in a fit, assaulting the ground with each vehement foot fall. Deep in the recesses of my mind I could feel some half-formed thought, struggling to find permanence and prominence in my consciousness, alluding to a danger that I could not perceive. It was never able to materialize, and was forgotten in the span of but a few moments.

The peace I felt was so consuming that all around me, save the flower in the centre, began to dull and lose focus. I found myself becoming acutely aware of the sun’s golden march across the sky. Its heat, warmth and light felt nourishing, and I basked in the vibrant rays which it painted the earth with. The gardener would occasionally enter my field of vision, although I gave him little thought. He would perform some menial task and glance at me before moving on.

The setting of the sun brought me such an utter exhaustion that I fell asleep where I sat, my head rolling forward onto my chest. Slumbering in the garden, I dreamt of a multitude of peoples, standing in a throng around me, all looking in the same direction. Their dress was as varied as their heritage, and it certainly seemed as if every race, creed, descent and culture were represented within their ranks. Amidst all the jostling of bodies I attempted to work my way towards the direction of their focus.

As I moved I began to see a squat pyramid, constructed from massive stones, looming forth from the centre of the crowd. It was lined with statuary and scrollwork of the most ornate design and skillful execution. At the base of each corner was a golden obelisk, encircled with golden vines that gave the illusion of movement. On each side was a golden stair, offering a shimmering pathway to the top of the pyramid, where I was certain some event of momentous import was occurring. The crowd began to part as I walked, ushering me towards the golden stair, spurring me on to ascend it. By the time I reached it I was practically running.

When I alighted at the top I was met by the gardener, who still offered me the same look of inconsolable sadness. After subjecting me to his despairing gaze for a moment, he led me to a majestic golden altar that was inset with a myriad of rubies, sapphires and other precious stones. At its centre the altar became concave to form a bowl, inside of which lay a few dried red petals. Some ethereal force, which was quite beyond my comprehension, compelled me to pick up one of these petals. It was amazingly fragrant and surprisingly soft to the touch. I stared straight up towards the sun, and heard it whisper “eat….. eat….. eat…..” So hypnotic was its voice that I obeyed without hesitation, placing the petal on my tongue and swallowing it.

I awoke to sunrise and birdsong in the garden. I could feel the pervading dampness of the dew on my person, and much to my surprise I felt quite comforted and refreshed by it. Likewise did the sensation of the warm sun on my back send waves of awareness and vitalization through my person, intoxicating me with their empowering affect. Directly in front of me the Flower was likewise greeting the sun, spreading open its fiery mane of petals in salutation to the brilliant orb. I contemplated the nobility of it, the regal nature of its presence and the refined manner of its stature.

The gardener was making his morning circuit, watering can and pruning sheers in hand, stopping occasionally to use one or the other. When he had made his way around to where I sat, he once again gazed at me with utter despair, and then poured water onto my feet. I was shocked at his impudence, and attempted to let forth a scathing remonstrance, only to discover I could not vocalize any sound at all. My instinctive response to reach for my mouth was met with equal failure, as my arms would not respond. Paralyzed where I sat, I felt a wave of fear wash over me, subsuming all of my conscious faculties with its overwhelming emotion.

A strong breeze on my back tilted me forward, affording me a view of my feet and legs, which were now no longer foot nor leg, but stalk and subterranean root. I swayed back to an upright position with the cessation of the wind, and thought for sure I must still be dreaming. I mentally willed myself to awake, screaming inwards at my own mind to shed the false reality of which I was certain I was currently inhabiting. All my efforts were to no avail, and there I sat, contemplating how I could extricate myself from the horrid nightmare that I had become trapped in.

The gaze of the Flower would occasionally pass over me, benevolent and comforting. When I would direct mine back towards him, my trepidation would subside, being replaced with a sense of purpose and peace. The part of me that sought to find explanation for, and relief from, my situation began to wane, as my desire to sit in the court of the Flower waxed. Perhaps the restlessness that had been the constant condition of my soul until that point had been expelled, perhaps I was so immersed in the sensations around I forgot the ties to my old life, perhaps I was eager to experience something so far a field from my knowledge and experience. Whatever the reason, the sun had not even reached its zenith when I began to rejoice at my new existence.

That afternoon Byron came strolling through the garden. His gait and countenance indicated a high volume of laudanum to be coursing through his veins, and he walked right by me without giving any notice. I saw him make some inquiry to the gardener, whom returned a shrug and then walked away. I pitied my friend, were it not for the drugs he poured into his body so constantly, he might be sitting next to me in the Court of the Golden King.