Upon a Time

by R. L. Stedman

  Perhaps he was a hippy, a back-to-the-land type. Or a squatter. Or an artist. A musician? A Sikh? Or, oh Lord, he might be a drug manufacturer. This house might be a meth lab. She should have remembered the gun. Jamie would never forgive her if she got shot. If she survived the experience. Perhaps she would be killed and then Jamie wouldn’t have to tell her how disappointed he was in her.

  The man was watching her. “Hello,” she said desperately. “Um, I’m Aroha.”

  “Aroha. Pretty name. Where’s it from?”

  “New Zealand.”

  “Does it mean anything?”

  “Love. So my mother said. She was Maori.”

  “Was, as in past tense?”

  Aroha nodded. “She’s dead.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It was a long time ago.”

  “Please.” He gestured to the bedside chair. “Take a seat.”

  More dust floated into the air as she perched on the edge of the chair

  “My name is Ebony.” His voice was deep and rich. Like hot chocolate might sound, if it could speak.

  “Hi.”

  “Hello.” Holding the white sheet against his dark chest, he reached out his right arm, shook her hand. “Very nice to meet you.” He seemed somehow old-fashioned.

  She smiled. “Likewise.”

  An awkward silence. Ebony just sat, looking at her, at the sunlight, at the sky beyond.

  “You’ve got a strong grip,” he remarked suddenly.

  “I’m a gardener.”

  “You are?” The sheet slipped a little. Quickly, Aroha averted her eyes. She had no intention of being seduced by a hairy half-naked meth manufacturer, even if he did have a nice smile. “I could do with a gardener.”

  She nodded in agreement. Yes, he definitely could do with a gardener.

  “What is this place?” she asked. “If you don’t mind me asking?”

  Holding the sheet, Ebony swung his legs out of bed, went over to the window, stared out. His feet and legs were bare. Aroha pressed cool hands to her cheeks. Fortunately Ebony had his back to her and, apparently entranced by the view, didn’t seem to notice her confusion.

  “Different,” he murmured.

  “What is?”

  He waved a hand at the window then grabbed at his sheet. “All this.”

  “The trees?”

  “Not just the trees. Everything. So overgrown.” He turned to her, like she was the sane point in an irrational universe. “How did this all happen?” His eyes were wide.

  “Ebony? Are you okay?”

  He shook his head. “It was just a moment ago …”

  He looked really pale.

  “You’d better sit down.” She led him to her chair.

  “I feel …” he mumbled, sinking into the chair.

  “Put your head down. Quick. That’s right. Breathe deeply.” She pushed the back of his head.

  He said nothing, gasping desperately, like someone trying not to be sick, and Aroha wondered if she should look for a basin, but she didn’t want to leave him alone with his panic. Finally, his breathing rate calmed.

  “Are you okay?”

  He swallowed. “I think.”

  “I’ll find you a glass of water. Do you have water?”

  Still keeping his head low, Ebony waved a hand in the direction of the scullery. “In there. It’s been a while.”

  Must have been an age, Aroha thought, surveying the dust and disarray of the small room. A brass faucet, covered in verdigris, and a few glasses suggested the room had been used before. “Looks like no one’s been in here for a century.”

  The faucet was stiff, like the shutters, like the gate. If he was the caretaker, he wasn’t doing too good a job. She turned the faucet on hard, harder, until the rusty, blood-colored water began to run clear. She rinsed a water glass, filled it and carried it out to Ebony, who had returned to the window. He’d knotted the sheet around his waist like a long skirt. She would have smiled had he not looked so sad.

  “Here you are.”

  “Thank you.” He took a cautious sip and smiled. “You know, you wouldn’t believe just how long it’s been since I tasted anything. Every time I wake, it takes me a while to adjust.”

  “Every time?”

  “I don’t wake often.”

  “Ebony,” she stopped. “Do you have a surname?”

  “Black.” He sipped his water, kept his eyes on her. “Ebony Black.”

  “Okay. So, Mister Black. You mind telling me – what exactly is this place?” And, she added silently, why do you wake so seldom, and seem so overwhelmed by the world when you do?

  “My home,” he said noncommittally.

  “It’s empty.”

  He shrugged. “It has everything I need.”

  “How long have you lived here?”

  He half smiled, ran a finger around the rim of his glass. “That, Miss Aroha, is a very good question. And the answer is, I don’t rightly know.” He set the glass down on a table with a click. “And a question for you – what are you doing here?”

  “I told you.”

  “Ah, yes. Escaping the bats.”

  She nodded.

  “But what made the bats come out?” he asked. “You must have disturbed them?”

  “I knocked on the door.”

  “And it opened?” He seemed surprised.

  “Eventually. I pushed pretty hard.”

  He smiled. “You strike me as a determined woman. Why were you knocking on my door?”

  She shifted uncomfortably. “I wanted to ask the owner – is that you?” When he nodded, she added, “if I could take some of your rose plants. I’m a rose breeder,” she added quickly, “Your plants are real interesting.”

  “My roses,” he breathed. “How did you even know about them?”

  “Long story.”

  “Try me.”

  “Are you sure? You still look pale.”

  “I’m fine.” He returned to the sofa and sat, looking up at her expectantly.

  Aroha settled into the armchair opposite – look at us, a cozy couple – and told him about Dad, how he’d gotten lost and taken a wrong turning and found this place and the roses, and how he’d been surprised by someone (Ebony appeared put out here) and taken some roses home with him, and how Dad had remarried and recently died and left her a letter, and how she, Aroha, was desperate to save the business which had been started by her grandfather … here she found herself crying, which was ridiculous. But this hairy stranger seemed a sympathetic listener. Perhaps he wasn’t a drug lord after all. Or perhaps drug lords only appeared sympathetic before they killed you.

  “I’m sorry.” She dabbed at her eyes. “I don’t usually do this.”

  Getting to his feet, Ebony held out a hand. “Come on.”

  “What? Where?”

  “To find some roses.”

  Had she heard him correctly? “Roses? You don’t mind?”

  He said nothing, just led the way downstairs and stood frowning at the front door, as though waiting for it to say something. His fists clenched and unclenched.

  “Are you all right?” she asked nervously.

  Taking a deep breath, Ebony pulled the door open. The afternoon had worn on while they were talking and the day was fading to evening. It still felt warm and close, but the sense of thunder had passed. She’d better call Jamie. He’d be worrying.

  “What’s that?” Ebony nodded at her phone.

  “I have to call Jamie. He’ll be worrying.”

  “Jamie is your husband?”

  She laughed. “Jamie? No, he works for me.”

  “Ah. Your servant.”

  “Jamie? Um, no. Definitely not.” Glanced at her phone. “Damn. No signal.”

  “You curse.” Ebony observed.

  “Well, Mister Black, my apologies for offending you.” She jutted out her jaw at this tall hairy man in his stupid sheet, then the ridiculousness of the whole day was too much and she started laughing.

  “Wh
at’s so funny?”

  “You.” She gestured at the sheet, at the house. “This whole place. Too weird.”

  He laughed too, and she had to admit, he did have a nice smile. “That it is. You have tools with you?”

  “In my car.” She pointed at the wall.

  “Your carriage is outside?”

  Carriage! “Well,” she said doubtfully, “in a manner of speaking.”

  They walked through the courtyard. He seemed to find it easier than her to push through the rose tangles. At the fountain he paused, dipped a hand into the empty basin. “It seemed just a little sleep. I remember your father. He stole from me.”

  “He didn’t mean to,” she said miserably.

  “Whether he intended to or not is irrelevant. Fatima’s rules are strict. She cared little for intention; she judges – judged – only by action. He was a thief, therefore he should be punished.”

  “You’re saying that my father’s illness was because he stole from you?”

  “It’s possible. What do you think?”

  “I don’t know.” They reached the gate. “My car is through here. I’ve got my spade in the trunk.”

  “I cannot go beyond the wall,” he said. “But if you retrieve the tools, I will help you.”

  “I’ve got a mask and gloves, too.”

  “You came, intending to steal?” His voice was stern.

  “I knocked on your door, didn’t I?”

  He seemed relieved. “True.”

  “Yes. Well. Good. I’m glad you approve.”

  “Get your items, Miss Aroha. I will wait here for you.”

  Jamie had talked her into taking the respirator mask, because perhaps there was something to Charles’ story, and what was the point in taking chances?

  Aroha zipped on her coveralls, placed the mask over her neck and pulled on the long gloves. Removing the shovel and an old tarp from the trunk, she paused. Dad’s coveralls, folded neatly, were inside the tarpaulin, as if he’d been planning on joining her. She grabbed them and carried them back to Ebony. “These might fit.”

  He shook them out by the shoulders. Patched, they’d clearly seen better days.

  “Better than a sheet.”

  The haughty expression turned to a smile. “True.”

  “I won’t look.” She stared resolutely out at the roses. Many had lost their leaves, some had black spot. She didn’t want those. She heard the sound of a sheet falling, softly, and swallowed.

  “You can turn around.”

  The coveralls were way too short. She gulped.

  “You’re laughing.”

  “I’m not.” She threw a shovel at him and he caught it with one hand.

  He followed her, grumbling. “Your clothing is strange. The fastenings are unfamiliar.”

  What was he talking about? “Fastenings?”

  “This.” He pointed to the zip.

  She shook her head. This man really did not make sense. If he lived all alone here, and didn’t have reception, there was a remote possibility that he might not recognize a cell phone. But everyone knew what a zip was.

  “The red roses were my mother’s favorite. In the summer the fragrance was almost overpowering.” He sounded sad.

  “Your mother?”

  “Dead,” he said simply.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Everyone is dead.” Bending, he picked up a handful of yellowing petals, tossed them into the air. They drifted, falling like confetti.

  What to say to this? “I’m not.”

  When Ebony smiled, she felt pleased, as if she’d said something powerfully significant. He seemed a strange mixture: sometimes funny, sometimes stern. Who was he? And, more importantly, did she even want to know?

  “Here you are.” He pointed at a wedge of dark-leaved shrubs. “The red roses. Take as many as you need.”

  The plants seemed strong, free of disease and the few remaining blooms were fully open, a deep, rich red. She inhaled their scent. “Cinnamon and smoke. You’re sure?”

  “The gift of this clothing.” He pulled at the coveralls. “Removes all obligation.”

  “I’m so pleased,” she said ironically, then pulled on the respirator and began pruning the bushes. “It looks like I’m killing them.” Her voice was muffled inside the respirator, “but I’m not. They’ll be fine.”

  “I know.” Ebony pointed at her face. “Why are you wearing that?”

  “Stops the spores.” She stopped mid-slice. “You’re not wearing a mask.”

  “I won’t be harmed.”

  “Well, go back a little, anyway.” She waved the shears at him. “Just in case.”

  He walked back to the dry fountain and sat on the edge. “I feel ungentlemanly,” he called. “Watching you work.”

  Sweat dripped down her back. The soil was hard – clearly no one had turned it for ages. She worked slowly, methodically. The roots of these rose plants were deep and well developed. Jamie would be pleased. Grunting, she tugged the shrubs loose.

  “Are you alright?” Ebony called. A swallow darted by and he turned his head to watch it fly.

  “Nearly finished.”

  She rolled the shrubs into the tarpaulin, wrapped them carefully into a bundle and awkwardly picked it up. The freshly cut branches poked out at odd angles and made it difficult to carry.

  Ebony came over. “Let me.”

  She fended him off with an elbow. “No.” She sounded like Darth Vadar through this mask. “I don’t want to risk it.”

  “I’ll be fine,” he insisted.

  “You can take the spade then. If you really want to help.”

  He picked up the spade, marched behind her with it over his shoulder. “I’ve decided something,” Ebony announced.

  “Oh yes?” Dammit, but her arms were aching.

  “It’s important to enjoy the moment,” he said seriously.

  She grunted.

  “For example,” he continued, “I could become melancholy, thinking that by the time I next wake you’ll be dead; that I will never see you again.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Nice.”

  “Or,” he continued, “I can be happy. Just being here in the sunshine with you, that’s enough. I think our emotions are our choice. And I choose to be happy.”

  She stopped, and he nearly walked into her. “What? Did I say something wrong.”

  She slipped her mask down her face. “No. Not at all.” Reaching up, Aroha kissed him full on the mouth.

  Ebony stopped, frozen, as if unable to believe this was happening.

  Oh no, Aroha thought, I’ve totally misread this.

  And then his arms went around her, crushed the roses to her chest (ouch, the thorns scratched) and he was kissing her back.

  Chapter Eleven

  Happy Ever After?

  Ebony

  “What do you think?” Jamie peered at the rose bush.

  “Looks hardy.” Ebony lifted the leaves. The undersides were dark green, with no speckling or mottling. A good sign. “The scent is pleasant, too.”

  “Old-fashioned?”

  “Not to me.” Ebony half-smiled at the older man.

  “I suppose not.” Jamie picked up his notebook. “This place must seem terribly strange. All the changes: technology and so on.”

  “Sometimes I feel as if I’m in a dream.”

  “As though you’re still asleep?”

  “As if my earlier life was never really real.”

  Jamie paused by the row of new hybrids. The rich red blooms had opened and the deep color was all they had hoped for. “These are looking good.”

  Ebony touched a petal. “Soft. Yes, I think they have potential.”

  Jamie snipped off a flower. Eyes closed, he breathed in the scent. “Interesting fragrance. Cinnamon, a hint of apple. Cloves. Very, very nice.” He passed the flower to Ebony.

  Ebony bent the stem gently. “Strong necked. This will ship well.” He took a deep breath of the rose. “Oh, yes.”

  Jamie
inspected the leaves carefully. “Looks healthy.”

  “That scent – delicious. Yes. I agree. Tag it.”

  Jamie pulled a paper tag from his pocket, wrote “POTENTIAL” and attached the tag to the plant.

  Ebony inhaled the flower again. “You were asking about changes? You’re right. Sometimes I feel lost. It’s alright for you; you’re used to this life. You’re used to these ridiculous carriages …”

  “Cars.”

  “Cars. See, I can’t even remember their name. And your computers. Telephones.” Ebony shook his head. “Electric light.”

  “Everything is different?”

  “Not quite.” Ebony waved the rose.

  Jamie half-smiled at the strange, tall man. Ebony appeared civilized now, but when Aroha had first brought him home Jamie had wondered what on earth she had been thinking of.

  “You’re right,” Jamie said. “Flowers haven’t changed.”

  The petals at the outer rim had opened slightly, showing the deeper red at their base, but the central bud was still tight-closed.

  Ebony ran his finger across a petal’s edge. “Beauty is a constant.”

  “There you are.” Aroha waved through the walls of the glasshouse. “I was looking for you.”

  “Love is the same, too,” Ebony said softly.

  “Romance, flowers and scent,” said Jamie. “You’re right. Some things never change.”

  Aroha slid the door open. She eyed the red rose in Ebony’s hand. “That’s from the new breed?”

  “It has potential, darling,” Jamie said. “Real potential.”

  “Good. I want to send samples out next month.”

  “Don’t you think that’s a bit too early?” Ebony asked. “We need to see how it does.”

  Aroha shook her head. “Not if we want to hit the awards seasons.” She inhaled the rose. “What will you call it?”

  “We never thought of a name,” Ebony said. “Jamie?”

  “It’s Cross 008.”

  Aroha wrinkled her nose. “That’s not very poetic. Boys, you’d better think of something more … appropriate.”

  Ebony looked startled. “Appropriate?” His life had changed so much, how could that possibly be expressed in the name of a rose?

  “You’ll think of something.” She sniffed at the flower again. “That scent …”