So it begins . . .
the garden
After one hundred years, he found himself back in the same spot with the same expectations, as anxious and excited as the eleven-year-old who stood in the same spot a century before. This was Christmas morning, birthday parties, and his first car all rolled into one.
Clearly, maturity has little to do with how long one lives.
Allen remembered when Claude first brought him to the garden. He could still feel his eyes stinging with tears he refused to cry, an ache in his heart from the betrayal of being sold, and fear so thick it stuck in his throat.
“Claude, I want to go home. Are you going to take me home?”
The old man didn’t look down at him. He stared up into
the oak tree instead, squinting rheum-crusted eyes, searching the fluttering
leaves as if looking for an answer there. Finally, he said, “No, Allen, your
mama and daddy want you to stay here for a while.”
“Will I . . . will I have to stay here a long time?”
Claude’s answer was nothing he could understand back then. “Time don’t mean much in this place, boy.”
He left Allen sitting on the ground in front of the giant hourglass. Allen forgot his pain, tears and pretty much everything else when the machine began to turn. It was unlike anything he had seen before.
After a time, Claude returned and squatted down beside him. They watched together as the sand began to seep down, the beginning of a new century. Claude laid his twisted hand on Allen’s shoulder, his skin as black as Allen’s was white.
“You ain’t ever
got enough of it – not now, not ever. You don’t ever want it on your hands,
and it slips through the cracks when you need it the most.”
Allen contemplated that bit of wisdom as he watched the downpour of pure white sand. The six-foot-tall wrought iron hourglass reflected his face back to him as the last grains dropped into the lower vessel. He brushed at his sparse blond hair. His hairline had long ago lost its acquaintance with his forehead, and the fine lines in his brow threatened to merge into one large wrinkle. The wrinkle deepened as he squinted into the glass.
I’ve waited a long time for this.
The gigantic mechanized timepiece – the focal point of the magnificent garden –stood in the middle of a cobblestone court, watched over by the oldest oak tree in the world. The tree’s massive trunk and long limbs, gnarled and wrinkled and bent by time, had stood guard over the garden for over four thousand years. A breeze arose and sent a shiver through those twisted arms as the last grain settled onto the snowy dune.
So it begins.
Allen watched the warping of his image as the glass began its slow turn, the gears groaning in their stiffness. A broad smile chased years from his face, momentarily restoring the boy he used to be. Back then, young girls considered him cute.
But that was before. So long ago.
The hourglass continued its turn, the crystal reflecting his regrets. Allen caught a glimpse of his once blue eyes and quickly donned his heavy spectacles. The thick lenses helped disguise his scarred and clouded eyes. He adjusted the glasses on his narrow face as he heard sharp clicking heels enter the courtyard behind him.
One quick glance skyward . . . .
“It’s time,” she whispered over his shoulder.
“I know,” Allen said, his gaze still fixed on the hourglass. “A question first, Bienn. How many people did you kill today?”
A momentary pause, a single breath in time –
A rustle overhead signaled the escape of a lone oak leaf on a passing breeze. Below, somewhere in the grass, a small creature made its way home for the night.
“Four.”
Just a number.
Just a fact.
No remorse, no second thoughts.
“I see.” Allen turned left and headed for the French doors just off the garden.
“Will you tell him?” Bienn’s voice, barely a whisper.
“Why?” Again, he didn’t look at her. “You want to add another corpse to your collection?”
“No, it’s just . . . he’s going to find out, especially if the thing
happens. He’s going to want it even more now. If you don’t tell him . . . .”
He didn’t answer. Opening the doors, he left the garden and walked into . . .
Purgatory.
It was the ticking . . . and the smell; not necessarily in that order, that made him have to stop and gather himself whenever he entered here. Once a library, the room’s tall, handsome walnut bookshelves still lined three of the four walls, but the shelves now held ancient artifacts and strange things in vials and jars. The paintings that once graced the gallery walls stood forlornly in the corner on the floor, filthy with dust, their wall space covered with clocks, clocks, and more clocks. Such a collection of timepieces – large, small, ancient, new, analog, digital, battery-powered, sun-powered, water-powered – they covered the walls, the shelves, the tables – clicking and ticking, the sound of time rushing away to the past.
And the smell . . .
Allen moved through the gloom, guided by the single candle burning in the silver candelabrum on the desk in the corner. Most people would have found the room too dark to traverse, but he had no problem seeing –
The antique Persian carpet beneath his feet needed cleaning.
Or hearing –
Raspy whispers of air sucked in and out of congested passages came from the big wingback chair, the only one in the room.
Or smelling –
“Well?”
Allen tried not to breath. “The eclipse begins in twelve hours.”
“Do we have the boy?”
“No, we couldn’t reach him.”
Silence – a cold, dead silence you would expect from inside your coffin.
Deprived lungs burned, air rushed in and brought sound – sounds you would expect to hear in that confined space –
The dull bumping of your heart against your ribs –
The sound of rushing blood –
“I don’t care how it’s done.” The words wheezed out into
the stagnant air. “The choice is yours, but we have ninety days. We need the
boy or the book –
Alan shut his eyes against the image his mind conjured. “I understand.”
The breathing from the chair returned to its labored rhythm, an indication the audience was over. Allen left the room, closing the French doors quietly but firmly behind him. The sweet garden air smelled delicious after the stench of that room. He went out to the tree and leaned hard against the giant oak, pressing his back into bark. For a long moment he remained still, inhaling deeply.
Hell!
He snatched off his glasses and scrubbed them harshly with his handkerchief as if trying to remove a stain – or the memory of what he’d just seen.
A whisper from the darkness, “I see you’re still alive.”
“For now. You’ll have to wait at least three months to get a shot at me.”
She rose gracefully from where she lounged against the delicate bistro table and strolled away into the darkness.
“I can wait.”