Haley Thistle
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The Garden: Part Two (complete)
🕑 Added 2020-07-06 19:01:01 +0000 UTC
My parents never talked much about it. They barely acknowledged it. But I specifically remember a boat when I was small. I must have been three or so, because it was before we moved to my childhood home when I was four. I remember being on this boat - crammed into it, really. I got separated from my parents easily and became lost in a sea of legs and ankles. I could hear my mother screaming for me over the drone of people’s voices. The legs grew closer and closer to me, fencing me in. I could see the land in front of us, and the green grass coming down to the ocean waves. My mother grabbed me, and I was pulled through the sea of legs again.
I know I wasn’t born where I grew up. My birth certificate said as much. But my parents never told me where that place was or why we moved. They never spoke of it, and always said that it didn’t matter anyway. It was where we were that mattered. I never told them where my job was taking me, and lied about my new employment instead. They never liked me to travel, and I’m not sure why. I felt like telling them I was going to some island to work for a stranger might freak them out. I said I was visiting a friend and working with them to save up.
Looking at this face, this flower, I think that perhaps I should have given them some idea of where I was going. The instant I see it - her - I feel I should run screaming. I can clearly picture myself running to Mr. Barkridge, then leaving the island for good. But as soon as that fantasy is over, I feel no panic anymore.
I stare at the face, the flower, and she looks back at me. Her beauty is undeniable, almost familiar. Fat, sticky tears roll down her cheeks and cling to the petals, like resin. Her lips purse sadly, and her eyes plead with me.
My breaths come long and slow. Her beauty and sadness intrigue me, and I feel almost enamored by her. I kneel so I am level with her, and fat tears continue to trickle down her cheeks.
“Help me, please,” she whimpers.
“What can I do?” I ask softly.
“I’m so thirsty,” she gasps. “Please, water me.”
I take my water bottle and open it. She opens her mouth, thrusting her tongue forward in a seductive, almost lewd way. I pour water on her tongue, down her throat. It spills from her chin, onto her petals and the ground. She moans in pleasure, and the sound makes my heart race. She looks at me when the water is gone, her eyes appear brighter, her petals even softer. She raises up slightly, mouth wide and tongue still protruding.
“That’s all I have,” I reply.
“More,” she groans.
I shake my head. “I don’t have any more. I’ll have to go back and get it.” I look over my shoulder. I don’t see the gate, and I have no clue what direction I came from. I turn back to the flower, seeing her mouth still wide open.
“Wait here,” I tell her. “I’ll be back with some more water.”
Her eyes widen, and she shakes her petals furiously. “Don’t let him see you! If he sees you, you’ll never come back!”
“Mr. Barkridge?”
“He keeps me here,” the flower whimpers, “where he doesn’t have to look at me. He never comes to see me.”
“It’s alright,” I say reassuringly. “You’re safe. He won’t know a thing. I’ll be right back, I promise.”
I try to go back the way I came, but at some point I must have gotten turned around. It was getting dark when I went beyond the gate, but I’m losing more daylight by the second. I’m lost, trapped in some unknown part of the garden with no idea where to go.
Then I see the lighthouse. Its great beam of light circles, sweeping over me as it spins. I follow the light, knowing that once I see the building, I can get my bearings. I hear something behind me, something breathing, skittering across the fallen leaves. I turn and look, and as the light cuts across the area I see a figure dart across my field of vision. I lurch backwards, tripping over a stone. I land on my elbow, and as I try to get up I hit my arm against a tree. I break into a run, with only the sweeping beam of light helping me find my way back.
Behind me, someone gives chase. There’s more than one of them, and they’re getting close to me. I can hear their harsh breathing. I run into the iron gate, throwing my entire body against it. As I fling open the door, I slam it closed behind me and I race into my cottage, locking the door behind me and retreating to the bedroom.
“You can run, but there is nowhere to go. You can swim, but eventually you’re going to grow exhausted. You’ll sink into the water, and for a moment, you will feel warm. You will think you can manage, that perhaps everything will be okay, but you’ll only keep sinking faster. You’ll only have water above your head.” The radio turns to static, and I wake up.
I sit up in bed, looking around my room as I inhale slowly. I turn off the radio as I try to figure out if I was dreaming or not. I sit in silence and shadow, contemplating the images in my mind - the flower with her mouth gaping open, tripping while being pursued, the slam of the gate. I hold my head in my hands, and my fingers ache. I attribute the dream to my own frazzled nerves and the overworked ache in my body.
I make myself a cup of coffee and step outside to get a breath of fresh air. It’s still early and dark out, and I can see the glow of the lighthouse in the distance. I go to the shed to gather my supplies for the day, when I turn and see that the iron gate is open.
I walk over and find the lock broken, and the rock I used in my dream is lying right beside it. I gaze off into the endless garden beyond, and hear that same whimpering float through the bars. I promised her I would return. I should go back and explain myself.
I open the gate, but then I’m forcefully pulled away. Mr. Barkridge throws me to the ground, standing over me as he slams the gate shut. He picks up the broken lock from the ground, rolling it over in his hand before glaring down at me. “What do you think you’re doing?”
I shake my head. “I found it that way!” I exclaim. “I was curious, but I was going to close the gate. I swear!”
“You are hired to tend to this garden, not that one.” He points behind him. “There are others who look after it.”
The word ‘others’ reminds me of my questions the previous days. I asked him if we were alone, and he never gave a straight answer. And I was chased - at least, I think I was - by someone last night. “I’m sorry. I heard something.”
“It is none of your concern,” Mr. Barkridge growls. “You are not to go beyond that gate, no matter what.”
I rise and dust myself off, finding bruises on my arms and legs I hadn’t noticed before. They almost look green in color. “What’s back there?”
Mr. Barkridge gives me a harsh look. His brows rise, and he turns so that his huge, forward-bent shoulders loom around me like wings. “It doesn’t matter, Mr. Brone. One more toe out of line and I will have to reconsider our arrangement. Do the job you were given, and be glad it isn’t more than that.”
I glance back towards the iron gate. I still hear the whimpering, but it’s getting fainter. Mr. Barkridge goes back to the mansion, while I return to my cottage. I sit at the table, inspecting a number of bruises I hadn’t noticed before. They feel tender, and are exactly where I had dreamed I hit myself when I fell. If it was a dream. Maybe it was real.
I hear the static of the radio back in the bedroom. I thought I turned it off earlier, but I must have been mistaken. As I go to turn it off, I hear voices in the static. They’re clearer than before, and I can make them out.
“... and you cannot just go and take everything,” a man says. “You must be patient. You do not understand. This world I have given you, you have taken away, you have run with it. You have done something to it that I can no longer repair. I cannot keep on giving to you. I have nothing left.”
“I will keep growing,” says a woman. “I will keep growing! I will keep growing! I will keep growing!” Her voice becomes a chorus, taking up the chant. A whole civilization of voices echoes along with hers, growing and growing into a roar that makes my head spin. The spinning turns into an ache as the chant continues, louder, and louder and louder.
“I will keep growing! I will keep growing! I will keep growing!” On and on it goes until the radio squeals and turns to static.
I turn it off, escaping outside to lose myself in work. All the while, the chant remains in my head. “I will keep growing. I will keep growing.” It stays like a song stuck in my head, replaying and replaying in the fizzy distance of my mind.
“I will keep growing,” as I trim the hedges.
“I will keep growing,” as I add fish emulsion to the watering can.
“I will keep growing,” as I see Mr. Barkridge come out for his lunch under the weeping cherry.
“Come over, Mr. Brone. We need to discuss what happened this morning.”
Sweat is pouring down my neck, and I use my shirt to mop it all up. “Just a moment, Mr. Barkridge. I have a few more things to do before I can stop.”
“That’s good to hear.” He watches me as I refill the watering can. I can see him from the corner of my eye as I water a thicket of shrubs and the flowers beyond them. The garden is overgrown. I don’t know how it doesn’t suffocate itself. Somehow it seems to thrive in its profusion. I see something in the vines at the base of the wall. It almost looks like feet, but they could just be stones lined up along the edge.
I set the watering can down and remove my gloves as I go to sit with Mr. Barkridge at the table. “I’m sorry about this morning. I really don’t know how the lock got that way. It surprised me as much as it did you.” I don’t know if I’m lying or not, that’s not a good sign.
Mr. Barkridge nods. “I shouldn’t have thrown you, even if you did.” He pauses, as if preparing for something, perhaps a confession. “The fact of the matter, Mr. Brone, is that what is beyond that iron gate is not for you. I shut it off years ago, and I have left it to those who know best with what to do with it.”
“Who would that be?” I ask with a furrowed brow. “How far back does it go? The wall continues on, I assume.” I catch myself. “Is all of this yours, or does your property end at the gate?”
“Let us call it that. I have my space and she has hers.”
“Your wife?” It’s the first thing I can think of. Are they separated? Is one half of the property hers and the other his? I have yet to see anyone else on this entire island, and I’m getting tired of asking ‘Are we alone?’.
“It doesn’t matter for you,” Mr. Barkridge repeats. “Keep doing your job, and when it’s all over, the other side of the gate will be of no consequence.”
I let my shoulders sag with that final thought. I suppose it doesn’t matter. It’s only a job, after all, and I’m not paid enough to deal with anything else.
“Have you taken those vitamins at all?” he asks. “It’s important that you do.”
“Yes,” I lie. “I’ve been taking them, sir.”
“Good,” he says with a smile. “Glad to hear it.”
I awkwardly return the smile with a bob of my head, glancing back down at the table. I can feel that chant at the back of my mind. “I will keep growing. I will keep growing.” I don’t know how to shake it.
I’ve convinced myself the face and the pursuit were all a dream. It's easier to believe that than the truth. I go about my work, trying to ignore anything unusual. It’s easier to believe things are normal than to accept what is uncomfortable.
I’ve begun reading the books out of sheer desperation. In the poetry book, there is a handwritten note scrawled along the blank leaf, and a drawing of a lavender sprig beside the text. “I know what happens when my back is turned. I know they’re together, and it's my lesson learned. I’m not enough, and I never was. It’s a lesson she hasn’t learned. E.B.”
“E.B.,” I murmur to myself. Was this written by Mr. Barkridge’s wife? Or was it written to her? In any case, it’s the least off-putting poem in the entire book. Reading any of the rest feels like a slow peeling of the skin; rather than getting under it, the words simply strip it off, leaving you raw and exposed.
I wake up in the morning and make coffee for breakfast. I don’t even think about the vitamins anymore. By this point, the bottle should be empty. I suspect I will be getting a refill with my next supply of groceries.
In the garden, the schedule has all become second nature. I don’t need to look at it anymore. I know what to do each day and where to do it. I’m supposed to take two days off a week, but I can’t stand my house anymore. On my days off, I go out into the garden and I do things on my own. It’s one of the few acts of leisure I have.
During one such ‘day off’, I’m repotting some plants that were growing outside the bounds of the garden plots. Rather than pull them up, I’ve potted them until they got bigger, and have been finding places elsewhere for them where they’re safer.
I’m going back to the shed to get the watering can when I notice those rocks along the wall again - the ones that resemble toes. Creepy. I tentatively brush my fingers over them. They don’t move, but something like skin comes off on my hand. I dust it off, thinking they must be some sort of fungus and not stones. This calls for a different action.
I go back to the shed to get some fungicide and a shovel. I’ll dig up the mushrooms, then spray the fungicide to make sure they don’t return. I kneel by the mushrooms and see they’re oozing from where I swiped them. I’ve never seen anything like it before, but then again, fungus aren’t my specialty, and I know they’re a wide and strange kingdom.
I jab the spade into the ground to dig up the mushrooms, and I hear a crunch like bones breaking. As I pull the spade back up, it’s covered in a dark, goopy liquid. I dig into the ground with my bare hands as more of the viscous fluid begins to pool and turn the dirt to mud. I reach deeper, and pull out something that looks like the rotted end of a foot. What I had mistaken for mushrooms now look like toes. As I look closer, I see sinew and bone. It’s human flesh.
I scream and drop the foot, throwing myself away from whatever I’ve just unearthed. I kick and scramble back, running towards the solarium, when I stop dead in my tracks. The sunlight pours down through the orange lily above me, and all I can hear is my ragged, terrified breath bouncing off the panes of glass. The warmth of the sun filters over me and I realize I cannot go to Mr. Barkridge. It’s his garden. He must know what’s in it. If I go to him claiming to have found a rotting human foot, I could be the owner of the next forgotten, rotting fucking foot.
I go back outside, pacing back and forth, when I hear something from behind the iron gate again. It’s open, and vines have grown over the hinges and lock. I hear her voice, the voice of the flower.
I step through the gate, finding my way to the ruins of the brick house. She’s waiting there, the same as before, blood-red petals opening to reveal her beautiful face. She looks up at me and her lips part.
“I didn’t come back. I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I thought I was dreaming! Like some sort of Alice in Wonderland.” I sigh in relief, grinning from ear to ear at her beautiful face. “But you’re here! You’re real.”
The face beams, and I am rendered breathless by her beauty. I’m so relieved to know I am not alone, I could almost cry.
“As long as he didn’t catch you,” she whispers. “You are safe with me, and I am safe with you.”
“Can I touch you?” I whisper.
“Of course.”
I gently place my fingertips on her cheek. Her skin is soft and supple like flower petals. I press my palm to her and smooth it across her surface. I swipe my thumb across her full lips. She sighs softly ,and her long lashes flutter. “You’re so warm,” she coos gently. She moves slightly, kissing my palm and giggling. “It feels nice.”
“It does.”
I hear something moving in the distance, something walking forward and shambling towards us. I look over the vine-covered bricks to the figures who are standing and watching us. Their bodies are covered in what looks like moss and rot. Their limbs are wrapped bound in vines, so their arms are tied behind their backs and their legs are forced into a perpetual bend. Their heads are shrouded, and I can’t make out whether they are human or not.
The flower moans softly, “Kiss me. Please?” I smell something sweet on her breath, and I taste it as I kiss her. The strange shambling figures begin to scream and caterwaul. Her tongue is in my throat, and my eyes roll to the back of my head.
“There will be sunshine this week,” the radio says. “It will shine over us and keep us warm. It will make us healthy, it will help us grow anew. The weather will always be there, but it will not always be with us. It doesn’t reach under the water, so keep your head above it.”
The radio dissolves into static, and as I wake my head feels groggy. I sit up, turn off the radio and see that vines have started to make their way inside my bedroom. They’ve crept in through the window and are growing around the shelves and my clothes. I touch my mouth, finding bright yellow pollen caked around my lips.
I make coffee for my breakfast. I go outside for fresh air, and when I do I see the wall across from me. The one where I dug up the rotted foot - no, it was a mushroom. I walk to the spot with coffee in hand, and pulldown the vines from the wall. I see a face, eyes. Vines grow from the figure’s mouth and curl from their ears. The eyes are open, and sprouts are growing from the sockets of the eyes that gaze at me.
I stare at the face, waiting for it to move. I drop my coffee cup to the ground, and it shatters.
I should have told my parents where I went. I should have told them how long I would be gone. I have a sinking feeling that I won’t be returning home at all.
