Chapter Seven- The Gardener

by Heather the Writer (heather_neather)

As the sun breathes out its last puffs of golden light, the wedding celebrations continue. Servants whisk around the gardens, lighting candles and setting out food, treading carefully among the flowers for fear of upsetting the small, aging figure that glowers at them from over his rake. Nobles spill out into the gardens from the reception room and the old man's glare intensifies as he recognizes the two who had been wandering around the hedge earlier that day.

Not many people know the gardener's name, but everyone knows who he is. A soldier who fought in King Jasson's wars, he had returned quietly to the palace and taken up gardening. Many people speculate as to why – an occupation as noble as a soldier's does not compare with that of a gardener – but those who have seen war understand. Sometimes the body craves for something that stands in for hope because it has abandoned all other possibilities.

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Fifty years ago, a soldier looked at peonies and remembered that they'd once seemed beautiful to him. He focuses on his work. Concentrates on his sword, feels flesh on his hand, grasps the clothes of another in a passionate grasp. Sword goes in. He stops thinking at all.

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The planting of the Yamani lilies is a delicate process. Too much water and they grow too large, becoming weeds and parasites. Too little and they die. The Gardener pours water around the lilies, wincing at the noises coming from the Wedding Garden. Apparently the banquet is serving drinks.

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How many centuries before the soul forgives the body? How long will it take before the difference between murder and a death is blurred together in the mind? The Gardener stares blankly at his hands, and wonders if the number of dead in the Scanra are more numerous than the rose petals arranged on the wedding tables.

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It is growing dark now, and the Gardener tries to work faster. Although the slow movement of his limbs aggravates him, his shaking care seems appropriate, an acknowledgment of the value a single bulb has to him. The Yamani gardens are almost finished -a wedding gift to the new Princess from her new family- and are ready for viewing. Already wedding guests are commenting on the startling contrast between Yamani and Tortallan flowers. Some even notice the flowers that do not belong in this part of the garden at all – a cluster of Tortallan peonies peeking out from behind the miniature roses. The Gardener smiles at these comments. He places peonies in every garden he works in – a strange habit that the other gardeners have gotten used to. They believe it is a signature and the Gardener can't find the words to express what the peonies truly are.

Alone among the flowers, it's not surprising that, of all the gardeners in Tortall, it is this gardener who feels compassion for the peonies themselves. Aching for light and company, even though most are blind to their signals, petals flung open in a wide cry. Sending their messages to anyone who will listen, only to be crumpled up by cold steel.

The Gardener finishes his work, placing his shovel and trowel behind a bush where they will not be taken. Then he does what he does every night. He picks his way through the overbearing Yamani blossoms to a nearby garden and sits among the peonies. His back settled comfortably against an oak tree, he thinks. And he talks.

Today the topic of discussion is the wedding.

There is food. So much food. Enough for peasants and refugees and soldiers to eat for weeks. While mothers watch their starving children falling apart and wring their hands with worry, the Baron of Kennan feasts on suckling pig, mounds of vegetables, and several platters filled with Yamani delicacies that have been shipped at great cost for the wedding.

Flowers gradually veered the Gardener from his past. Night after night, their scented nectar dripped into his mind, diluting memory. But grief requires time. If a plant can be contained inside a fossil and live on, how stubborn will the heart be? If a sound wave never stops, does the sound of a scream last to infinity?

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"You're the gardener in charge here, am I correct?"

The speaker is the princess who never stops moving. The Gardener never could put names to faces, so he remembers people by their actions.

The princess continues, seemingly undisturbed by his silence. "Could you arrange it so that the Yamani garden is empty when the newly-weds come to visit it?"

The Gardener nods his head in confirmation.

"Ah, excellent. You might want to make sure that the cherry trees are fire-proof. I'm going to decorate the garden with candles."

Flowers aren't fire-proof. The Gardener wants to say. And he would hate to see the hours of work he had spent go up in flames. It had taken him one month alone to get the proper amount of blossoms on each cherry tree. The damned Yamanis were sticklers for details.

"Thank you!" A whirlwind of fabric, a peck on his cheek, and she is off, leaving a lone figure with his hand to his heart, wondering when the last time someone had shown him a gesture of affection.

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"Here you are, old man. I've been looking for you."

The Gardener turns around to Tunston, his assistant. Turns to youth, strength, energy, and enthusiasm.

"I brought you some food, figured you would be done by now."

Tunston sits down, hands him a napkin of food.

"I'm not hungry." The Gardener says, then notices that Tunston is not paying attention. He eats the food and waits.

"Isn't she beautiful?"

The Gardener doesn't bother to ask who. He shifts his gaze to the nearest girl – a young noblewoman – who is flirting coquettishly with a group of knights.

"Her name is Ruby."

The Gardener doesn't know where to look first. Her dress, dangerously low-cut, or the glass in her small hand.

"I'm going to write to her, tell her how I feel."

The Gardener looks at Tunston. Sees his dark eyes, lit with fear and clouded by doubt. Sees his clothes, worn and patched, but brushed carefully of dirt. He pities Tunston, who has only ever wanted to be greater than he actually is. He claps Tunston on the back. "Write to her." he says. And he thinks, write to save yourself, and someday you will write because you have been saved.

There is a squeal of high-pitched laughter, and the unmistakable thud of a body hitting the ground. The Gardener turns. A noblewoman is drunkenly rolling over his peonies.

Many, many thanks go to spheralunaris for painstakingly going through everything I wrote.