In the Garden of Dreams

The crickets called softly in the night, and the water fell from the fountain as music. The first stars were emerging from the veil of blue dusk, and as she sat in the garden, among the twining vines bent with cascades of red roses, she felt as if she could touch them, and settle them as a crown upon her brow. They would be woven with the roses, and the soft twilight, and her skin would become the cool water in the fountain, her flesh the earth that held the vines anchored to this moment which felt eternal. The silence of the falling night and the breathless stars was heavy beneath the chords of the music of the garden and the darkening forest which bordered it.

She had escaped for the day, away from the work that made her hands raw and her heart heavy, for it did not feel like the work of the earth and her children, but the work of the fruitless and empty desires of man. She had worked among the vines, tucking and draping, cutting and tending the endless rows of the vast fields. Her brother and her sister worked beside her. They were too young to be in the fields, but without their help there would be even less to eat that evening.

As the sun set, she had slipped into her nicest gown, a bare wisp of white silk, a treasure of easier days gone before, finely woven and which draped her form like the petals of a long, elegant flower. Her mother watched her with a knowing and tired smile, as her tired hands prepared a meal from air and earth, a meal to nourish the little smiles which watched her patiently, as she watched them with eyes of love, and of sadness. The dress had been her wedding gown, given to her in days gone by, when she was a smiling and blushing red rose just beginning to taste the breath of life. She had given it to her eldest daughter, more beautiful than she felt she had been, even as the heavy work and the harshness of life and a relentless sun shone down on her bent in the fields, she would still rise gracefully and with kindness in her heart, when the work was done and she was set free as a bird from a cage.

Her daughter slipped away, beyond the dusty camps of the workers beneath the oak trees, as the sun was setting, and as the hunger ate into her, she breathed a sigh of leaving it behind, the hunger, the tired and cast down forms of poverty which she ran from, holding all that she loved and held dear and prayed for in her meditations. If she left now, as she often did in the evenings, there would be more for them. Her mother would leave a small plate for her, hidden away where she knew she would find it.

But none of that mattered now. She slipped beyond, away, into the fields, past the hungry hollow feeling in her, into a night that lived and breathed magic. The crickets and the last songbirds of the dusk were loud, and the dampened soil of the vineyards filled that air with the rich scent of growth and life from the earth.

She did not wander with any destination. She followed only the fleeting sense of beauty, as it ran with the light to hide in the deepening shadows, as one star winked in and another followed. She followed the feeling of the silk on her skin and where the crickets sang the loudest and where she could smell clear, fresh water. She felt she smelled a table, laid out in a feast, and that if she could only find it in the darkening woods, her family would never know hunger again. Her steps felt light and fleet as the steps of a deer, as she wandered deeper into the forest, an invisible force seeming to show her the way with soft breaths of the wind.

Then she heard it, the music of the fountain, the scent of the roses spilling their bouquet into the evening air rich with twilight. She ran, her steps light like a deer, from the forest into a beautiful garden, heavy with flowers and with fruit. There was a table there, low and set on the earth, beside the pool of clear water into which the fountain fell. Her gown shimmered in the dusk light, and as she stepped into the garden, her awareness washed in the mystery and sense of the sacred which permeated it, she looked as if she were a ray of light from the moon, or a spirit clothed in its own inner light. She was beautiful, and unaware of her beauty, like a feral animal too wild to give in to the pretense of vanity. She would bow beneath the weight of the world not in defeat, but in humility, and would not let the unkindness of others become her unkindness. She looked all around the world and saw mystery, and beauty, and she dedicated her life to understanding and mirroring its beauty back to it through what she saw to be beautiful; patience, kindness, forgiveness, compassion, and deep and true love and reverence for all of life and its balance. She looked within and without and saw only magic and love all around, even as suffering and violence ruled the hearts of men and the stories of the time she lived in.

She went into the garden, and she kneeled before the fountain. A statue of a deity sat behind the fountain, presiding over it. It was that of a goddess, smiling in joy and compassion. She was of white marble, as was her gown, long and flowing like the petals of a divine flower. She melted to the earth beside the fountain, the table beside her, and felt as if she stared at an image of the mother of all, the mother of silent love before her, blessing her with the love of a mother to a child.

She sat and prayed with the blessing of the mother before her. She prayed for her family, for her fellow workers in the fields, for all the animals and children of earth. She felt the love of the mother flow through her, as if she was the mother and also the child of all.

She heard footsteps, the snapping of twigs, and turned from her reverie. Emerging from the shadowed forest was a young man, arrayed in a doublet of black velvet. His boots were of fine leather, and he moved with the grace of a cat. In his hand he held a lantern that lit his face with its flickering light.

As their eyes met, she felt her heart, flickering as if it were the flame of the lantern, and for a moment she felt breathless, as the stars that were almost now fully emerged overhead must feel.

She recognized him, and as she did she lowered her gaze. It was hard to look away from his eyes of deep, soft grey. She felt as she had gazed into them that she was being pulled as if by a magnet. He was the son of the vineyard owner, the ruthless man who would not heed the plight of those that kept his fields green and fruitful. She and the son of that man were of the same age, and had sometimes seen each other from afar. She did not think that he had ever noticed her, covered in the dust of the fields.

He was silent, as he came to sit across the sunken table from her. He set down the lantern, and a dark glass bottle.

“This was my mother’s garden.” He said, and his voice was low in a murmur, and musical like the fountain. She felt her breathing quicken, slightly, against her will. “And this is the wine of my father, and of the hands of your people.” He said as he gestured to the bottle.

“Iyana. It is alright to look at me. Please.” His voice was pleading, and gentle.

She looked into his eyes again, and joy filled her heart as their gaze met. She knew certainly that he felt the thrill as well. But it was nothing that they could do anything about. She was of the indentured class, and he was born to wealth.

“How is it that you know my name?” She asked.

“I have wondered about you since we were young. And I carefully and slowly found the details of your life and your family. I know what you go through, Iyana. I am sorry.”

Her cheeks burned, in anger and in shame, to know that he knew. And did nothing. While he feasted at endless tables, they struggled to survive.

He saw the indignity in her eyes, and the resignation to a lifetime of sorrows.

“Meet me here, when you can, Iyana. I can do nothing to change my father’s ways now, while he is still in power. This was my mother’s garden. She passed when I was young. Since then he has seen no light nor the suffering of others. He can only see darkness, only speak darkness, and only create pain.”

And as she looked into his eyes, she saw a sorrow that matched hers. A different wound, of equal harm. And within those eyes, grey like clouds, she saw a determination, and a kindness, and a hope for the future, and a great laughter.

“Meet me here, when you can. I will come every night. And when we meet I will tell you of the more beautiful world I wish to create. The world I wish to create with you. We do not need to stay here. We can leave this place, and leave it healed, perhaps. Perhaps there will be enough for everyone, someday. I see a better future for all, and us, creating it, together.”

He reached for the wine. As he opened it, the aroma spread into the air. “This is Merlot. Grown from the earth, and from the hands of those who suffer.” It smelled of roses and musk, and the smell was intoxicating. He poured some to earth, and to the deity in the fountain with a murmured prayer.

Then he handed her the bottle. It was her first sip of wine, of the grapes that she tended with her life’s blood. It’s heady aroma engulfed her senses, and with it she became even more aware of his closeness, his smell. She handed him back the bottle.

“I will come to you, and we will dream, and create together. I see it too.” She said. “The future.”