I had grown used to visitors in my shady grove of trees. I was a good listener, they told me, and they poured out their sorrows and fears and joys. We would share a cup of tea or perhaps something foraged from the woods, and then the restful shade would bring us to silence and peace.
But the hills were no longer home to me. I was still nestled here amongst a few trees too straggly for the axe, but one by one, family by family, my people moved to land more easily tilled, or to work that didn’t require the backbreaking labor of farming. They no longer sought my company. I had grown lonely and thought my time and purpose had come to an end.
One day though, in early spring when the air was crisp and hope was plentiful, I heard a sound in the distance. A horse-drawn wagon was wending its way up the cart path. It stopped, just beyond the crest of the hill, and then footsteps crackled through the winter fall of leaves on the path to my grove.
A man carrying a basket over his arm presented himself to me. His hands clasped around each other, he bowed at the waist then straightened. He was younger than I expected. He couldn’t be carrying more than twenty summers upon his strong shoulders.
“Mother, I bring you greetings and ask for your blessing on my endeavors.”
I watched him silently. He was not of my people. He wasn’t particularly tall. An accent blurred his speech, and his eyes were a rich brown, unlike the blue my people shared, but his words and greeting spoke of a deep understanding of what was expected of him.
He backed away and opened the basket. He shook out a beautifully embroidered cloth and laid it at my feet. Next came two cups, a small brazier, a pot, a capped jug of water. He set up the brazier on a flat stone he’d placed in the center of the blanket.
While he moved through the ritual of brewing tea for us, he began to speak of a garden created by his grandfather and passed down to his father and then to him.
“It is a beautiful garden, Mother. Tall grasses and taller trees, running waters which sing over rock-strewn banks, and still ponds for quiet meditation. Winding paths meander through the many groves and meadows. There are flowers and bees during the growing season, birds and woodland creatures year-round. It is a sanctuary of sorts, where those who are weary can rest and those in need of companionship can find like company.”
It sounded wonderful, but I didn’t understand why he thought I needed to know about it. I accepted the small cup of tea in my outstretched hand, watched him sip at his own. I could not identify the tea. Its spicy scent was unknown to me but its warmth in my hand gave me comfort, just the same.
When he finished his tea, he stood and walked my meager grove, breathing deeply as he wandered amongst my few remaining trees. The sun glinted off bronze highlights in his hair, intricately braided with cord and ribbons. His movements were effortless in the way of someone who has trained for years to move just so. He was comfortable in his skin, in his soul.
“You deserve more than this loneliness, Mother, and if you would permit me, I should like to take you home with me, where you are welcome to live out your days in the shelter of my garden.”
I gave my consent.
§
He brought friends to help. They took such care to see I was well-wrapped; protected from the weather and jostling of the cart. The journey took days longer than I expected. I had not realized until then just how far away my people had moved from me.
He placed me on a small hill at the back of his garden, within easy distance of the brook. Cuttings from my few trees were grafted onto young saplings which shared space with a number of established pines sheltering me from the wind. Rocks and offering stones from my grove were in position at my feet, just as they always had been. I was able to celebrate the Solstice—my favorite feast day—in my new home.
§
The garden is vast, filled with secret places made sacred by the statues of my brethren standing among them. Sometimes we visit with each other, for though we were formed in different places and worshipped in different ways, we were born of the same necessity and share much in common.
We acknowledge those days and seasons we hold dear, recount the joys and gifts we once bestowed on our worshippers. We remember the old times, before worship became regulated by clocks and bells and priests far removed from us.
Sometimes we make our farewells to the ancient ones who reach their final peace and allow themselves to be released forever into the wind. We mark their passing with rites long forgotten by anyone alive.
There are also other visitors: the curious who study us; the artists who wish to capture our character and the beauty which surrounds us; and occasionally, one of our own people who has learned of the garden, and so comes to seek solace and forgiveness.
I am not lonely on my little hill, surrounded by a grove of trees standing tall and strong. I have found a new purpose in this garden.
_________________
Patricia Miller is a US Navy veteran who writes SF, fantasy, horror and romance. She is a member of SFWA and CODEX.
Publications include short fiction in A Quaint and Curious Volume of Gothic Tales, 206 Words, Amazing Offer!, and the Cinnabar Moth Literary Collection e-zine. Upcoming publications include short stories for Brigid’s Gate Press, Cinnabar Moth Press, Zooscape Magazine, Wyngraf, and Touchstone Press.
1 comments:
I love this story. It's just so calm and contemplative, almost like the statue garden itself.
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