The Beauty of Nature

As a child, I lived down the road from an older house, a large multi-storied townhouse that was built before I was born. It’s builder, Mr. Feld, lived in this house until his death recently. I couldn’t find an obituary though. Sitting on my childhood home’s porch, I remarked the beauty of Number 35’s garden, which was in surprisingly good condition to say that Mr. Feld had been gone for at least a year, and noticed towards the front a grand marigold towering above the other flowers on the beds. It’s bold colour contrasted with the comparatively stale hues of the rest of the yard. I stared at it for a moment, the world seemingly melting away around me as I was drawn into its yellow beauty, wafting in the wind, almost lifelike, when the moment was broken by the sound, and then sight, of a car passing on the road, slowing down and pulling up in the garage just by the house with the beautiful marigold, Number 35.

Mr. Feld tended to that marigold as if it was his own child. He never had a wife or children, as I remember, he just had his garden for which he cared for many years. It seemed to control his life, and everything he did was almost in servitude to that bright, hypnotic flower. I remember helping him as a child for some pocket money on the weekends, always tending to the garden, always looking after the marigold. This was merely the way he was, very proud of his garden, his own creation; though his neighbour, the old kook Harold, was convinced this was for nefarious reasons; that the marigold was in some way evil. The community generally sort of ignored Harold after a while, especially after Mr. Feld’s illness and death, when he claimed his body, mangled and deformed, was picked up in the middle of the night by ‘men in black suits’; however, most of the community saw the ambulance the day it happened. He would often be seen out on his porch, bottle in hand, staring at number 35, particularly that marigold, expecting it to jump up and run away or something of the like; anything to prove its true nature to him.

Harold used to speak to me on occasion, usually ranting incoherently about evil beings that find ways to ‘interface with reality’ as he put it. He was convinced that marigold was one of their vessels, often speaking of Mr. Feld and how he would speak to the yellow watchman in the middle of the night, in hushed tones. He’d catch you absent-mindedly walking through the estate, waiting to talk your ear off about his latest theories concerning the marigold.

I always dismissed what Harold said about the flower, after all, it was just that.

That car which passed me by while staring at the marigold was that of the new owners, the Larondes, a city couple with two and a half children, well off, middle class; the typical kind of people who were moving to this kind of area. Jean, the father, had just got a new job in Belforth and had brought his family for a new start in the rural estates of the country; his wife excited for the change of scenery, a decision they had spoken about for a long time I was to find out later. They were both youthful and dressed well, very clearly used to a certain kind of lifestyle. The son and daughter were at odds with each other, as a manifestation of their frustration for being forced out of their life of comfort in the city, to quiet and modest life of us country folk.

It was not a week into their stay in their new abode when Harold started causing some mild problems, complaining of property lines and the like, not once mentioning his strange relationship with the marigold that stood above the other plants in the garden; not until one morning he came out and warned Jean of the yellow growth that towered above the bushes.

From what I could hear, it appeared that Jean had started exhibiting similar behaviours to that of Mr. Feld; coming out in the night and speaking to the plant in hushed tones, as if about something confidential, and then listening for a response. Jean had no memory of it, and really became concerned about his neighbour, especially considering that Harold had been watching in the night. What initially started off as a friendly conversation eventually descended into Jean telling Harold to get off his property in no uncertain terms. He was always watching, always there to make a comment on something, whether the house needed work or there was a bit of litter that blew onto his drive. It always came back to the flower though. He tried warning of its influence, citing strange texts that quite frankly seem made up; he was absolutely convinced of the marigold’s power.

Though these incessant ramblings generally fell on deaf ears as Jean and his family began to tune Harold out, much to his frustration.

It was shortly after this time that Jean would start tending the garden. He had never seemed like that sort of person, he didn’t have any tools when he moved in, but soon enough, he had filled the garage with all this new equipment, that a month prior would not have stirred any interest.

Increasingly over time, Harold would try to intervene with Jean’s incessant attempts at upholding the beauty of the garden. It had truly developed in his time in the neighbourhood, many colours stood out amongst the constant green bushes; blues, reds, and purples in indescribable combinations resonated in natural beauty in contrast to the stoic wooden house of which they sought to accentuate the qualities. Yet it was this marigold, the yellow beauty, standing tall above the rest that usually caught the eye of passersby. It’s possible influence shone through the clouds of skepticism in the third week of the Laronde’s stay in our neighbourhood. I had become acquainted with Jean and Sara, whose initial enthusiasm for a new life was soon dampened. She would make passing comments about the importance of the garden, and how that flower, the strange growth, would make her feel uneasy as she would pass it to enter the house, as if she was not welcome. Jean on the other hand seemed to be living in bliss, though his appearance was faltering; dark shadows brewed beneath his eyes.

I soon found out Jean was not going to work, citing illness, yet that wouldn’t stop him from tending to his marvellous front yard.

His obsession with the yard clearly strained his relationship with not only Sara, but his children, who seemed to increasingly spend more time out of the house. In contrast, the garden was blooming, blossoming wondrously and it was when I was entranced in viewing such a beautiful scene walking past when Harold caught my eye. He was on his porch as I walked past number 35, glass of whisky in hand.

“You know what I mean now?”, Harold almost barked at me with a smokey husk in his voice.

“About what?”, I asked, almost sighing as I already knew what this was about.

“The flower… it changes people,” he stated blankly.

For a moment we stood in silence, I didn’t know what to say, but I think I started to understand. He took a swig from his glass.

“You see, young lad. You wouldn’t remember this, but I’ve seen this before,” Harold smirked curiously, “Mr. Feld used to be a family man too, before he brought that flower back with him.”

“He… had a family?” I asked, dumbfounded. How did I not know this? I spent many days with him as a child, tending to his garden with him, but never did he mention a family.

“Some say she left him for a man the next town over.” Harold almost whispered to me, “Others say that she couldn’t handle it anymore and took her own life… the kids went into a home.”

The wind picked up in the moment, and the tinkling of the wind chimes broke the tense silence that lingered after Harold’s statement. He downed what was left of his whiskey, slightly wincing afterwards.

“But it was that damn marigold, I tell ya!”

And there we were, back to the marigold. It was curious however that Mr. Feld had never mentioned his family to me, something traumatic must have happened for him not to have never mentioned them.

I was just about to ask Harold about Mr. Feld, when he stated his plans for the evening,

“I’m going to cut it down, end this… I can’t see another family be destroyed by that damn flower. I think I’ve got it right, I just need to…” He trailed of into mindless ramblings as he went back into his house on realising his drink was empty.

A very standard encounter with Harold, though what concerned me is that I knew what he was talking about now. He was always somewhat animated but this particular time he seemed determined. It was difficult to not believe what Harold was saying had I not kept my feet firmly on side of skepticism. It was very possible that Jean could be having a hard time adjusting to life out of here. He was certainly looking better, if not a bit more vacant, I guess one would say. I do worry for his wife, it must be difficult for her and the kids.

Somewhat later in the evening I was sat on the porch by myself, the sun was hanging low in the sky ready to dip beneath the horizon for it’s nightly journey in the underworld. I saw Harold sneaking in the shadows with some garden shears. The sky was clear, a beautiful hue of almost otherworldly qualities. He approached his neighbours garden, and as soon as he passed the threshold, within reaching distance of that flower, a dark cloud manifested itself above, directly above number 35 it seemed. Quickly, Harold reached over with his shears, and snip. The yellow marigold fell to the ground softly, gracefully, as the wind cradled it on the way down. The cloud gradually dissipated, as those sickly sweet yellow petal had landed on soil beneath.

Clearly overjoyed with himself but also afraid of some possible repercussions from that which is unseen, Harold jumped up quickly and ran back to his own, firmly shutting the door behind him and dead bolting it. I don’t think he noticed me, but then again, I don’t think it was me he was concerned about, or Jean even, who happened to be staring out of the bedroom window, almost in shock, stuck there, frozen. Soon enough, I decided to go to bed, as I had to be up to return to my city in the morning.

The next day was surreal. In the early hours the police were outside Harold’s house, along with an ambulance. The crew stated that he had an accident which resulted in his breaking his neck, that’s all they could tell me due to the fact that I wasn’t family, though they couldn’t get in contact with the those whose details they had.

His body, mangled and deformed, was carried out by the emergency crew, and put into the back of the ambulance. When it pulled away, my gaze was brought back to that flower.

I remarked the uncanny beauty of the marigold, yellow and bright, that stood in the garden of number 35. It’s dazzling beauty in the morning sunlight was magnificent, as it towered triumphantly above the other flowers. The world around me almost melted away when I noticed Jean stood in his window, a sinister smile resting insidiously on his face as he watched Harold’s body be driven away.