New Eden

Bigger than the cottage, probably three times its size, the greenhouse stands proudly over the pond and the empty rowboat. October faded, November sets in easily, and frost claims all the land. The curious growths inside the greenhouse peer out with bright faces pressed to the glass panes and the full leaves put handprints on the windows like children always do to shops and candy stores. Sickly yellow and orange poison ivy climb the greenhouse roof, blocking most of the view, though bleak sunshine still creeps through the foliage. The fountains inside gurgle and sputter with endless breath, flowing in small channels throughout the landscape, irrigating its inhabitants. The breathless air is humid and the floor is entirely dirt. A barefoot woman in sweeping lavender skirts stretches her legs, walking, ambling, wandering absentmindedly among the shrubs, trees, and vines. Everything grows wildly, entirely savage and natural. There is no organization to their plotting, the three convene together under the graceful boughs of the great willow tree in the center of the garden. Time, Death, and the Guardian Angel, familiarly called Mark, converse while quietly waiting for their guest of honor. She joins them, and they each fall silent in turn as she approaches. She seats herself on a navy blue cushion at the base of the trunk. Her abandoned journal sits beside her, a lazy page half-scrawled in permanent ink, carelessly unfinished. She heaves a deep sigh and looks at each friend in turn; Time, in a white toga, fixes his clear-gray eyes on her and smiles a bit. Death, in a white shroud, never blinks her green eyes. Mark, in a white cape and silver gladiator armor with thonged sandals and a sword at his side, gazes knowingly at the woman with deep, ebony eyes. She lowers her own eyes self-consciously and Time takes three steps toward her, leaning down to peer into her face.

“What’s wrong? Are we bothering you? Should we go?” He retreats three steps then does a dizzying turn on his heels with his chin in the air.

“No. I don’t want to be alone,” the woman bashfully admits. Death speaks up, though softly, and without glancing up.

“You aren’t alone.” Mark nods in agreement. Time has run off again. Though he looks middle-aged, he has a certain energy about him that always prevents any standing still. He seems electrified no matter where or how one encounters him. Death is the opposite; always calm, always still, but never as cold. She only ever seems just a little distant. Seated on a low stone wall a little apart from the group, she absentmindedly fingers a shriveled vine and her silky, silver and iron-gray hair escapes the shroud to trickle down her face and obscure her eyes.

When Time returns to the group, he is holding a few purple Lobelia blossoms. With a much rounder, fuller face than before, and more a golden tint to his hair, he draws close to the woman and adorns her with a few of the treasures he hunted, strategically placing them behind her ears and tangling them into some strands of hair.

“Now then, don’t you look like a pretty princess,” he smirks, then cackles, and gently caresses her cheek down to her chin, holding up her face to admire his work. She does not return his smile, but rather she stares with empty eyes and a racing mind at his ruddy cheeks. He drops his hand and frowns. Mark stares disapprovingly and unconsciously tenses the muscles throughout his torso. Nobody moves except for the babbling brook that mumbles melancholy musings, meandering among the white lilies behind Death’s back.

“None of the finest treasures of this world could make me a princess. None of the best doctors or most expensive treatments could stop this from happening to me. None of our lives could stop unwinding to give me just a moment’s peace, to breathe for just one second!” The woman’s voice cracks and she presses her lips together to keep the rest of her voice from flowing out in a cascade of resentful terror. Mark sits down cross-legged at her side, and places a caring hand on her knee, with tears in his eyes that he doesn’t try to hide.

Time is off again to some distant reach of the greenhouse tugging on vines and plucking up blooms from their earthly beds, gathering up the wildest bouquet of flowers. He is too short to reach most of the gems from the fruit trees, so he settles for some snapdragons at his feet, maliciously tearing them up by their green stems and shoving them into his fat, full fist. The woman doesn’t notice his antics, like the thoughtless, destructive, play of an easily bored child, or she would certainly tell him not to ruin her paradise. The woman pays him no mind at all. He comes back again, lolling, strolling, creeping like the vines trailing out of his hands. He inspects the mess of snapdragons, abatinas, begonias, and columbines, carefully removing a stalk of withered snapdragons. He gently lays down the rest of the bouquet and sits down next to Death. She scoots away from him multiple times, but he pursues her endlessly, plucking the tiny, dried pods to arrange upon her shroud. Eventually, she stands up, quite bothered, and wanders away languidly. Time is abandoned with a pod left between his fingers, watching her quiet march. After he presents the bouquet of snapdragons, abatinas, begonias, and columbines to the woman, he slinks off, trailing after Death in the hopes of catching her. Mark stands up confidently and extends a warm hand to the woman on the cushion with a calm smile and a downward nod. She looks up to him, overcomes her fatigue, and grasps his hand, willing herself to move, and rising gently until the top of her head is level with Mark’s chin. He releases her hand, but keeps his gaze locked onto her, waiting to follow her lead.

Time is laughing across the way, rudely plucking the tiny green leaves off of a Redwood sapling. When the Guardian Angel and the woman approach, he hides his hands behind his back and tosses the ruined leaves to the ground where they will grow no more. Time smiles innocently and the woman frowns more deeply than before.

“Why so serious?” Time asks harshly.

“You know,” he continues, without anyone’s permission, “I just don’t get you. I can’t understand this melancholy, this excessive preoccupation and planning and pouting through it all. I tried to be your friend, I came by your little cottage every day to visit and all you did was wish me away, send me away, ignore me… until now. Now you need something from me, you tell me you need more of me, all of me! I have nothing to offer you except the gift of my constant presence. Will you accept that?”

He is almost comforting as his tone softens with the question, but her tears still escape freely. He plucks a red aster from nearby, and gently raises the woman's hand with his own soft, shriveled, wrinkled hand to place the flower in her palm, then he walks off again. Mark removes a gladiolus flower from his pocket and places it in the woman's palm, then he stands at her side with quiet confidence. Lastly, death draws near and she places a white lily in the woman’s palm, then she smiles very softly and says,

“Be not afraid. He is waiting for you.”