Haley Thistle
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The Garden: Part One
🕑 Added 2020-07-03 19:00:02 +0000 UTC
I’ve worked as a gardener for most of my life. My father was a gardener, and I worked with him when I was young. As I grew, I started taking on my own jobs and building up my own reputation. I had a knack for breeding flowers that people prized. I could name my own price and people would pay it.
It can all go away so fast. After some rumors got out, I was no longer the gardener everyone wanted. I struggled to find work, falling on odd jobs and miniscule pay to make ends meet. So when I received a somewhat strange offer for employment, I took it.
My new employer has only contacted me through the phone, although sometimes the connection is quite choppy, and it’s hard to hear him. He lives remotely, out on an island. The job would pay well, but there are regulations I would have to live by while there. It would be for six months at a time, but those six months would pay me for a full year. It’s hard to say no, especially since I’ve been down for so long. Amazing how rumors can spread like fire and burn everything you have, even the things you thought fire couldn’t reach.
I’m ready to leave the charred ground behind. The boat that’s chartered to take me to my new home is small and dingy, nothing more than a small fishing vessel. The captain of the boat looks like its human counterpart - small, bent, sunbaked and slow. He doesn’t say much, only grunting to me where to put my luggage and where I need to sit during the trip.
The day is grey with a chill in the air, nothing out of the ordinary, really. Out in open waters, though, the grey deepens, and the chill turns unbearable. I’ve brought a coat with me but it’s in my luggage, so during the voyage to the island I huddle over, clinging to myself to remain warm. The captain won’t let me inside the cabin to warm up.
After hours in what feels like a silver abyss, I see light. A beam crosses over my head, slicing through the fog before circling away. I stand up to get a better view. The waters slosh onto a rocky shore, and above the lighthouse rises like a ziggurat from the fog.
The captain hobbles from the cabin to stand out on deck with me. He stares up at the lighthouse, his chin jutted out and his hazy eyes fixed in childlike awe. Then his attention snaps to me, and his callousness returns. “Never lose sight of the lighthouse, boy. Never lose sight of it.”
He then hobbles back inside, guiding the boat towards the dock. I don’t know what he means. I suppose it’s just crazy old sailor talk. I’m going to be on land - why would I ever need to keep track of a lighthouse?
Once I get my luggage off the boat, the captain doesn’t wait long to leave. The boat pulls away, vanishing back into the grey, and I’m left alone, unsure of where to go or what to do. I just stand at the dock, looking towards the water, and then up at the massive lighthouse. It still looks like it’s hovering above the ground, not tethered to the world of man or even heaven. Strange thought. I don’t consider myself poetic, but I cannot describe just how eerie this all is.
I see headlights through the fog, coming closer and closer until they’re shining right in my eyes. I shield my eyes with my forearm as the car honks its horn, and I squint through the bright lights as a man steps from the car.
“Gather up your things, Mr. Brone.” The deep, stern voice is the same one I heard on the phone.
“Mr. Barkridge.” I step forward, extending my hand. “It’s so nice to finally meet you. Thank you for this opportunity to work with you.”
My new employer has the shape and countenance of a gargoyle. He’s taller than me and wearing what looks like only black. His shoulders curve forward, making his body appear concave. He takes my hand, although he doesn’t seem to want to. He grips hard, and his fingers remind me of a spider’s legs - long, gangly, and with coarse black hair on the knuckles. Not terribly unusual, but in the fog, under the lighthouse, even a baby doll would seem strange.
“I take it you have followed my stipulations?” Mr. Barkridge asks. His voice is what I used to imagine the old leather-bound books my grandfather had would sound like, could they speak.
“I did.” I stand stiffly before him, unsure what to do with my hands.
“No phone, no television, no alcohol or drugs, only a radio. Not that any of those things work out here,” he sniffs. “If you need to use a phone, you can use the one in my home.”
“Yes, sir.” I move to gather my luggage as a beam from the lighthouse moves over us. As it does, I see a quick glimpse of my new employer that the fog didn’t allow. He is extremely pale, almost ashen in color, and his clothes aren’t black, but dark green.
I load my things into the trunk of his car, then sit down in the passenger seat. There appears to be mud caked on the floor and seat, along with some dead leaves. We drive past the lighthouse, and the new angle allows me to see that it stands on a cliff. I think I see someone standing outside it, but Mr. Barkridge drives too fast for me to be sure.
There are houses on the island, but I see no lights coming from them, only the faint glow of the few streetlamps. We go up a steep hill and through a tunnel. I hold my breath like a child, not because of any superstition, but because I don’t want my new boss to hear my ragged, frightened breaths.
“Are you afraid of confined spaces, Mr. Brone?” His voice sends shivers down my spine.
I take a small, quick breath and turn to look at him behind the wheel. “Just a silly superstition.” I try to laugh. “Something from childhood that still pesters me.”
He doesn’t say anything else. I just wait for the light at the end of the tunnel to reach us. When it does, suddenly the world becomes green. Ivy drips down from the mouth of the tunnel, covering every inch of the landscape aside from the road. It creeps over everything, taking over the trees, ground, and stones. Everything is blanketed in dense green vines.
I’m so stunned by this, I don’t see the house at first. Sitting just beyond the green is an old mansion clinging to the hill. Vines take over one of the walls, but the rest is stark grey and fading into the sky.
Once we pull up into the driveway, I see the greenery doesn’t stop with the ivy. The stairs to the door are covered in a carpet of lush, dense moss. The fountain, which was once a grand centerpiece to the driveway, I’m sure, is overflowing with what looks like honeysuckle.
“This way, Mr. Brone.” Barkridge says as he ascends the stairs. “Standing idle isn’t part of your job.”
I take my bags and follow him into the mansion. I’ve been in many homes before, lots of rich families’ old estates. This place is something else. I’ve never been in a relic of the past before. The front hall is sprawling and empty, aside from statues flanking the door and a grand staircase that splits into two curving ascents. Between the two, on the landing, I see a painting hanging on the wall, a portrait of a woman surrounded by oleander flowers. She’s strikingly beautiful, and her long red hair cascades down her shoulders, blending into the blossoms.
“Mr. Brone, this way,” Barkridge says gruffly.
I quickly follow through a doorway under the stairs into a long hallway. We pass through a parlor that has a grand piano, a massive fireplace, and several large sofas. Here is another painting of that same woman, only in this one she’s surrounded by begonias. Leaving the parlor, we come into a monstrous solarium. The panes of glass seem impossible in size, and I strain my neck to see the ceiling, which is made of stained glass fashioned into the shape of an orange lily. Maybe it’s meant to be the sun. I’m not sure.
Mr. Barkridge leads me out into a huge garden. Surrounded by high vine-covered walls, there is not an inch of the place not touched by green. I see all manner of plant life here, and the further we go, the more I see. Mr. Barkridge walks on until we reach a cottage, built into the ground so that the roof is lush plant life - mainly hydrangeas. It looks like a hill with a glass door attached.
He opens the door for me, then hands me a key. “You will receive deliveries of food twice a month, every other Tuesday,” he says. “So be sure you are here to receive it. You may take off two days a week, if you like. There is a schedule for you inside, and I expect it to be followed rigidly. If there is anything you find you need, submit it to me in writing.”
I furrow my brow a bit. “That’s fine,” I nod.
He points around the side of the cottage, where I see a small shed jutting from the vines of the wall. “Your shed and supplies are over there. You will receive fresh stock once a month.”
The house had seemed empty upon first walking through it.I can’t keep myself from asking “Am I the only one here?”
Mr. Barkridge glares down at me. “In the garden, you will be.”
“So,” I murmur, “I’m alone out here.”
“I take my lunches out here each day,” he says stiffly. “And I will be inspecting your work each week on Sunday.”
Still alone, I think to myself. My boss is no company, no matter what the rumors about me said.
I go inside the home I’ll occupy for the next six months. There is something about the place that’s strangely familiar - I feel as though I already know the layout without having seen it. There’s a kitchen to one side, and a tiny table with a single chair. On the tabletop is the extensive schedule. The calendar is marked heavily, and more detailed instructions fill the pages. There’s a tiny bathroom, and behind it is a bedroom with nothing but a clothes rack against one wall to serve as my closet. I start unpacking, hanging my clothes and putting them away.
I finally find the radio I was allowed to bring, and place it on my bedside table. I turn it on, hoping to drown out the silence around me, and search for a radio station, but all I ever find is static. The hiss and chime of electrical resonance is the only sound I am given. I sigh heavily as I set down the radio and turn it off. What’s the point of bringing it if there’s no radio station or anything to listen to? I hate the thought of having only silence to surround me.
I check the fridge, and find it and the freezer fully stocked with everything I could ever need, even though the food is the kind I wouldn’t usually buy. There’s lots of meat, and very few fruits or vegetables. There’s no spice rack either, only shakers of salt and pepper by the stove. There’s also a bottle of vitamins - or at least I assume they are - and a note saying to take one in the morning and one in the evening.
I open the door to let fresh air in and dispel the staleness. Stepping outside and looking around the garden, I am a touch overwhelmed. The whole place extends forever, and I’m not sure I will ever find an end to it.
As I walk to the shed, I hear piano music coming from the house. I suppose Mr. Barkridge is playing the one in the parlor, and it’s better than the silence that filled my new home. I find the inside of the shed clean and well-organized, and the tools look like they are washed and oiled every night. Tacked to the wall is an old piece of paper with radio stations listed on it, as well as a time beside each of them. I wonder if these are stations I can actually listen to.
When I make myself dinner that evening, I notice there are no lights on in the mansion. Everything is dark, much like the small town we passed through that afternoon. Is there anyone living there? Will I ever be allowed to find out?
I find a few books under the bed when I’m putting on the sheets. They’re old and missing covers, so I have no idea what to expect from them. I should have been smart and brought some along with me. Instead I sit down to read the books at hand. One of them is filled with strange, symbolic poetry that disturbs me, along with images of flowers. The flowers resemble nothing I know - they’re more like wounds, or open sores. They appear meaty, dripping and heavy.
The other book is a gothic romance novel about a poor country girl forced to marry a brutish baron, who drives her to madness with his lies. It’s better than nothing, but I don’t have the desire or need to read it yet, so I put it aside with the other book.
I’m used to noise when I go to bed. The sounds of cars and neighbors were always there, but here there’s nothing but silence. The low, continuous hum of blood in my ears is only interrupted by crickets or a rush of wind. I lie there for hours, tossing and turning as I try to tune out the silence.
I eventually turn on the radio, just for the static. It’s beginning to put me to sleep until the static stops, and a voice comes on. “Hopefully, this grey weather will come to an end this week. The sunshine will be back, and we might see some warm weather later on.”
It’s almost two in the morning. Why is there a weather report now? Where did it come from?
“There’s nothing out there,” the voice says. “Nothing to stop you, nothing to keep you going. You could swim if you wanted, but that will only get you so far before exhaustion takes hold. Perhaps that’s better than staying, because at least you put up a fight. But sunshine is coming this week. Sunshine is coming.”
The radio turns to static again and I sit there, staring as if it had turned into a head and began talking. Was that a weather forecast? Am I already dreaming?
I’m not sure if I sleep or not, but eventually I realize I’ve gotten through my first night here. I won’t say I survived it, but I have gotten through it. I step outside to see that, indeed, the clouds are dissapaiting. The sky is less grey and more blue than before.
I make myself coffee for breakfast, and look over the bottle of vitamins that Mr. Barkridge gave me. They’re small yellow pills in an old brown bottle. Are these handmade? Or just refills from a larger bottle? I’ve never liked the idea of vitamins, and even as a kid I never took the cartoon-shaped ones. It seemed like a crock. I set the bottle aside, intending to never touch it again.
I go to work, hoping that by keeping myself busy I can forget the horrible surprise I got from the radio last night. I start by weeding, a task that is meticulously planned out by Mr. Barkridge himself. I am to start just behind my house and move out from there, circling around again to make sure I’ve gotten everything.
I noticed, while going through all his instructions and rules, that nothing ever said to go beyond the iron gate in the garden. Just beyond my house, there is a wrought-iron gate, quite tall, with sharp spires on the ends of the bars. It’s locked, and behind it the garden extends further and further. But nothing in Barkridge’s schedule ever mentioned anything about it.
I’m making my way towards the end of the garden, where it meets with the solarium. It’s close to noon already, and from here I see a table set up under a cherry tree with dangling boughs. In the shade, I see Mr. Barkridge sitting, and I wave to him. “Good afternoon.”
He looks up from a book, which he sets down. “You’re here already?” he asks, perplexed and a little angry. “Are you sure you’re weeding thoroughly?”
“You can double-check if you want,” I offer. I take off my gloves and set down the basket of weeds at my feet.
Mr. Barkridge chuckles. “Come and sit, Mr. Brone.”
I take his offer, sitting down at his table while he pours a glass of iced tea. “How was your first night?”
I take the glass in hand and shrug. “It was quiet.”
Mr. Barkridge tilts his head to the side. “Was it?” He sighs and shakes his head. “You’ll grow used to it in time.”
I take a sip of the tea. It’s not sweet, but it’s fine, and cold at least. “I know I asked yesterday, but you’ll have to forgive my curiosity. Do you live alone here, Mr. Barkridge?”
“You asked if you would be alone here,” he corrects. “And I do not blame your curiosity, Mr. Brone. You’re in a new world, and I’m sure you have many questions about this place.” He pushes a plate towards me with a pork cutlet sandwich on it. No lettuce, mainly just hot sauce.
“This garden belongs to my wife,” he says, “which is why I insist on it being well-kept and well-maintained.”
“Is she sick?” I ask, cautiously picking up the offered food.
“This garden was the only thing she asked for when we got married. She did not ask for children, nor pets, nor jewelry. She just asked me if she could have a garden.”
I lick my lips, wondering if he heard me. Perhaps it’s not a subject he wants to talk about. I take a bite of the sandwich, finding the hot sauce surprisingly potent.
“Quite the green thumb on that woman.” Mr. Barkridge ignores my distress over the liquid lava he’s just served me. “She also had a lot of ambition. Lots of big ideas.”
I guzzle down the iced tea and nod. “Most women do,” I wheeze.
Mr. Barkridge chuckles. “Whatever you do, I suggest you follow everything in that schedule to a T. It was hers, and she followed it religiously.” He enunciates the words strongly.
“What about the iron gate?” I ask.
Mr. Barkridge’s demeanor changes, and he glares at me. “It’s locked. I can’t find the key,” he grimaces, punctuating each word with the same sharp diction. “Leave it alone. Your job is detailed in the schedule.”
“That’s all I needed to know,” I chuckle nervously. Mr. Barkridge is so overbearing, I wonder if that’s why his wife only asked for a garden. “What do you do with your days, Mr. Barkridge?” I ask, hoping to change the topic.
He sighs, still glaring down at me. “I work. I have a laboratory in my home.”
That only brings up further questions. “So, are you a scientist then?”
“I am not Dr. Frankenstein, if that is what you are getting at, Mr. Brone.” He shakes his head. “By the way, did you take those vitamins I left for you? I highly recommend them. They’ll help keep your strength up.”
“I’m not one for vitamins,” I say with a shake of my head.
“I highly recommend taking them,” he repeats. “Sometimes we don’t always get the things we need.”
“Sure,” I agree, just to end it.
I finish work for the evening and, after making myself dinner, I look over the strange books that were left under the bed. Inside the cover of the romance novel, I find the same list of radio stations and times as I did in the shed. I check my watch, and find that one of the times is a few minutes from now. I search for the appropriate station, and turn to it to be greeted with soft music. But the frequency whines, and in the background I hear strange, garbled noises, like someone strangling or drowning. I turn it off. But with the radio gone, everything is silent, and there isn’t anything else to do. I go to bed, and turn the radio to white static when I can’t sleep. At least it’s something.
In the morning, I make coffee again and ignore the vitamins, pushing them back even further on the counter. I check the schedule to find yet another list of chores to be done in a very specific order.
For six months, this is it. This is my job.
Week one goes by, and I’m getting used to the quiet. Week two slips away, and I’ve found a deck of cards that I use to pass the time. Week three is a blank. I have coffee for breakfast.
It rains for three days straight, and I’m cooped up in my house with nothing else to do. I’m going stir-crazy, switching back and forth between solitaire and masturbating. I’m becoming unnerved by how familiar this place was, and I can’t understand how I know it so well.
The first day I can work without rain, I’m elated. I get started early, even before the sun rises, and I work until late. That evening, when I’m putting things back into the shed, I hear a soft noise. Looking around, I realize it’s coming from behind the iron gate. It sounds like whimpering. I move closer, and hear the voice again.
“Help me,” a woman says weakly. “Oh, please, help me!”
I rush to the gate and look around. I don’t see anything or anyone beyond it aside from the overgrown garden. “Hello? Is someone there? Are you hurt?”
“Help me,” the voice repeats.
I use a rock to break open the lock and make a mad dash inside. The voice seems to come from deeper and deeper within. I grope my way through the unfamiliar plants until I come to what looks like the ruins of a brick house. The shape of it is there, but the roofless walls are partially collapsed and covered by the overgrowth.
I hear the voice again, sobbing and whimpering. Then I see a flower, blood red and bigger than any I’ve seen before. Before my eyes, it begins to move. The petals spread open and within is a beautiful face of a woman. Her eyes open and her lips part.
“Help me,” she cries.
