Shadows in the Garden

SHADOWS IN THE GARDEN

SHADOWS IN THE GARDEN

I awake to the sound of rain on my pod. Lying utterly still in the swollen womb of the willow tree, I listen as the drops plink off the hard bark. It feels as though I have slept a long time, and while I am sure I must have dreamed in that time, I cannot recall what I dreamt about.

I push open the pod and crawl out into the rain. Resealing it behind me, I scurry down the wet bark of the willow tree and hop to the ground.

Looking around, I find the park has not changed during my slumber. The ducks and swans still sleep on their little island near the center of the pond. The pale woman's house still stands on the corner, warm, amber light spilling from its windows. The small animal in her yard—who's hind legs seem so much like my own—remains quiet. That will change when I begin my rounds, but he will fall silent as always once he recognizes me.

I will bound the fence and peer in through the window. If the pale woman sleeps, perhaps I will slip in through the basement window as I have done before and find my way to her room. I will squat hunched on her parlor chair and stare over her as she sleeps. I want so badly to talk to her, just as I do the small animal. Perhaps one time I will tug on her sleeve and try to rouse her.

I have many visits to make. I must hurry.

Relishing the sweet scent of the rain, I hurry along the wet, broken sidewalk. There is no lightning this night, no thunder. Only the rain, and it is good.

I have a friend in the green house ahead. I leap the fence and squat still in the back yard. There is a blur in the corner of my eye and my gaze darts to the movement. A chipmunk is running along the length of the clothesline.

A vignette of dream shimmers briefly in my mind. I remember I was crouched in a dark yard, this yard—staring at that same clothesline. I was cold, so cold, and frightened, and I didn't know why. It was far too dark to see anything clearly. I could tell only that there was something hung from the line. Approaching it, I saw how it swung back and forth in the night-wind heavily. It wasn't until I was close enough almost to touch it that I realized what it was.

It was the pale woman's head.

... but I don't want to think about that. It is a dream best forgotten.

I hope my friend in the green house has not gone away like so many others. Crouched beneath his window, I reach up and tap three times. There is no response. I notice the curtains are not fully closed. There is a slight breach between them, perhaps enough to peer through. I rise on my haunches and look in.

There is a stranger glaring back at me!

I scamper away, my heart pounding. Hurling the fence, I flee into the night.

I hope that when I sleep again, I will have no nightmares.

Cutting through the dark of the park, I find a girl lying beneath a tree. Squatting beside her, I c**k my head back and forth, perplexed. I like to watch it when their chests slowly rise and fall, as the pale woman’s does. I have always wondered why my own chest does not rise and fall in such a manner. But this girl, her chest does not rise and fall at all.

I tap her on the shoulder. Still she lies unmoving. Finally, I lift her head in my hands. Nothing. I let it drop to the wet grass. It seems odd that she should be without her fur in such chilly weather. I wonder why it is that I should be able to see the grass beneath her head without looking around it. My hands have grown sticky and red.

There is something on her head other than hair and the sticky red stuff. It makes a strange sound as I listen. I remove it and place it on my own head. It is connected somehow to a little silver box. I pull the box to my unmoving chest and press it to me. I have found another friend that makes soothing sounds as I listen.

I leave the girl behind and move on. Perhaps I will visit the pale woman soon. Perhaps I will put the thing to her head and let her listen, too.

There is a fountain in the courtyard on the hill. I like to sit at its edge and gaze into the water. I do so now with the sounds of the little box filling my head.

I have a friend here, too. He is unlike my other friends. He lives in the water. When I gaze into the pool, he is always there to gaze back at me. We play little games. If I smile, so does he. If I frown, so does he.

I like him though his appearance sometimes frightens me. His face seems to push out toward me, not so much as the little animal's but more than a man's. I wish this wasn't so. It only brings his teeth closer to me, which are long and curved, like those of the big animal who had once frightened the smaller one ... but who now sleeps.

My fountain-friend’s ears have changed since last time we met. They now look like the caps of mushrooms and are the color of the sticky fluid matting the sleeping girl's hair.

All else, however, remains the same. His skin is covered in hair—long hair like the pale woman, though it is not the color of mushroom stools but gray. It is not like the hair of the girl in the park, either. It is more like the leafy vines which dangle from my tree to float in the murky water of the pond.

His yellow eyes are huge and slanting—yet sad, like the little animal’s. It seems to me he must get terribly lonely in the fountain, even as I am lonely in my pod. Before moving on, I try to touch my friend's face as I so often have. Again, he shies away and is gone. Somethings must wait to happen.

I run through the park once again. As I pass the girl, I notice there are little insects swarming about her body.

Go away, I tell them. You waste your time; her chest does not rise and fall but is still. I c**k my head. My chest does not rise and fall either, yet still they enjoy my company. I decide to let them be and move on.

The pale woman's house is close. It no longer glows from within but is dark. As I scamper across the street I hope that she, too, has not gone away.

I leap the fence and greet the little animal. He is sleeping, that is why he was so silent. I try to wake him by scratching his underbelly. I notice immediately that his chest no longer lifts and falls either. When I lift my hand I notice it is once again sticky with red fluid.

The little animal's snout is buried in his food dish. Chewed food has spilled from his throat and onto the wet grass. It is sticky red like my hand, which is dark and fuzzy like the face of my fountain-friend, or the tree of which my pod is a part of.

I stand erect to peer into the pale woman's window.

She is there! Unlike the girl and the small animal, her chest lifts up and down just as always. There is a man in the room with her. He sits where I usually sit; in the lap of the chair beside her bed, leaning over her much as I do. Perhaps he is a friend to her, as the face in the fountain is a friend to me.

I drop back down because it hurts to stand so straight, and try the basement window. My hand passes further into the darkness there than usual, and when I withdraw it, there is dark fluid running from it just as the Stickyred ran from the girl and the dog. I find the latch and twist.

The window opens inward easily. I squeeze through and drop to the floor below.

I bolt through the darkened house much faster than usual, for I am eager to meet this friend of the pale woman’s. I charge up the steps and enter the hall leading to her little room. I can hear a strange voice even from here, and when I near the door I pause to listen:

"You wanna die, you b***h? Hey b***h, you wanna die?"

"W-what do you want ...? There's no money here—there’s food in the fridge, if you're hungry ..."

"See this, b***h? This is what I want ..."

"Please ..."

"Shut the f**k up. Okay? Just shut the f**k up. I'm going to f**k you and then I'm going to kill you ..."

I am confused by the sound of these words. I c**k my head and listen further.

"Oh, God—"

"Shuttup!"

"Oh, God, help me!"

"Shut the f**k up—you want the knife instead?"

"Godhelpme!"

"Okay, f**k it then, b***h. f**k it. You’re dead, you—"

I feel cold and scared as I enter the room.

The man spins around to face me. I want to run from the man. He is not right, somehow. He makes no more sounds now, but stumbles backward toward the window. I look to the pale woman and she whimpers like the little animal used to before we became friends.

This is not how I wanted us to meet. I will not try to touch her now. Her chest is lifting up and down more than usual.

I turn to the man. He is shorter than myself, but only slightly. His arms are gangling and sinewy, as are my own. But they are pink and soft-looking, not hard and hairy and knotted. He has something in his hand. It is long and pointed and moonlight runs along it as I stare at it—just as moonlight lays on the water of the pond. I shuffle closer to him. I will touch him instead of the pale woman.

He swings the object in his hand at my chest. Some of my hair flays off me and falls to the floor. I touch the area and find it sticky with red fluid.

I reach out and touch the man's face.

He squirms and writhes as do the worms in my tree and in my pod. I c**k my head. His chest is lifting up and down wildly, more so even than the pale woman's. The sound he makes hurts my ears.

It was so quiet before this new friend came. The noise grows louder and louder. I am not accustomed to it at all. He will wake everyone, and I will not be able to watch their chests rise up and down.

I have never thought to change anything about the park or the pond. I have always liked it the way it is. But so many things have changed since last I woke. So many are gone, and there is no one to replace them but this man, and he is no fun to watch. He makes it difficult to hear the voices from the little box.

He is trying to pry my hand from his face. He reaches up and pulls the object from my head. Now there is nothing but the sounds he is making. Clearly, these sounds are disturbing the pale woman as much as I.

Outside the window, the moon hangs fat and lazy. If such sounds must exist, they should exist outside, where they will not bother the pale woman further.

I make it so and the sounds stop. Stickyred is showering the walls. It is spilling and spraying from the man’s throat just as the food spilled from the little animal's. The man is gargling and trying to pry something from his throat. It is only part of the window.

I hope the pale woman will not get too cold now. Rain is slanting in through the opening and soaking the room. The man's chest has stopped heaving. I can hear all my friends outside again, both the big ones and the small ones, and it is good.

I look to the pale woman. She is sleeping, propped against the wall behind her. Her chest goes up and down at a normal pace, just as before. I will visit her again, when this man is not here. Silently, I return to the basement and crawl out the window.

I crouch one last time to say goodbye to the little animal. I lift his head from the bowl and lay it on the grass. The grass is soft and that is where I lay a friend when they sleep.

I dash across the street and clamber up the tree to my pod. I pull it open and slide inside, closing it behind me.

I lie awake for awhile and listen to the rain.

I will sleep now, and dream of my friends. I hope that the little animal will have no nightmares in his long sleep. My chest does not move as does my friends', and my sleep is long, so I can only assume that the little animal's and the girl's sleep will be long also, now that their chests are still.

The man in the old woman's room will sleep long, as well.

And we will all awake to the smell of wet bark..