The Gardener

by Michelle DePaepe

  Could he flatter Georgia as easily? He must be careful with this one.

  He began to prune the roses with a pair of trimmers from the garage. There was still little more than the faintest glow from the slit of moon and the stars above to guide his cuts, but he was so accustomed to shaping the bones of these shrubs that he could do it by touch, singling out the dead wood and overgrown limbs one by one without even using his eyes.

  It was ironic that he had volunteered to do this work, since he had been the one who had destroyed the gardens in a fit of rage after Virginia had disobeyed him.

  The incessant telephone ringing that day! He’d become tired of the psychic woman’s constant calling. He told Virginia to rip the phone cord from the wall. She refused, and he lost his temper. Stomping out to the gardens, he had pulled vines from the ground, trampled over tomatoes, and flattened her entire summer’s worth of hard work. But, she’d been lucky that day—when he had turned his rage on the plants instead of her.

  The spirit tried to stop his wandering mind and focus on the tasks ahead of him. There weren’t many more hours before dawn, and he wanted the gardens to look perfect. He manicured the rose garden and mulched it with leaves until it looked tidy and ready for winter slumber.

  When he was finished, he tossed the last clippings into the back of the truck. Then, with a shaky foot on the pedals and a bit of protest from the gears, he drove it back to the farm where he’d stolen it. Wouldn’t Farmer Turner be amused to find it full of thorny branches and rotten tomatoes in the morning?

  Then, he walked all the way back to the house and uncovered a stash of flowerpots and other décor behind the garage that he had pilfered earlier from around town.

  He worked at a manic pace to complete his masterpiece, vignette by vignette. Hours passed, and a thin ribbon of lavender light cracked open the eastern sky as he tied a dried cornhusk bow around the last terra cotta urn.

  A flash of movement caught his eye near the vegetable garden gate, and he saw the yellowing leaves of the grapevine on the fence rustling.

  A second later, a tail whipped out between a picket and whiskers emerged.

  “Hsss!” The cat arched its back into a perfect mockery of the fading crescent moon. It spat at him, baring its teeth.

  He tossed a rock at it and watched as it galloped down the path with its tail fluffed out like a skunk.

  He wasn’t about to let that miserable creature destroy his handiwork or give away his belated presence. He considered chasing it and taking it out for good. But, as he saw the light growing brighter, he knew there wasn’t time for such diversions.

  A few minutes later, with the final touches in place, he stopped, folded his arms across his chest, and surveyed his handiwork. “Que avvenente giardino! Sono genio!”

  It wouldn’t be long before Georgia rose and came out to admire his artistry. Now...where could he hide and gauge her reaction?

  He chose a tall juniper where he could view both the vegetable and the rose gardens. As he began to reduce himself to a ribbon of mist, he noticed something odd—a pain in his chest. He halted his transformation. Before he lifted up his shirt, he saw a red stain leaking through the cotton fabric. He told himself to be calm, “Non si ecciti, signore. Si calmi.”

  Perhaps the physical labor had sapped his energy. He had overdone it and not realized it until some damage was done.

  He fingered the wetness of the wound, wincing from the pain.

  So...he was human enough to bleed now...but also weak enough that his progress could be reversed? He consoled himself with the fact that he could revive himself daily if needed from the energy of others. If that was continually possible, wouldn’t this second life be eternal?

  As he transformed, he knew that some day soon, he would not have to stoop to tasks that sapped so much from his strength.

  Chapter 46

  Grace made Opal recant her tale over and over again. They poured over every detail of the séance, trying to figure out what might have gone wrong before Grace would reveal her plan.

  Before dawn, Grace stoked the fireplace with wood one last time to fight off the chill that had seeped in during the night.

  As she leaned over the hearth and poked at the embers, she said, “I know that incantation sounds familiar, but I just can’t place it. Tell me again.”

  Opal sighed. She was exhausted and wondered if her aunt was going to be able to help her after all. “Emtahd netseef tabbe...”

  Grace gasped and turned rigid. She turned around and held out her hand. “Stop! Don’t say it again...I finally remembered where I’ve heard it. Where did you learn it?”

  “I...I...found it in an old book in my house. Some old rotting book in my basement. I don’t even know where it came from...maybe from the previous owner.”

  “What kind of book?”

  “A history book of some sort. Ancient mythology, I think. It was a conjuring spell. It just popped into my head when I was desperate. I even tried to reverse it, in case that would help, get rid of him but—”

  “You’re right about one thing. The phrase is old. Very old. But, it’s not just any simple conjuring spell. It’s ancient Sumerian sorcery used to bring dead warriors back to life in time of battle.”

  “That’s crazy. How do you know that?”

  “Oh dear...your mother mustn’t have taught you a thing when you were young, because she knew that you didn’t have ‘the gift’. It doesn’t occur in every generation.”

  Two blows in one. The circuitry in Opal’s mind fired like a lightning storm. She didn’t know which revelation to confront first, but her mouth decided on the most fantastical. “My mother? What do you mean...taught me? She was a bible-toting church-going—she beat my hind end raw when she found tarot cards in my room. Are you saying...”

  Grace’s bare feet found her path to the rocking chair. She lowered herself into it as the fire crackled and roared. “Your mother was afraid of her sight. When she and I were girls, she had an experience with the other side that scared her so badly...she never attempted contact again. From that day, she kept her bible with her wherever she went and refused to talk about it or allow her children to dabble in such an art. When you were born, she forbade me to talk to you about it.”

  Opal remained standing, her hands balled into fists. “She never told me.”

  “No...because she didn’t want your curiosity to lead you into trouble. But...as luck would have it...you found that path on your own.”

  “I don’t have it? I thought...”

  “No, dear. You don’t have the ‘sight’, but you have a powerful leaning towards it. Your mother knew about your dalliances with the spiritual world, and she should have warned you about the dangers. But, her paralyzing fear came out in wrath instead.”

  The news about her mother was hard to hear, but everything Grace said made sense as she thought about her childhood. She slumped down and leaned her head onto her hand as the memories came back. Then, she thought about more recent days—all of the séances where she had fleeting glimpses of the land of spirits along with occasional contact with the dead and the tarot card interpretations that seemed inspired by some paranormal intelligence.

  Grace reached over and patted her hand. “Everyone has access to a sixth sense...an intuition, but not everyone has the ability to contact those who have passed on and live in another plane. You’ve got some of it. Just as you’ve inherited your mother’s blue eyes, you’ve got a little in your blood...just not the whole parade. That’s what makes it so much more dangerous. You have limited ability and no formal training.”

  Opal wrapped her arms around herself. All these years, all her passion for knowing the unknowable, there was a reason why it had been such a struggle. Now, she knew, and it saddened her. She felt even more helpless.

  “There’s no excuse for your mother not to have warned you and taught you proper safety. It’s like those birds and bees talks that parents never want to give. Yet, if they don’t explain things to t
heir kids, they’re just setting them up for the worst case scenario that can happen out of ignorance.”

  “I didn’t know. I didn’t mean to...”

  Graced wagged her birdlike finger. “Ancient spells aren’t to be trifled with. Back in those days, the dead mixed with the living much more freely than they do now. People understood how to control such things, because they believed in them and studied them.”

  Opal felt like a scolded child. Her bottom lip began to quiver.

  But, Grace continued with a sharp tongue. “You use a light spell for conjuring dead husbands for a little chat. If you use more ancient powerful words that allow a malicious spirit to come back from the dead...you don’t know what kind of person you have re-inflicted on the world. For all we know...this man was Jack the Ripper!”

  Opal tried to compose herself through the streams of tears. Her voice warbled through the sobs. “So...just tell me what I need to do to send him back...”

  “You don’t understand yet, do you?”

  “No...I guess I don’t.”

  “That crusty old chant was used to bring the spirits of ancestral warriors back to life to fight against living enemies. Life. It makes them flesh and blood again. Your spirit is on his way to becoming a real living man if he isn’t already.”

  “That’s not possible. When he attacked me, he dissolved like smoke. There was nothing human about him.”

  “So you say now. Sometimes the process takes time. The Sumerian spirits only became true flesh after they’ve killed...and killed some more. Every death makes them a little stronger as they absorb the life force from the person’s soul.”

  Opal gasped. “You mean…”

  “I mean that even if he wasn’t a killer in his past lifetime, he is now. It’s the only thing that will make him fully human ...and I imagine that...to be human again is the one thing a spirit would want above all else.”

  “But, if he becomes human then we can kill him for real?”

  Grace sighed and crossed her arms over her chest like a school marm about to dole out punishment. “Now that’s a paradox. Would you commit murder then, yourself?”

  This made Opal think. She couldn’t be convicted of killing someone who was already dead, but if he became human again...what recourse was there?

  “I have an idea, but it’s a long shot. You’ll have to do it yourself, and it may only make things worse.”

  “Great,” she said as she wiped her face dry. “Sounds like a wonderful plan...”

  Grace’s tongue grew a point. “You came here for my help. It’s your turn to listen. There are two things that must be done if you are going to get rid of this spirit. The first may be easier than the last, but I’m afraid that one alone won’t be enough.”

  Opal leaned back and draped the afghan over her shivering body. Then, she closed her heavy eyelids and took in a deep breath. “Maybe we should get a little sleep first...”

  “There’s plenty of time to sleep later. I have to explain this to you.” Grace walked past her and kicked her lightly on the shin. “Wake up, dear. I’ll make us some porridge and cream for breakfast.”

  Opal groaned as she disappeared into the kitchen. Amongst the clinking of glass and dishes, she heard Grace muttering, sometimes at a whisper and other times clearly out loud with no attempt to hide her thoughts.

  “I can’t believe she used such a dangerous ancient spell! Let’s just hope I’m at least partially wrong. I’d hate to think that she may have unleashed a serial killer on Calathia!”

  Chapter 47

  Georgia woke from a fitful night of little sleep. The nightmare was incessant. Every time she was forced under the water...about to die...she startled awake. Then, as she drifted back to sleep the frightening scene with her attacker began again.

  After stretching and yawning off the night’s misery, she traipsed down the staircase. As she felt a chill and wrapped her robe tighter, she remembered the gardens.

  With a skip, she went straight to the kitchen window, but as in the dark last night, she could see little more than the path.

  She paused long enough to put on a pot of coffee then she looked out the front window to see if the Gardener’s truck was still there. When she saw the empty driveway, she was even more anxious to get outside and see what he had accomplished.

  With the coffee still dripping, she rammed a mug under the basket and filled it up. Then, still in her slippers and nightclothes, she went out the back door.

  She was a few yards away from the vegetable garden when her feet stopped, and her jaw dropped halfway to the ground.

  The vegetable garden had been stripped clean of every dead corn stalk, every toppled bean tower, every smashed tomato, and bit of debris that had been there the day before. Not a single dead rhubarb leaf or strawberry stain remained.

  The fall decorations were even more astounding. An orange bittersweet vine draped over the gate, adding ambience as if it had been there for years. On either side of the picket fence, there were large rustic raffia bows. Stone urns graced the edge of each rectangular raised bed, filled with sprays of ornamental grass, Virginia Creeper, dark wine-colored berries, bright red and gold leaves, and perky rust-colored mums.

  Her mug tilted and a drop of hot coffee spilled onto her foot. How had he done so much in the middle of the night? He wasn’t a gardener...he was a magician!

  Her heartbeat increased as she walked towards the rose garden. When she reached the arbor entwined with frost bitten roses, she was no less amazed. The fountain had been filled with dirt and planted with pansies. Tendrils of grapevine overflowed its basins and dripped down the sides with golden leaves and jeweled clusters of fruit. Every rose bush was trimmed into a precise compact shape. The perimeter of the circular beds in front of the roses had been filled with pockets of colorful pansies, bright mums, and frilly heads of ornamental kale.

  She took a large gulp of coffee and burned the back of her throat. As she grimaced from the pain, a flash of metal caught her eye.

  With their pruned down bones, she could see a tarnished copper nametag entwined around a lower cane on one of the rose bushes. It looked old, as if it had been hidden for decades by the overgrowth of the rose bush and weeds. She walked over and leaned down to read it. The engraving said, ‘Elizabeth’. She saw another tag on the bush next to it with the name ‘Margaret’. It surprised her that they had been buried all these years in the debris of leaves at the base of the plants. Her grandmother probably hadn’t even known they were there.

  Returning her admiring gaze to the immaculate beauty of the rose garden, there were no words to describe her amazement at the transformation. She wondered if the gardener had a secret crew with flashlights strapped to their heads working all night—an army of OompaLoompas or elves.

  She rushed back to the house, sloshing coffee all the way.

  At 7:30 a.m., it was too early to call Daniel.

  Then, she realized that she couldn’t call him anyway—she didn’t have his phone number. She dialed information, but found no listing for a DanielMoreno in Calathia.

  The morning passed in uncomfortable solitude. She tidied up more things around the house and packed a few small items to take back in her suitcase. Then, she took a stack of photographs and a few of the frames from the bedroom dresser. To those, she added a silver locket that she had given Grammy for her eightieth birthday and a bottle of lilac perfume that she hoped would remind her of her grandmother when she was a thousand miles away.

  Around noon, Annie phoned. “Are you going to hide over there all day? We haven’t seen very much of you. I’ve just made some vegetable soup and sandwiches. Why don’t you come over and sit a spell?”

  “Actually...I’ve got something to show you over here. I’ll come for lunch, but I’m going to march you right back.”

  Georgia kept her secret during the meal. They chatted about people they’d seen at the funeral, the cooling weather and how many Walleye Fred had caught on his last fishing trip. She even pre
tended to be impressed when he trotted out his new goose-hunting rifle as Annie brought out a plate of molasses cookies.

  Afterwards, she showed them the gardens, and they were both as shocked as she was.

  “I sure never knew Virginia had a gardener,” Annie said. “You should send him my way when you’re done with him. If I asked him to fix a faucet, would I get a whole new bathroom instead?”

  They laughed and talked for a few minutes then Georgia told them that she needed to finish packing.

  “I guess we won’t see you again before you leave?” Annie asked.

  “Of course. I’ll come by later tonight. I wouldn’t leave town without that banana bread you promised!”

  She hugged them and watched as the old couple, who’d been married for fifty-two years, trudged back across the field together. They looked so gray and frail—she imagined that a strong wind might float them up to the sky like feathers if they got caught in a storm.

  For the rest of the afternoon, she tried not to think about the fact that tomorrow she would be back in the frantic city anthill, amongst the crowds, the noise...and the responsibilities of her struggling gallery.

  Later, as the sky grew dim, the jarring sound of the ringing phone disrupted her meditation.

  “Are you planning on leaving tomorrow morning without even saying goodbye?” Marsha’s shrill voice asked.

  “No...I...”

  “The kids would like to see you again and dinner’s almost on the table.”

  “Alright. I’ll be over in a few minutes.”

  As she hung up, the doorbell chimed, startling her enough that she jumped backwards.

  Through the mottled panes of colored glass on the door, she saw a tall lean male silhouette and knew that her gardener had finally returned.

  Chapter 48

  Opal spent the day at Aunt Grace’s, trying to convince her to come back to Calathia.

  “I’m not leaving this house again until they take me out in a big box.”