A Garden of Silence - Part 1
Fantasy Fiction by Sabrina Rosen
I’ve been moving the blog so, in apology for not delivering stories for a few weeks, Here’s this one for free. It’s one of my favorites. I’ll be back on track next week.
Orest watched the world go by from behind the bars of his rolling prison.
“I don’t see the point of this,” he called out to his captors. Not for the first time.
They had been bouncing along for days.
“Why take an old man?” He demanded. “I’m nobody. I have no one. There will be no ransom, and I can’t get much work done. I’ll be useless as a slave! I’m just an old stone carver!”
They ignored him as they had every other time he opened his fool trap of a mouth. Sighing he leaned back against the wall of the cart.
They shoved food and fresh straw through the door, but did not always give him time to push the soiled straw out. It was piled more or less in a corner, and he counted himself lucky that he had some that was clean.
Age granted perspective. One had to look for the good, or there would be nothing to see at all. But he missed his little house with its vegetable garden, and the butterflies that visited this time of year. It was small and snug, and perfect for him. They had been traveling for days and he was not at all sure he could walk back home even if he managed to escape. He pushed that thought away as something he could not afford.
The sound of the wheels changed, crunching on a different surface.
Struggling to his feet, Orest clung to the bars. There was a man along the side of the road, blurred in Orest’s fading vision.
“Hey! Hey! Where am I?”
But the man was naked, and did not answer. Did not turn his head. Did not move at all. As the cart rolled by Orest got a look at his frozen features.
The man was not a man, but a statue. More accurate and realistic than anything he had ever cut from the soft-stone he had once used for carving. Whomever had made it was a master. The work however, was unpleasant. Its eyes bulged and its mouth was open in a silent scream.
Who would want such a thing?
The cart rolled through a grove of trees, a manicured wilderness with a road covered in crushed shells.
Through the trees he made out another figure. This one seemed to be in mid-stride, one foot resting on the ground, the other lifted for the next step. The head was turned so he could not make out the features.
“What is this place?” He yelled. His captors were silent.
They emerged from the trees and Orest smelled salt air.
Now there were other figures. From what he could make out, many were surrounded by small formal gardens.
They passed close to one that was filled with lavender and other soft purple flowers. In the center a figure knelt. He looked upward, a pleading expression on his face.
The cart rolled on.
Then stopped.
Expecting some sort of grand structure, Orest saw nothing but a cave in a hillside with a small chest sitting beside the entrance.
Still saying nothing, his captors unhitched the horse, strapped the chest to its back and left.
Orest watched them go, not bothering to call after them.
He waited, tense, swollen fingers clenching on the bars.
Nothing happened.
Finally, he sat back down. It would have been really nice to do his business outside. At least he could pee out of the cart. Again with the looking for positives.
The sun sank. Orest’s belly growled. His kidnappers had not left him any food.
Darkness wrapped around the cart, the new moon giving little light.
Something scraped in the tunnel.
“Turn thy eyes away,” said a voice.
“From where? Are you going to let me out?”
“I will let you out. But you must not look upon me. It is not yet time.”
She was impatient for her delivery. It made no sense for this waiting to bother her. She had all the time in the world. But she wanted her new sculpture now, and it could take days to get the subject into the correct position. She was willing to concede that it was not always easy to find exactly what she wanted, and she had been very specific about the wrinkles.
Ah! The crunch of shells told her he was here.
Rearing back on her muscular tail, one hand resting on the smooth wall, she listened. When the cart had been unhooked, and the their hoof beats faded completely, she slithered up toward the opening, taking care to keep her face out of any light. She did not want him to see her too soon. That would ruin everything.
They had done well, her procurers.
This one was old. She could see the sharp lines around his mouth, and his knobby fingers around the bars. Slumping shoulders were topped by a nearly bald head.
This had been worth the wait. He was perfect.
Having another hour before sunset, she went back down the tunnel to work on the garden design. She was still not quite happy with it and this one required something special.
And she wanted darkness for their first meeting.
When the sun was gone, and the moon not yet risen, she slid once more up to the mouth of the cave. “I will let you out, but you must not look upon me. It is not yet time.” She told him.
“Can’t see much anymore, but all right.” The old man muttered.
She had forgotten that sight dimmed with age. Still, he wasn’t blind. Waiting for darkness was best.
“Turn thy face away from the door, and the cave. I will open it and return within. You may follow. There is a hot spring where you may bathe, and there is food.”
She tried to be a good hostess. The ride was long, and her procurers not as kind as she would have liked. Unlocking the door, she slithered back inside. Behind her she heard him step down before she had all of her tail inside, and wondered what he had made out in the darkness. Picking up the pace to stay ahead, she paused halfway down the tunnel to listen for his progress.
“Would some light be out of the question?” He asked from the cave entrance, his voice quavering. “I’m an old man. If I fall, I might not be able to make it down there on my own.”
Something she had not considered. The others in her garden were all physically well. She had been thoughtless.
“I apologize. Await. I will go to the end and light a torch. The way is smooth and not steep.”
“What should I call you? Master?”
“Euryale. I am Euryale.”
Lighting the torch, she slipped behind some pillars shaped with ancient sorcery and watched the steaming pool in a polished sheet of metal. As long as she did not look directly at it, she was safe.
She still missed her sister, Medusa.
The man limped into the cavern, leaning on the wall as he moved. “They took my cane. Do you have a stick or something I could use?”
“The spring is healing. Should you need one when you emerge, I will provide one. New clothes rest by the side.”
“Well at least I can get clean. Thank you Euryale. Whatever you are…” The last was said softly. So he had guessed, or seen her tail.
“Bathe, eat, rest. We shall speak in the morn.”
“A cane?” He asked again, persistent.
“The bed is nearby. I will bring one on my return.” Leaving the torchlit chamber, she moved into the darkness, closing a door behind her.
The spring felt wonderful. He was sure to die soon but at least he would be out of pain for a while. Orest had no idea why a Gorgon wanted him, but death could be the only end point. He had seen the tail as it slipped into the cave mouth. Even with his blurry vision it was unmistakable. And it explained all the statues.
Still, she seemed far less aggressive than the stories suggested. He had heard no creak of leather armor, nor clink of metal, only seen hints of fabric and a flash of blond hair.
And her being a Gorgon did not explain the gardens. Or why him.
The food was good; berries, olives, and a hard, tangy goat cheese. Could Gorgons keep goats? Maybe they only turned humans to stone… he thought to himself.
Making his way to the pallet, he slept.
When he woke, it was to a beam of sun in his eyes. Holding up his hand, his head swam in confusion. He had been underground. Had he been moved as he slept?
But no, the light came from a polished sheet of metal that bounced light from a shaft he could not see. It probably only seemed bright because his eyes were adjusted to darkness. How did she keep from accidentally turning herself to stone with that?
Pushing himself up, Orest realized he felt better than he had in years. Stretching, he felt joints pop and move. Walking to the table where the remains of his dinner sat, he realized he did not need the promised cane, and he ate with appetite.
Sighing, he realized that it would have been easier to consider dying if he had been in more pain. A healing spring at this stage seemed a bit cruel, a promise unfulfilled. But then what would an immortal being know about such things?
Hearing a door open he turned and looked, then quickly averted his eyes. No sense in dying before he had to. Perhaps there would be a chance to escape now that he felt better.
“You may look upon me. I wear a veil over my face so that you may not be transformed. Speak your name Human. I would know the name of all who I add to my garden.”
So that was indeed to be his fate. His chest ached, as if a serpent embraced it.
“Orest. I don’t think I’ll make a good statue though. This spring is healing, but I don’t see myself running like the men I saw on the way in.”
Looking up he saw what he had expected. A woman’s torso rested on a thick serpentine tail, scales shimmering in the dispersed light. She wore a chiton on her Human half, and a veil hung from a gold diadem she wore on golden hair. Wasn’t her hair supposed to be snakes? Then he noticed movement and a small head popped up, tongue testing the air.
“That is not to be your fate,” she said, and his heart lifted, hope blossoming. “I would have you seated and at peace.”
Guts clenching, Orest said, “so I am not to see my home again.”
“It was my hope that you might view this as a blessing. A chance to die without pain. You would be remembered. I would… cherish your image in my garden. Perhaps if I show you…” She gestured up the tunnel with a slender arm.
Orest noted that Medusa had been presented in the stories as a warrior, with shield and weapons. Euryale was clearly not. Her shoulders were slender, her hands fine.
Well, perhaps outside would be good. He could get a better look around and see what possibilities might be revealed. He was not dead yet.
Nodding he walked up the tunnel in front of her. He did not fear the slithering behind him. She wanted something from him… compliance? And would not kill him just yet.
Walking without a cane made him feel nearly light-headed. How long had it been? Could he run? The spring had not smoothed the wrinkles in his skin, but his joints felt, well, normal. Orest thought he could run after all.
But that had not helped those other men, who were no doubt in much better shape than he. Snakes could move damn fast when they wished. He would wait and learn.
Euryale did not want him to run as Medusa’s victims had. She had to convince him to sit peacefully. She did not know how. Her other guests had all had a reason to become part of her garden. Despite his age, this one seemed to have no such wish.
Maybe the garden could speak for her.
Orest’s head shone in the sunlight as he left the tunnel. Pausing, he turned left and right as he surveyed her domain. Coming up beside him she said, “let me show you the one meant for you,” and moved ahead.
His footsteps crunched behind her on the path. He walked better now. She was glad she could give him some surcease from his pain.
They arrived at crescent shaped plot. Euryale had done the stone work of the low wall herself, and as proud of it as she was, she felt it was missing something.
Orest gestured to a large, flat stone at the center back of the plot, “is that where you would kill me?”
“Is it not restful?” Butterflies flitted about the white flowers on the tall bush behind the stone. Bees hummed on the lavender and lamb’s ears, and the scent of the lavender and other growing things filled the air.
“Why?” He asked.
Why? She stared at him, not understanding the question.
“Why kill people and then make gardens around them?”
“It is… all I can do for them.”
Now he looked at her with brows more wrinkled than before. “You could have let them live.”
“I wanted to. But my sister would not allow it.”
“Your sister. Medusa?”
“Yes, and my other sister, Stheno.”
“None of these men were turned to stone by you?”
She looked away from him, tilting her head down.
“So some were.” Orest said. Seeing the sadness in her, he wondered if there might be hope for him if they could just talk.
She nodded.
“Show me which ones,” he said.
Gliding through the paths, she led him to the first man she had turned to stone. “He thought he would slay us.” She told Orest. “There were three of us then. It was I who discovered what we could do. I meant no harm.” The man stood, arms hanging at his sides, an expression of surprise on his face. She had tried to match the garden around him to his expression, the flowers bright and playful.
Orest pointed at the plot next to this one where a man knelt, hands clasped, his eyes unnaturally wide, the lids pulled unnaturally high. “And this one?”
“Medusa.” Euryale whispered. “He begged for his life. She pulled his eyes open.”
The kneeling man was surrounded by a hedge of thorns. It had not been her best work. But she had hoped he might feel protected. Foolish. She could not assume his soul remained. No doubt he would have preferred Hades to staying where his life had been taken.
“Show me all of it. I want to see everyone who was turned. Not just yours.”
She did not understand why he wanted to see. Most were unpleasant despite her attempts. She suspected he was trying to gain time.
And what did it matter if he was? She had nothing but time.
The next one was bent and twisted, limbs pulled tight against her body in claws. She sat on the earth under a tree, surrounded by mosses. The roots curving around her small body.
“Why is she smiling?” He asked.
“She heard of what my sister did. She sought an end to her suffering. My sister would not. She said she would only turn men because it was a male who had hurt her. By the time this one came on her own, there were over a dozen men who had sought to slay Medusa. But Medusa would not turn this one. I did it.”
Orest looked at the girl for a long time. “Did she tell you her name?”
“Yes. I did not ask, but she told me.”
“And you remember it?”
“I remember all.”
They moved to the next where a warrior swung a sword. Bronze armor lay on the ground around him, the sword askew in his hand. His body was naked and muscular, his mouth open in a shout, teeth bared.
“Why are most of them naked? And why are some wearing clothes?”
“Only flesh and bone turn to stone under our gaze. All else rots away with time.”
“So I would be naked eventually as well?” He looked unhappy. She had not thought about this.
“Yes, but I could put new clothes on you when these become worn. If that is what you wish.”
“What I wish is not to die!” He snapped at her.
She said nothing.
The next few were all men. All Medusa’s work, which she told him.
“You said the ‘male’ who hurt her, not the ‘man.’”
“You know not the story?” Euryale was surprised, but realized she should not have been. How long had it been? How many generations had passed?
“Twas Poseidon who raped my sister, Medusa, in Athena’s Temple for the sake of her golden hair. We stood with her in her anger. Athena turned us all to monsters for our arrogance in being angry with a God.”
“And then Medusa was slain.”
She nodded, “By Perseus.” The veil that threatened to lift in the light breeze and she raised a hand to hold it down.
“And your other sister?”
“Gone. Seeking the God of the sea himself. It may be she has turned him to stone. I know not. Nor even if it is possible.”
“So you have been alone here for a long time.”
“I… it has been many years. I have not counted.”
Orest was silent as she slithered to the next garden. Another man awaited, this one grasping a spear raised high, the wood of the shaft bowed and grey, the point having already fallen to the ground. A vine curled around him which the old man studied.
“You know, you could have picked plants that would cover all of them.”
Oh. He was right. Why had she not thought of that?
Nodding she said, “I think that would please them. Come back to the cave. We will eat and I will plan corrections.”
He nodded. She did not even mind that he looked relieved. She ignored her own tiny spark of pleasure.
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Writing fiction is fun and compelling because I get to make worlds and characters that do what I want. It’s the only place I successfully get to be the control freak. Certainly, my cats don’t let me do that, although sometimes they humor me.