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| my first rose of the season |
The
short story this week centres on a garden, a far more planned and perfected one
than mine. Nevertheless, all is not as it seems in paradise…
His Xanadu
The air
is warm and sweet with the subtle scents of pine and citrus mingled with just
the right amount of frangipani. Michael breathes it in slowly, each step of his
sojourn in the garden of his dreams bringing a new and exquisite cocktail of
fragrance. Living perfume, he says to himself. As glorious, as perfect as the
forms of the plants which offered these delectable aromas, as the fluorescence
of the flashing wings of parrots fluttering among the delicate marble turrets
above him, as the melodious thrummings of the harp strings hidden within those
spires.
How he had laboured to build his
dream, the palace to surpass the fabled pleasure-dome of Kublai Khan himself.
He had planned, he had sought craftsmen inculcated in the mastery of their
trade, sourced the matchless materials, he had watched and inspected,
corrected, even demanded parts rebuilt until the dream was satisfied. Now all
that remained to be done was to revel in the feast to his senses that unfolded
each waking day within his paradise, his Xanadu.
Scanning again the indescribable
beauty all around him, his senses heightened, Michael notices movement on the
path ahead of him. Looking more closely, he sees a Rottweiler nosing something
on the ground, something small and living. He steps closer, still more
conscious of the mellifluous tumble of the crystal stream than the rumble of
the dog's response to its toy.
The dog plays with a mouse. Michael
watches absently, his well-ordered paradise still joyful. Suddenly the dog
jumps, pouncing almost catlike on the small creature, and Michael is roused
from his reverie. The worrying of the great black beast at the defenseless
mouse stirs a gust of passion within the man.
'Leave it alone, Shadow,' he
commands. The dog pays no attention.
The contempt of the dog goads
Michael to unpremeditated action. He picks up a stone from the gravel bed next
to the path, an angular weight of pink marble which fits comfortably into the
crook of his fingers, and throws it at the black dog.
Now the dog heeds him. An initial
yelp, a savage bite, and then its tail between its legs and its nose dripping,
it looks at Michael. Waiting.
Michael's sight is fixed on the
spreading drops of bright blood splashing onto the pristine white of the paved
path. Worse is the sporadic thrashing of a piece of grey fur at the dog's feet.
Michael's stomach clenches.
He strokes the dog's head. 'Poor
Shadow, your snout is hurt.' The dog's tail thumps once, twice. 'Go,' Michael
commands. The dog obeys, trotting off in the direction the man points, its
nails clipping the stone with a faint 'tick, tick' and a thin trail of blood
marking the way.
There by the misplaced stone lies
the mouse, broken by the bite of the surprised dog, neither dead nor alive. It
cannot stay, this blot, this insult to beauty, this illogic in the perfectly
logical. Michael wipes a suddenly sweaty brow. He is alone. He would have to
finish it off. His stomach lurches, the stench of flesh strong in his nostrils,
the ugliness of death taking place in the heart of beauty's realm a travesty
which offends him to the core. He will not allow himself to be sullied by this
act. He tears at a nearby tree, ripping a broad leaf from the bough,
splintering the soft timber. He nudges the leaf under the twitching rodent and
stands. With carefully controlled steps, avoiding the spattered trail, he walks
to the water and throws the malodorous bundle into the singing stream which
carries it away, out of sight.
Michael sighs, a deep breath as of a
man recovering from a blow to the chest. It is gone. He takes another path. Yet
he feels disturbed. How had his paradise been invaded by such ugliness? What
force is at work to disrupt and destroy the glory he has created?
He paces his paradise, oblivious to
its charms as he wrestles with foreboding.
Until next week…
Claire Belberg
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