I’ve never done a book giveaway before.
But I’ve gotten permission from my wonderful publisher, Quirk Books, to give away some of my author copies of The Thorn and the Blossom, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do over the next three weeks.
Here’s how it’s going to work:
Each giveaway is going to last about a week. In each giveaway, I’m going to choose two winners, who will get copies of The Thorn and the Blossom and In the Forest of Forgetting. (So each winner will get both books, as well as some cool bookmarks! Also, I will sign both books unless you tell me that you don’t want them signed.)
(In real life, The Thorn and the Blossom is actually smaller than In the Forest of Forgetting, but anyway.)
I’m going to choose the winners by asking a question. The two people who give what I think are the most interesting answers to that question in the comments section below will get the two sets of books for each week. You can only enter once per week, but you can enter all three weeks if you would like. I’m afraid that my choices are going to be highly subjective, but we can’t avoid that, can we? My apologies in advance to anyone who doesn’t get a copy of the books this way, but hey, it’s always worth trying, right?
So here’s the book giveaway for this week.
If you would like to enter, post an answer to the following question by Sunday, January 8th, at midnight (my time, which is Eastern Standard Time). I’ll announce the winners on Monday. You can enter all week long! Here’s the question:
As you know, I love gardens. I describe gardens in both books. If you could create an imaginary garden, what would it be like? Feel free to describe it, and be creative!
(No more than a paragraph, please! If it’s too long, chances are I won’t be able to read the whole description, and that may hurt your chances.)
Post your answer in the comments section, and at the end of the week I’ll choose two winners! I’ll contact the winners by email, and you’ll need to email me an address so I can send you the books. If for some reason I can’t contact you by email or you don’t send me your address, I’ll choose an alternate winner.
This is the first time I’ve done something like this, so let’s see how it works. I’ll do my best!
Oh, and by the way, just in case you’re interested, here is a description of a garden from the story I’m currently working on, called “Blanchefleur”:
Just as he was wondering if he would indeed find the castle that day, for the sun was beginning to set, he saw it: in a clearing by a stream, its turrets rising above a high stone wall.
He knocked at the wooden door that was the only way in. It opened, seemingly by itself. In the doorway stood a white cat.
“Are you the Idiot?” she asked.
“I suppose,” he said, speaking for the first time that day.
“I thought so,” she said. “You certainly look the part. Well, come in then, and follow me.”
He followed her through the doorway and down a stone path that led through the castle gardens. He had never seen such gardens, although in school his teacher had once described the gardens that surrounded the King’s castle, which she had visited on a holiday. There were green lawns surrounding fountains, with stone statues of fish spouting water. There were box hedges, and topiaries carved into the shapes of birds, squirrels, mice. There were pools filled with waterlilies, in which black and orange carp were swimming. There were trellises from which roses hung down in profusion, and an orchard with pleached fruit trees. He could even see a kitchen garden, with vegetables in neat rows. And all through the garden, he could see cats, pruning the hedges, tying back the roses, raking the earth in the flower beds with their claws.
It was the strangest sight he had ever seen, and for the first time it occurred to him that being the Lady’s apprentice would be an adventure – the first of his life.
The path took them to the door of the castle, which swung open as they approached. An orange tabby walked out and stood waiting at the top of the steps.
“Hello, Marmalade,” said the white cat.
“Good evening, Miss Blanchefleur,” he replied. “Is this the boy her Ladyship is expecting?”
“As far as I can tell,” she said. “Although what my mother would want with such an unprepossessing specimen, I don’t know.”
This is still very much a work in progress, and it will change in the rewrite. But I thought you might like to see a glimpse of stories to come . . .
I like this contest
So what would my garden be?
Hmm,,,I love statues, especially marble statues of people. I would have three, a child, a mother, and a crone, They would all be hidden at the center of huge groves of trees set out like mazes: The child within pines, The mother within birch trees, and The crone in maples. Red rose bushes, Carnation, Chrysanthemums, and Ginger would entwine with the trees while holly berry would choke them. There would be Peony, Hyacinths, and other flowers hiding waiting for the spring to come. There would be no flowers for the summer, or the fall. I want them to be an explosion in the winter and spring as welcome to the cold and then the coming of the Earth’s rebirth.
Its the spiral
I have seen such things in that garden as you would not countenance, for to move through it is to go unwitting from the green geometries conformable to rational pleasures to the wild thickets governed only by imagination. The hedge maze there, so regular at first, grows strange, as if it were bigger the further in you went. Woodbine, ruby-dark, & yellow tansy stud the paths. Birch & ash & oak–I know not how–reach through the ordered ways & shed their leaves upon the jeweled fountains. I have seen the weedy elflocks of the lilies mat the ponds, the cruel profile of a new delphinium. I have seen the harts, the talking birds, the nightshade blushing blameless pink, the foxglove (oft called dead mens’ bells & fair folks’ fingers & the like), the witches’ butter, love-lies-bleeding, shards of light that break upon the folly in the copse. Monkshood, moonseed, mandrake, hellebore, henbane, hemlock. I have seen the white asparagus, the tongues of ferns & moony plums. The nuts are carved with little faces, none alike. Fringed mint & fennel grow there–I have seen. Once by the place the wild bees keep their hive, a woman stood among the rue–I saw her there–she would not let me look her in the face.
I grew up rural but now live in a house with a very small backyard. What I would like is to buld a three dimentions garden maze. Different flowers around corners and on each level. At each intersection would be a paper column for people to leave poetry. At night, when the lazarus lizards would finish playing, I would harvest the poetry like summer berries. At the top centre of the maze would be a totem pole encased in plexiglass so that one can finally live up to dreams of being a fireman. Of course at the botto, would be thick multicoloured layers of moss cut into the shape of adverbs, who really do need to serve some purpose after all.
To get to the garden one must unlock the grating and climb through the window of the first floor apartment of the city building. The tiny yard is fenced in on three sides, the fourth side being the back of the building. Ivy, honeysuckle, and climbing roses cover most the fencing. The ground along the fencing is a riot of color with English Country Garden flowers and herbs. In the center of the garden is a small weeping willow tree (where my cat climbs and views the yard), and in the corner against the building is a patio with garden chairs and a built-in grill for cook-outs on those balmy evenings where I can relax and enjoy a good book.
My imaginary garden would be bordered by trees with iridescent leaves whose sheen would give glimpses of people’s dreams. Some of the trees would also grow all sorts of delicious desserts that were composed of astral substance so you could taste them but they wouldn’t be bad for you–truly sugar-free, gluten free donuts, croissants, chocolate truffles, pie pieces of all varieties, creampuffs, and strange-looking mystery desserts that would give you delightful taste surprises and sometimes revelations that stimulate personal growth. The internal area of the garden would have a pond with friendly, talking fish and water that fizzes on your skin. The grass would be velvet-soft and freckled with tiny bright flowers that sing all your favorite songs when you’re walking by, and if you lie down they’ll give you lots of compliments. The squirrels in the garden tell the funniest jokes you’ve ever heard, and the birds have rigged up a special device for you to sit in (it looks a bit like an Ergo baby carrier) while they take you for rides across the sky.
My garden would be a tangle of wild roses and willow trees. It offers sanctuary behind high dark hedges for some dreamy-eyed girl who longs to know about the world beyond, but is not ready for it yet. She might wander about in the pale and quiet morning light to gather witch-hazel, arnica, thyme, or to watch small brown owls settle down to sleep in the trees. At night, she might lie alone on the fragrant grass, or with her sad, strange brother, to count stars and make wishes on the ones which fall.
I love gardens.
Not sure if your giveaway includes outside the USA, but in the hope that it is, here is my entry! If I had the money, I would totally build Callistemon:
“Tip-trays deposited the sandstone rubble in six massive piles, each one equidistant from the ruined brick kiln in the centre of the paddock, forming the points of a hexagon around it. Like the kiln, the piles were three metres tall and six metres across, and Patrick knew he would spend many hours sweating in the sun, terracing them before the bottlebrush planting…[five years later]…Six mountains of firetruck-red flowers erupted from a silver-blue ocean of grass. Sabine stepped onto the recycled timber boardwalk that curved toward the orange brick kiln in its ring of fire. The lush, blue-bladed Australian native grass had been mass-planted from one end of the paddock to the other. The effect was that of setting off along a marine jetty to visit islands of living flame.”
Whether I win an awesome book or not, thank you for this competition. I think I got about 50k words into my book about this garden, until somebody told me that nobody would read a fantasy book about a garden. Now I know they are wrong.
Imaginary gardens FTW!
Yes, it includes people living outside the US! If you’re in another country, I’ll get you the books one way or another! How could anyone say that no one would read a fantasy about a garden? We’re STILL reading The Secret Garden, a hundred years later! And it only feels like fantasy, without any actual fantasy elements . . .
‘The Secret Garden’ movie with Maggie Smith is on TV right now. But the Small One wants to watch ‘Robots’. Which is on a different channel. *sigh*
Heather struggled against the poor soil and the gusty dry winds that were fighting against her bosom, yet when the mighty rains fell in the Highland Garden, she felt renewed with a commitment to break up the earth. Feeding on only blessed rainwater, she anchored herself against a rock, then forcefully pushed, with her mightiest bark, into the black night air. Days of thunder followed, that thrashed against her determination to thrive. The garden was her home and she had every right to grow blossom in it. On the seventh hour of the fourth evening, the rains ceased and over the next few days, Heather’s garden eased into a breathlessness filled with soft and fragrant honeysuckle. Heather’s gown was lilac in the midday sun when she heard God whisper to her through the cheery yellow smiles of the, heavily grassed, dandelion reeds. “I love you, Heather” God echoed from the ageless astrological statues of the native Scottish garden. But, Heather didn’t, at all, feel neglected. Her fragile beating heart was at full bloom at last; And in the warming glow of the orange morning sun, on the seventh day of the storms end, Heather renounced the very core of her heart into Gods tender hands; where upon her fragile pollen then orgasmed the mouths of God’s finest honey bees.
In my imaginary garden, there would be a wisteria arbor which would have musical stepping stones, each with a different tone so that one might spend hours hopping from one to the other. The path would lead to a Koi pond; a reflection pool with a small trickling waterfall. Opalescent pebbles would line the bottom and water lilies and frog pads would adorn the surface. Frogs would sing their songs there at night. The pond would be surrounded by fragrant herbs and grasses, and tea trees would grow at one side and small fruit trees to the other. Mushrooms that glow in the dark, in shades of white and blue would be scattered hither and tither. The path would divide into four around the pond. Each path holding mysterious and fun statuary amidst weeping willows…their long flowing branches make the best hidden tea rooms and hiding places. There would be a wide opening in the canopy to view the stars and full moon at night, and directly under would be planted peppermint. Throw a blanket over the peppermint to lie down and gaze up at the stars, and with every movement the smell of candy canes would fill the air. Wind chimes made of old things like Grama’s silverware, pieces of tubing and odd things like keys, would hang from the branches so that they ting and clack in the breeze. Roses would grow to the east so they fill the air with aroma when the sun rises. On small tree stumps, fairy cups would be placed on fairy saucers to catch the rose morning dew. Moon-flowers would grow to the West along a tree line where the forest begins.There, dividing the garden from the forest would be a door. Mysterious noises would always emanate from the forest, so that the curious might get close enough, press an ear against the door, hear a faint step or whisper and then quickly retreat back to the safety of the garden…perhaps hiding under one of the willows. “Wishing fuzz” (at least that’s what we used to call them), the seeds from dandelions, would flow in the breeze…illuminated by the sunlight through the branches,they look like little stars skipping along. Dragonflies would make home there, birds would find rest and nest there, and the occasional fox might make escape by way through there, but for sure there would always be magic there. <3
Arijah, I ran across the illustrated version on your blog. I hope you don’t mind if I insert a link to it? I think people are getting interested in reading all the entries, and yours deserves to be seen with the pictures as well!
http://arijahankhkhalid.blogspot.com/2012/01/my-imaginary-garden.html
An ancient wooden door was the portal into an almost mystical land–that of Giselle’s garden. Upon unlocking the door with an antique skeleton key that she secured about her neck on an old leather lace, the scents of wild jasmine, lillies, and her favorite, lilac, permeated her nostrils as she deeply inhaled the medley of fragrances. It was a small and simple plot of land that she claimed for her own, a place to plan, dream, write, and create. And create she did, by training the years-old ivy that covered the stone wall, ensconcing her clandestine piece of paradise. Two centuries-old oaks, majestic and gloriously green in the summer and shining like spun gold in the autumn, were the sentinals, in which squirrels happily pranced and climbed upon, and cardinals, blue jays, and tiny brown sparrows called their home. Although wild and almost jungle-like, Giselle was able to tame what she could, and she left to run unruly the vines and prettily flowered weeds she could not control. Roses of every color, deep scarlet, light pink, and lemon yellow gracefully flowed over trellises, as multicolored gerbera daisies, their happy faces pointed toward the warm sun, created a rainbow sans the rain. Tall purple larkspur lined a stone pathway, as bright red geraniums danced in the summer breeze. Tiny lavendar asters grew about lofty sunflowers that happily provided sweet nectar for the fat droning bumblebees that buzzed upon them. Butterflies fluttered upon zinnias and marigolds, as the hummingbirds flickered above paper-white azaleas. Another glorious day, Giselle thought, as she strolled leisurely through her heaven on Earth.
It would be a moon-garden of white flowers only, glowing under a full moon. It would never be found in the same place; neither would it ever look the same: sometimes huge and sprawling; sometimes small and intimate. There would be foxgloves taller than me; thick hedges of tea roses which would hide the rest of the garden from view; tiny lily of the valleys dotting the ground like pebbles marking my way. And there would always be one flower, not easy to find, lit from within by a brilliant opal fire. It would slowly swell open and on each of its petals would be tiny spider-silk writing telling a story of wonder, of landscapes, of adventures beyond any I could imagine.
(I wasn’t sure whether this was open to overseas participants – I’m in Germany. Fully understand if it’s not. Thanks!)
My nine year old self did it best, I think. Round the outside of my childhood garden, a border of Pinks was set in to keep the fairies out. (No fairy could go farther with such an enticement to stop and clip at those delicate petals.) The next line of defense were two overgrown bushes of rosemary and mint, soldiers of Mars. Both for protection, for cleansing, of fire. Safe in the center of my little plot, a Bleeding Heart’s stalks bent emotive blooms over a graveyard of broken dolls and cat-caught chipmunks.
My garden would be a dreaming garden where all the flowers, herbs and sagacious weeds would speak to me each night and tell me their stories. From the Old English Tudor Roses, I would ask if the War of the Roses caused any family feuds, much like the Capulets and Montague’s and do they need any family counseling to mend old thorny wounds. I would ask my little Hearts-ease what I needed to do to heal a broken heart of long ago that still ached in the summer months. I would talk to Rosemary and ask her if Ophelia really did use her to remember anything logicial before she decided to become the owls daughter. My Monkshood and Foxglove would whisper the secrets of the Fae who gathered each night and danced under their petals. And I would tell one of my most favorite flowers of all, the little modest, Wallflower that really she was quite beautiful and charming and just because the other flowers were showier or rambled on and on, that she didnt’ have to do anything but to be herself and she was a treasure unto herselft.
Thank you Theodora for such a wonderful opportunity to not only win the books but I also have loved reading other’s comments.
Good luck to everyone!
Imaginary Garden
A Better Copy …
The Absolute Last Rose Of Summer
To find my garden you would have to follow a path of crescent moons pressed into the grassy loam by wild horse hooves. A strand of golden hair snagged from a banner tail and caught in the branches of a hawthorn, a tuft of silver tugged from a velvet coat by the grasping boughs of a holly hedge ~ these are signposts proving the trail. A curtain of wild ivy hides the entrance, stretched across a gate of tangled oak limbs and twisted birches. On the other side, willow trees and maples, ash trees and fir trees and cedars frame a clearing of soft grass.
There are no benches in my garden, but a fallen log on one side with a seat carved by the hands of time. Climbing roses screen a stone wall, relic of an old homestead and a promise that all things change. Violets and bleeding hearts and forget-me-nots hide in dim blue shadows while bolder black-eyed susans and flirting daisies and lilies of every color shine in brighter spaces.
In the center of my garden is an apple tree, the fruits of which may offer Truth, or Faith, or Freedom, or Courage…
…if the wild horses let you pass.
(forgot it was supposed to be one paragraph… I like short, brief paragraphs and just find myself breaking them up instinctively. Sorry! But it was fun to think about anyway, and good luck to everyone else!)
They call it the Night Garden, because in the stories no one is supposed to have read, night is the opposite of day—and day is all they know in the city, where the sun never sets. They call it the Night Garden because you aren’t supposed to go there, and in the stories no one is supposed to have read, children are supposed to stay out of the night. I have been to the Night Garden, and I have seen the setting sun.
The ground is not sand at all, like the rest of the world, but something soft and green that tickled my bare feet. A wet breeze tangled in my hair, and in the old stories they call that mist. There was a creaking swing that I sat on, and I moved back and forth, and listened to the wet breeze moan lullabies through the trees whose leaves reached for a black, but speckled sky. My eyes, so used to seeing the tired beige of the world, ached from taking in the colors: purple, green, gold, and something that I think is called turquoise. Most beautiful of all were the statues. There was a sad man whose beard was a beautiful blue fountain, but whose fingers clutched the hair of screaming women, and a woman made of marble that was so white, it seemed to be at once all the colors, and none at all—but her lips were so red I could have kissed her, and a dozing girl, whose finger bled real blood. In the cities, everyone is living, but no one is alive. In the Night Garden, like in the old stories, the wet breeze quenched a thirst I didn’t know I had, and the statues seemed to breathe.
This is a small garden in the great city of secrets. There is the reek of garbage and sickness in
the alleys and evil thoughts jumbled in lost minds. It is no place for a child. Yet the children do
survive for they find a way to get into the garden. Some come through an alley, led by thin wise
cats like shadows. Some discover the way by a tunnel under a rotting building. All in all they arrive
and breathe in the scent of mint, clover, certain flowers they cannot name and vines on trees
and no matter what the weather or time of day, there is always a blue sky and birds singing. There is a small playhouse with a mossy roof, and inside, a table set with tea party cups, teapot,
tiny sandwiches and raison cookies. Some play hostess or host and some go into the room with
all the books and some find the musical instruments they suddenly know how to play. Out on the
green lawn, surrounded by a thicket of thorns, they tell each other stories and how they will
escape their dangerous alleys and frightening shadows. The garden is where they invent a life
full of joy and magic and above all, how to live in danger and surpass it. This garden can be
found in many cities and you could pass by the children and never know where they go when
they are not seen.
I like this very much!!!!
You mean my garden story? Thank-you, shannonbluechristsen!
My pleasure!
Thank you for “putting yourself out there!” It takes guts AND imagination.
Take care
“If you have a garden and a library, you have everything that you need.” ~Cicero
It is a garden full of stories, this one. If you stand in front of the gates—wrought-iron, crested by words in a language you don’t recognize—and look through, it doesn’t seem so unusual. Chinese red birches and Mount Etna brooms, cinquefoil and hyacinth, lotus and foxglove: though beautiful, not everything here is safe.
Inside are stone benches and great swaths of grass situated just so beneath the shady overhang of the trees; no matter which way the sun moves, the shadows remain in place, and the air feels right, whatever your clothing. A massive fountain spouts water from a central statue into a large round pool. A statue of what? I cannot tell you what you see. For me, it’s an uncanny recreation of a woman I fell in love with pouring water out of a pitcher—an Aquarius of sorts. The sight comforts me as much as it breaks my heart. I told you there was danger here, didn’t I? And this place is not about me, not exactly.
Run your hands through the water. Cold, yes? On some days, the water is like the Styx—one sip and you forget, not everything and not forever, but for a while. That’s the nice thing about gardens and stories. The escape. Though it never can last. On other days, it’s like the Fountain of Youth, but not exactly. Rather than making you younger, it brings back memories with such perfect clarity, it’s like re-living them all over again. Perfect oblivion or perfect remembrance. Think long and hard before you drink.
The real draw, though, are the trees and the flowers. These are where the stories lie. On this leaf you’ll notice a word: Life. The veins somehow form letters. Botanists regularly clamor to get inside here, but why spoil the mystery? In autumn, when the ground is covered in gold and orange and scarlet, you can trample your way through a whole library. Smell the flower. Any one will do. You hear it, don’t you? A story. Building a world between walls. One artist’s imagination made manifest. The wrong skin. Breathe it in, and the more you’ll hear. Or take a little from here, a little from there. Make it your own. The stories don’t live in a vacuum. They need you to live.
I want to particularly point out the roses. The thorns? Those rekindle heartache. But the scent? Oh that transports you to the moment—or moments, if you’re a lucky sort—of purest joy. Love, often, but not always. Again, if you want to savor the good, you must risk the bad.
Whose garden is this? Mine? No, by no means. It belongs to everyone. Please visit again soon. Often. Tell people about it. If not, if this place is neglected…well. Everything here dies.
I forgot about the stipulation for one paragraph! Can I submit a revised version before the deadline?
Matt: I’m sorry, I didn’t see your note until after the deadline. I tried not to read the descriptions until I could read them all together, so I wouldn’t form any favorites before I’d read them all. But I didn’t penalize anyone for length, because these weren’t really all that long. And your description was one of the honorable mentions.
There’s a big oak tree, the kind with muscular branches, in one of the patches of clovery lawn. My Sky Chair’s hanging from one branch, with a table next to it, and while Sky Chairs usually turn you around so you face the tree and use your toes to kick off it and rock while you’re reading, I can swing around and see the various beds. There’s a perennial bed with lilies, Casablancas and Mona Lisas and those little Asiatic ones that come in all sorts of colors, and mine are deep red and orange. I like delphiniums, so there are those, and snapdragons that overwinter even in the Midwest– they do that if you don’t pull them up. Dianthus reseeding itself along the borders of the perennial bed, and alyssum and moss roses growing between the big flat sandstone rocks from Foreman’s Park in Mom’s hometown– this part of the garden is stolen straight from Mom, including the trellises covered in clematis. There’s also an ugly plant, the cana lily that looks like liver and bile and has ridiculously orange iris-shaped flowers; all of us have at least one if we have enough outside to support it. And daisies with bright white petals and hollyhocks that fall over, and sunflowers, mammoth grey stripes staked up to anything tall enough to hold them and shorter, thinner ferals that attract goldfinches rather than squirrels.
Down the hill from that, but not as far down as the fence covered in all the morning glories, is the garden inspired by Ursula Vernon: native plants, meant to attract insects. There aren’t really terrible invasives anywhere in the garden, but this section is more along the lines of a very ornamental prairie restoration than anything. There are more milkweeds there than anywhere else, but there are milkweeds all over the place because I like the seed pods.
There are no dayliles except on the other side of the fence down the hill. Don’t like ‘em, won’t have ‘em.
There’s a water feature somewhere, a pond fed by a moss garden, because I am the person who dawdles in the moss-and-gymnosperm section of the botanical gardens, cooing over sporophyte generations. There are some vegetables mixed in where I wanted a plant and figured bell peppers or cherry tomatoes would work, and there’s always a pumpkin because what else is compost for but surprises? Ooh, and hostas in the shade, all kinds.
But you know, the important part of the garden is the Sky Chair I can sit in and look at it, even if the actual garden is two squares of raised bed vegetables, a string of day lilies, morning glories on the chain link, and windchimes hung on the clothesline. The important part is the one where I sit and read a book and look at plants, maybe with a dog to dig a hole and lie in it.
I would have a riotous English garden, which would be magical because it would survive in Southern California, where I live, without using up the entire city’s water supply.
It would be Tardis-like, because I have a small yard. Roses and lavender and a yew walk and a hedge maze and a rosemary labyrinth and fountains and a stone bridge over a small stream and lush tendrils of ivy all would fit. More magic, clearly.
There would be peacocks.
There would not, however, be spiders. Or if there were, they would never, ever be remotely present when I was there.
There would also be a gardener. Or perhaps several. But the garden wouldn’t be perfectly trimmed, oh no. It would be half-wild, semi-tamed.
There would be oak and ash and thorn, brambles and blackberries, and an herb garden shaped like a spiral. There would be a grassy area to dance under a full moon.
I would say more, but I have a damaged tendon in my hand and am supposed to avoid typing…a serious problem for a writer.
If you could create an imaginary garden, what would it be like? Feel free to describe it, and be creative!
Enter my garden from one of the private rooms in the back; it cannot be seen from the main house. The main house displays Pacific panoramas exploding against the cliff-like and craggy – much like a dead coral reef – coastline. Some have told me they find this frightening. “The house is so close to the edge. Aren’t you worried about earthquakes or those big wave things?” At this, I smile and move to a different part of the room. Closer to the glass wall. I now know everything important about the speaker. The wall makes the ordinary feel safer, although I’ve noticed that no one stays terribly long after dessert to play the piano or lute or poker.
I’ve kept my garden small. Some would say it’s more of a large walkway than a garden. I fill it with stones and brick-brack I find when I travel, pieces of glass, smooth skipping stones. I open the glass wall in my room and walk out onto my still and permanent reprieve, and begin to follow it down the cliffs, down the crags and caves to my real refuge. My ocean which no one can own, direct, or encourage to grow. It does not slumber. It reflects peacefulness, indecision, and anger. Fear, even. And it speaks its mind. As I speak to it. We share our secrets, and then I return up the rocks, until the next day, when I confess to this powerful being all over again, and am miraculously granted absolution.
The garden obviously belonged to a person with many interests and a short attention span, for no two parts of it were alike and nothing in it was completed. The pond, for instance: bordered at one end with beautifully joined and polished stones, over which a fountain spurted from a bush cut into an impossibly detailed face, yet the other end of the pond shallowed into mud and mint, and the other side of the bush trailed off in spindly, sparse-leaved branches overcome at their ends by a pumpkin vine and two tipsy cabbages. One branch of the rosebush arched over a chair whose seat and arms were as polished as the pond’s rim, its back and legs still bark-covered, while the others flopped into an untrimmed knot of lavender and kale, next to a patch of velvet-smooth lawn half bordered by thyme and half-hidden by the meadow grasses that flopped into it. Everything was just the size for one small person to sit or paddle or pluck or lie in. It was, in short, a witch’s garden, and the garden of a clever witch at that. There was not a whole thing in it, not one item that any of the spirits dancing attendance upon her could take into itself and say ‘There I have you, now you are mine!’
If you go down a certain lonely alleyway off the busy streets of a certain city, you’ll come to a gate of twisted iron set between the walls of two unremarkable gray buildings. If you look closely, the iron forms swirls of roses, crescent moons, and strange words from a language you don’t know but that seems somehow familiar. Behind these forms you can make out wild brambles, perhaps a flower or two, but the alley is dark and you wish you could see more but the gate is locked. You can’t resist teasing out the sounds of the words however, and as you do the gate swings open unexpectedly. You tentatively take a step inside and find a tangle of flowers, particularly wild roses and ivy, crawling all over the sides of the buildings. You recognize the smells of a few of the herbs you notice growing at your feet, each carefully labeled in a swirling hand. In the center of the small square of space there is a cracked fountain and a bench with a few battered books and a chipped tea cup, as if someone was just here but left in a hurry. You look around quickly, expecting someone to be watching you, but only catch the silent swish of a tail out of the corner of your eye.
I live in a garden meant for others. No, it’s not a shame. I have been called many things in my life, but “Green Thumb” is certainly not one of them. No, the garden is meant for you and you and even you. I am only here to pull you back out and remind you of what you are leaving behind. I’m sure your family and friends would notice if you went missing and we can have none of that. Stop being so selfish. Others have been waiting for decades and they deserve their chance just as much as you do. They need a chance to cultivate their own space and spend their time however they choose. Do I need my own space? Yes, of course I do. What is it? Well, I have no idea. I must see everyone else’s garden first.
Like all good gardens should be, it is a labyrinth. A steep hedge folds out in various paths, so many paths that it always feels larger inside the garden than on the out, almost a world of its own.
The hedge is what is known as a “library hedge”; in its sides grow books, their spine edges out, so that the hedges themselves resemble both library shelves and Christmas trees. The text in the books is incomprehensible, of course; nature writes their words in the language of evolution, in glyphs no human will live long enough to directly comprehend. And yet the hedge whispers and coos, using the wind that blows through them to speak to passersby, and if you ask nicely enough it will answer questions and translate the books, its children–provided you promise not to take them away.
One book, the wisest and youngest, is willing to explore the garden with you. The hedge gives its blessing.
In between the walls, wide chambers break suddenly upon your path like clearings in a dark wood. In these clearings, colourful flowers grow wildly amidst the white marble ruins of a long-passed ancient culture. The flowers, if they are viewed close, are fractals that lead down deeper to further fractals; you and your book companion could explore even the smallest petal for a year, if you’d like. The ruins themselves display complex mix of architectural styles, suggesting that an interesting mix of cultures once inhabited the space of the garden. Perhaps they built it? Perhaps it built them? Half-buried amidst the marble ruins lay artefacts of an uncertain but ancient origin alongside strange bits of metal and other more complex materials, half-broken devices that may have come from long ago or perhaps from some day to come. Even the hedge cannot tell you the nature of these artefacts–they are before its time, or perhaps after–but it is very willing to help you work out the solution for yourself.
There are many mysteries to parse out, but in time you and your book companion might explore and think long enough to find solutions for the simplest of these. These solutions, in turn, would lead you down a dark shaft hidden below the ruins, into a world of discoveries where in every petal of every flower of that world, every blade of grass or crumbled stone, you could explore for a year or more and find another world, and greater mysteries, if you’d like. Or you might simply rest on your coat on the green grass in the shade of a broken statue of a forgotten queen, content to remain surrounded by the enigmas, reading your book companion, surrounded by whispers, the hedge’s rustling voice.
My imaginary garden would bloom on a cliff by the sea, wind-tossed grasses rippling like the tides, sinewy petals washed with salt. Sea roses would shiver nearby, while one could wade through wispy reeds, mossy-warm fingers brushing upon bare legs. Shells and sea glass would speckle the ground, pearl and alabaster seeping into the soil, until lilies would sparkle with irises of bright stone. Siren combs, they would be called, bouquets strewn with the tangled gifts of waves and seaweed; the shoreline would rustle with these shawls of silvery leaves.
Only in this place could I hear the swell and sigh of each flower reaching toward the sea, opalescent and scented by rain.
I spent a week gathering and sorting the stepping stones. The garden is so small it felt a little claustrophobic, and I thought a path might solve that. Of course it’s a short path—just a few steps—but I used large stones where the path starts, and then gradually smaller stones as the path curves behind a trellis of clematis (just wide enough to hide the spot on the courtyard wall where the path ends). From where I sit at my little breakfast table, the illusion that I’m in a tiny nook of some much larger garden is compelling. So compelling, I’ve grown afraid to follow the path. What if the larger garden doesn’t have a path back?
I live in a small, elderly, untidy cottage, filled with cats and books and yarn, built in a space carved from the forest. My garden is a glorious confusion of herbs and flowers, vegetables and the occasional fruit tree (persimmons!) . . . and it bleeds into the woods on all sides, where the squirrels chase each other up and down the trees (and in their spare time bury black walnuts everywhere), and the jays screech from the branches when they see me come out, and the cats stalk mice in the underbrush. There’s a groundhog living under the front porch; I feed him apples and peanuts during the warm months, and he confines his depredations to the patch of greens planted near his house, and the clover in the path. There is a patch of nettles down near the beehives, and my medicinal herbs spill out from that, and behind them is a tangled patch of black raspberries, and a few blackberry bushes. The kitchen garden is just outside the back door; I can go down two steps and out the stepping-stone path down to the rosemary bush, clipping this and that as I go. Below that are vegetables: cucumbers and squash and lettuce of all kinds, tomato plants on a long trellis, tepees of beans and corn, rows of onions, and half a dozen hens scratching industriously between the rows and nipping the occasional bite of a green leaf. There’s a huge old fig against the south side of the house, and flowers everywhere: clove pinks and gillyflowers, lad’s-love and kiss-me-over-the-garden-gate, daisies and foxgloves, daffodils and crocuses and little wild violets that make lovely jam in the spring, hummingbird sage and Michaelmas daisies in fall, moss roses and lemon balm rampant along the path, and a bed of cowslips and lungwort under the maple tree . . . there are clumps of feverfew everywhere, pots of geraniums on the back porch, a spill of thrift over the edges of an old birdbath, and bird feeders hung in any tree I could reach. The cats and I sit on the front porch beneath the Japanese wind bell and the hanging baskets of petunias (grown from seeds my grandmother gave to me), and watch them, hour by hour, while I knit innumerable hats and contemplate my unbelievable luck at this, my one and only life, just as I dreamed it.
Under a string of white lights, a bench wraps around black roses, orchids, calla lilies, which wait for snow like warmer gardens wait for sunlight. When flakes finally drop they stretch and drink them in like moonlight and buttermilk and smack their leaves against the dew.
Their petals fall; they wind their roots into a pattern of icicles that feel as lonely in the springtime as a warmer garden feels under an unforgiving wall of ice.
This is the garden springtime has forgotten, and this is how it waits for the relief of frost.