Dispatches from the sunburned wastelands

I used to write a story every Christmas, and we would send it to our friends with their Christmas cards. This year nothing happened, so here is one of the older stories:

The King’s Gardens

Once upon a time there stood a statue of an angel in an old garden, high on the hills above a small fishing village on the Mediterranean Sea. The gardens once belonged to a wealthy businessman, who liked to walk the gardens at dusk, when the cool air from the sea was creating a nice breeze in the hills above the coast. The businessman loved his gardens, and you could find him there all the time, planting olive groves, cypress trees and even big rose bushes. The townspeople talked amongst themselves about this, and they could not understand why he would spend so much time and money on a garden. You could not even eat the plants he grew there, they said to each other. Once some people asked him about the gardens, but he just laughed. Is it not written, he asked in return, that one should prepare one’s home and hearth for the coming of the future King? The people went away muttering to themselves, for they feared what might happen if the Romans were to get word of this extravagance. However, time passed, and the rich man met a beautiful woman, whom he married, and shortly thereafter she was with child.
“I know it will be a son, so that he may tend the gardens with me,” he said to his friends, and walked through his garden planning new water fountains, and all sorts of flowers. The time came for the businessman’s wife to deliver her baby, but something went wrong. Both his wife and the newborn baby boy died. The man was very sad, and tore up his clothes, and showered his head with ashes. He then went to walk in his gardens. Afterwards, some of the townspeople said they heard him talking to someone while he was there. The next day the rich man was missing. His friends and family searched all through the town, but he was nowhere to be found. Maybe he was still in the garden, they thought, but although they searched amongst the rosebushes, and olive trees, and around the fountains and waterfalls, they could not find him. All that they found was a new statue of an angel, perched on a pedestal in the middle of the gardens.
“This was not here yesterday,” one of the men said in a puzzled voice, but the others just shook their heads, because everyone knew that the rich man liked to put new things into his gardens. He might have put it there to commemorate his wife and child, they said, and moved on. But however they searched, they could not find him, and after a few days they gave up, and went about their business. The seasons came and went, and soon everyone had forgotten about the man, and about his gardens, and nobody went there anymore. The gardens started to run wild, and were overgrown with weeds and wild grasses, and the fountains stopped flowing, and cracked. One day a little boy came across the gardens. The boy was in town with his family for the monthly market, and his father was busy trying to sell some woodwork, so the boy was out alone, exploring the town. He crept through the old rusted gates, and started walking through the gardens. He walked slowly, because even though it was now wild and overgrown, this was still a peaceful place. Soon he came to the centre of the garden, and found the statue of an angel, standing next to an old fountain that had dried up long ago, broken pieces of tile lying scattered like leaves all around it. The boy looked at the face of the statue, which seemed to be frozen in time, gazing with empty eyes across the wild gardens.
“Hello, Angel,” he said. He climbed up the pedestal and onto the statue, and kissed the angel on his dusty brow. The angel opened his eyes, smiled, and stepped off from his pedestal. He took the little boy’s hand, and together they started walking through the gardens. As they walked, the angel showed the boy the fountains, the olive groves, the date palms, and the old vineyards that were planted all along the edges of the garden. Where the angel walked, the ground was suddenly covered by rose petals. Beside him the boy was whispering strange words, which hung like many-coloured birds in the air above his head, and behind them the garden came back into bloom. The wild weeds were gone, the olives and dates were ripe with fruit, and the roses bloomed like it was spring again. The smell of roses and ripe grapes hung in the air like perfume. Later it was said that the angel was the first disciple. Who knows? If you ever find yourself in the old town of Jaffa, on the desert coast next to the Mediterranean, go and walk the green hills above the old harbour. He will still be standing there, alone amongst the date palms and olive groves, rosebushes all around him, waiting for his King to return.

Posted by HannesB at 8:06 PM Comments