by Anthology
As Gertie climbed out of the taxi, Bessie rushed from the garden to greet her.
“Gertie, I’m so glad you’re home. How was the trip?”
The old woman in the tidy knit suit turned, her eyes widening.
“Bessie Green, what have you done with your hair? I told you years ago that dying your hair just makes you look like an old harlot.”
Bessie fingered her hair. “I haven’t dyed my hair in twenty-five years.”
“Humph. I don’t know who you think you’re lying to, but I’ve got better things to do. Here, carry this.” She plopped a tote bag in Bessie’s arms. “Come on.”
Bessie and the luggage-ladened taxi driver obediently followed Gertie in a neat line toward the apartment, that is until the woman stopped in her tracks. As they stumbled into one another like a train wreck, Gertie stood staring, mouth gaping open at the sight of the Pandemonium Garden.
Bessie simply said, “We need to talk, Gertie.”
“So you really haven’t dyed your hair?” asked Gertie over a cup of tea with a little tipple added for her nerves. “Something strange is going on here or else we’ve all lost our minds.”
“That’s what I’m worried about—feels like I have lost my mind. But at the same time I haven’t been this happy in years, and I don’t ever remember feeling this good. I just don’t know what to do.”
“Well, if you asked me—which you have, so I’ll tell you what I think whether you like it or not—you should go see the priest and tell him to exorcise that garden. It’s either full of devils or angels to be growing like that. And I’d bet on the devils—if I were a betting woman.”
Bessie fidgeted and touched her hair self-consciously. For the last week she’d been trying to ignore the fact that her gray hair seemed to be filling in with wisps of blonde—the color her husband used to call spun gold.
“Well, I don’t know, Gertie. It’s such a beautiful place and it makes people happy. I can’t imagine anything so wonderful being the work of the devil.”
“You won’t catch me stepping foot in there, I can tell you that much. It’s just not natural.”
Bessie decided it might be best to avoid mentioning the dancing man of her dreams and the issue of the muddy feet.
The Promise
Late one evening when the other gardeners had gone, Bessie remained to tie-up the roses and finish some mulching. The torches had been lighted casting a warm glow around the garden. Hearing footsteps on the stone path, Bessie looked up to see a familiar face in the flickering light, but she couldn’t place where she’d seen the woman before.
“Hello,” said the young woman, her hair in a casual knot on her head, her clothes the loose and colorful dress of “hippies.” “You’ve done a splendid job with your garden here. Seeing what you’ve done softens the blow of having failed in our plans for the book shop.”
Now Bessie remembered the face—her memory had been steadily improving. This was the girl with the smoking sage grass. Bessie stood up to greet her.
“It’s really because of you that the garden is here at all,” said Bessie. “When I needed a place to plant my tomato plant, I remembered your lovely ceremony here. I couldn’t think of a better place.”
“Well, something like this takes years to thrive. It’s your time and effort that is responsible for a place like this. Nothing to do with me.”
“Truth is, this garden has only been here for about a month.”
“No, you must be kidding me.” The woman looked skeptical, but intrigued.
“Nope,” said Bessie. “Just over a month.”
“How is that possible? I’ve heard of things like this happening in Findhorn and even Perelandra in Virginia, but never in an urban lot surrounded by apartment buildings.”
“So this kind of thing has happened before?” asked Bessie, mildly relieved.
“Yes, but it’s rare and…” She stopped herself then continued speaking quickly, her face aglow with excitement. “Pan, it must be Pan—he’s an agent of nature. The ceremony—we called him in—but it would seem that after all this time…” She was talking mostly to herself, then she looked up and gripped Bessie’s hand. “Did you do something unusual when you planted the garden?” Her tone was urgent.
“No, I don’t think so. I just planted a tomato plant and the rest happened on its own.”
“Think back. Exactly what happened in the garden that day?”
Bessie recounted her actions, again amazed at the new clarity of her recall. When she mentioned cutting her thumb, the girl’s eyes widened.
“Oh my god, that’s it. Your blood in the soil—you made an unconscious pact with Pan. He’s a greedy one and from the look of what he’s helped you accomplish here, he’s going to want something in return.”
Bessie thought about her dreams, but she hid her concern. “Oh, I’m sure it’s just a fluke, Miss. Maybe something in the soil.”
The young woman softened, seemingly aware of Bessie’s discomfort. “Yes, you’re probably right. Either way, it’s a stunning garden, and I’m so happy you’re its steward. I can see how much love you’ve poured into it.”
Bessie snipped a fragrant rose from the cascade of pink blossoms hanging heavy on the wooden trellis. Handing it to the young woman, she said, “A gift to you from the Pandemonium Garden.”
The woman smiled at the mention of the name, her eyes twinkling in the torchlight. “Thank you.” Leaning in she gave Bessie a warm hug and whispered in her ear. “Just beware of what he asks of you.” With a kiss on Bessie’s check, the girl turned and strolled away with a skip in her step.
Her conversation with the young woman left Bessie confused and unsettled. When she considered her strange dreams and Gertie's concerns about devils in the garden, Bessie got scared. For days after, she hid out in her apartment trying to avoid the whole mess. But people kept stopping by—they missed her, and was she feeling all right? They brought hot meals and vegetables they’d harvested from the garden. Each friend was full of stories about how beautifully the plants were growing and what a difference the lot had made in their life. One couple stopped to ask permission to have their wedding ceremony in the garden.
Bessie was overwhelmed by the outpouring of love from her new friends. How could the garden be anything but good? Devils or angels, she didn’t care—she decided to return to the lot the next morning and to trust her long held philosophy that things simply were as they were supposed to be.
After another night of misty dreams, Bessie pulled herself together, dressed slowly and made her breakfast. Even though she was still afraid, she knew it was time to return to the garden. When she stepped out of the apartment building, Tanya, the girl who had helped clear the trash from the lot, was waiting for her with a crowd of her friends.
“We have a surprise for you, Miss Bessie. We did it while you were away from the garden.” The girl grabbed Bessie by the hand and led her to the center of the lot. “I may not be very good at science, but I’m pretty good at art,” said Tanya as she pointed to a colorful mural sweeping across the back wall of the garden.
Eyes welling with tears, Bessie staggered as she saw the waterfall and lush forest—the image was strangely familiar. And far in the distance, almost lost in the detail of the painting, were the silhouettes of a man and a child waving.
“Oh don’t cry, Miss Bessie. You’ve done so much for so many people, we wanted to do something for you. We’ve been working night and day to finish it,” said Tanya.
The kids led her to a shady bench in the garden and brought her water. Gathering her wits Bessie said, “It’s the most wonderful thing anyone has ever done for me. How can I ever thank you?”
“You already have,” said one of the boys, “with the garden.”
Bessie looked at all her friends, including an old man in overalls. Mister Silva—a widower from her church—was standing by a small fish pond that must have been dug while Bessie was hiding out in her apartment.
“It’ll be ready for
the fish next week, Bessie!” He grinned with pride. She hadn’t seen him smile in years. She smiled back in amazement at what the garden had become.
She spent the rest of her day working, chatting with neighbors and admiring the beautiful mural. She didn’t want to leave the wonderful oasis, but weariness won out. After supper, she bathed, prepared for bed and on a whim she decide to write herself a note.
“Bessie Green – You DID bathe your feet tonight!” She dated it and signed it and left it on her night table.
Falling quickly into a sound sleep she again dreamed of the “man” in the garden. He played his flute and she danced like a fairy around the flowers until he came to her side and took her into his arms. Her body was young again and her skin tingled at his touch and his whispered promises. With a sweeping hand across the garden, he said “I’m asking for little in return, my dear,” A whoosh of wind blew as the garden expanded beyond the back wall into a vast paradise with a waterfall and paths leading deep into a lush forest. There were familiar figures in the distance waving to her. Weeping, she ran toward them.
Her pillow wet with tears, Bessie woke suddenly to the fading sound of a waterfall. The vanishing dream left her filled with both joy and sadness. For a moment she told herself it was only a dream, but without looking she felt the dry mud caked on her feet. Seeing the note on the night stand, Bessie rolled over crying frightened tears. She grasped at her thumb beneath the covers, the one she had cut on the scalloped fencing. It ached as she thought about what the garden man had whispered to her, but it was clear even through her fear that the price she was being asked to pay was worth the happiness for so many people.
Bessie spent the entire day in the Pandemonium Garden visiting with friends, weeding and watering, and taking in all the scents and sounds from the place that had grown around her simple tomato plant. The plant itself had grown to nearly a bush and was still producing fat juicy tomatoes. Bessie plucked one and sniffed its sweet aroma. She saw Mister Silva working on his fish pond and strolled over beside him.
“Here’s a tomato for your supper, Paul. It should be a juicy one.”
“Thank you, Bessie,” he said. “Nothin’ like a good BLT. And with a tomato from your garden, it’s bound to make one dee-vine sandwich.” He smiled and looked down into the pond. “You know,” his tone turned serious, “this here garden saved my life.”
“I know what you mean. It’s so nice to see neighbors and have something to do.”
“No, Bessie. I mean it saved my life.” He looked her square in the eye. “I was preparing to kill myself. I had the gun in my pocket heading home to do the deed when I walked by your garden. Something about it made me stop and look, then the next thing I knew I was sitting on a bench looking at a spot that needed something. I saw it there just as if it were real—the fish pond. That night I tossed the gun in the trash and the next day I was back here digging a hole for that pond, just like I saw in my vision. So you see, Bessie, that green thumb of yours and this here garden saved my life.”
Bessie was speechless. She smiled and patted the big man’s shoulder, then returned to her weeding lost in her thoughts. She stayed in the garden late into the night when nearly everyone else had gone. Mister Silva still lingering by the pond wandered over to see her.
“I could swear this garden is making you younger, Bessie. If I saw you on the street, I’d hardly know you. You look especially pretty tonight with the torches flickering.” He brushed at a speck of dirt on his shirt. “It’s getting kind of late. Would you like to have a little supper with me?” He bit his lip and Bessie could swear he was blushing. If only he had asked her a few days ago, but things were as they were supposed to be.
“Thank you, Paul,” she said, “but I still have something I need to take care of. You head on home and enjoy that tomato. By the way, that pond of yours is a lovely addition to the garden. I hope you’ll add some tadpoles, and when they grow you’ll think of me.”
Mister Silva gave Bessie a strange look. “Tadpoles it is, Miss Bessie, but I’ll be seeing you. In fact, you can count on me being a nuisance here every day.”
“Well, that’s good to hear. You be sure to keep an eye on things.”
Apparently suspicious of her tone but too polite to question her, Mister Silva nodded. “Sure thing. I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Oh yes it’s bound to be a beautiful day in the garden tomorrow. You have a good supper now Paul and don’t you worry about a thing.” She leaned up on her tiptoes and gave him a kiss on the cheek. This time his blushing was clear and he walked away smiling with a bounce in his stride.
On another night she might feel like a school girl with a crush, but instead Bessie had a promise to keep. She doused most of the garden torches except for the one nearest the tomato bush. Reaching into her bag of tools, she pulled out a sharp pair of pruning shears with bright red handles and laid them beside the bush. Then with her trowel she dug a small hole beneath the thick plant.
When she was done she looked around at the Pandemonium Garden and smiled at the oasis, the paradise, the place for friends to share their love. She removed her gardening gloves and tidied her hair. Then kneeling beside the tomato bush, heavy with its fat red fruit, Bessie reached for her pruning shears and with a steadiness and a strength that surprised her she snipped off the thumb of her left hand, the one that had bled on the soil the night the garden came to life. Stifling a scream, Bessie wavered on her knees. The pain was staggering, and for a moment her vision went black, but she forced herself back to consciousness. She wasn’t done yet. As instructed by Pan in her dreams—a greedy spirit just as the young woman had warned—she was to plant the thumb beneath the tomato bush as a fair trade for all he had given her, for without the sacrifice her garden would soon wither.
Determined to save the garden and all the joy it brought to her dear friends, Bessie held her bleeding hand tight against her body and with the other hand she picked up her limp and lifeless thumb, dropping it in the hole she had prepared. Light-headed and nearly blind with pain, she scooped black soil into the hole to cover the thumb. With one last misty glimpse around the garden, Bessie collapsed beside the tomato bush.
A sudden gust tore through the garden blowing out the remaining torch. The sound of a flute blew on the wind rattling the windows up and down the street. Awakened by the noise, Gertie Stonehammer called the police to complain about loud music outside her apartment building. Figuring the hippies were back, she put on her housecoat with a thought of giving them a piece of her mind. Marching down the steps of the building, she opened the door to the gusting wind. With the music getting louder, she braved the weather and looked out to the garden where the noise was coming from.
Aglow on the back wall was the colorful mural, alive with trees in the lush forest waving in the wind, the cascading waterfall pounding on the rocks below, and on a path that seemed to stream directly from the garden was a man with horns on his head playing the flute. Behind walked a beautiful woman with hair like spun gold, and by the pool that swirled at the base of the waterfall was a young man and a young girl. With her eyes watering at the scene, Gertie Stonehammer recognized the man as Leo Green, Bessie’s late husband, and there at his side was their daughter, Mari.
Against any common sense, Gertie felt herself drawn into the garden, stumbling toward the music and the mural that had come alive. When she reached the center of the lot where the tomato bush stood strong in the wind, Gertie saw the body of her friend collapsed on the ground. Eyes streaming with tears, she fell to her knees, the pain and stiffness strangely absent. She shook her friend’s cold body.
“Bessie. Bessie Green, you wake up this instant. You hear me?”
The woman walking the path behind Pan turned and smiled.
“Gertie Stonehammer, you finally came into the garden. I knew you couldn’t resist forever. Make sure you talk to Paul Silva and ask him about the tadpoles. And while you’re at it, make the man some supper. I hear he likes a good BLT.”
In her grief she wouldn’t notice any of these changes until the next morning. Still shocked by it all, she devoted the day to the garden in honor of her friend. She asked Mister Silva about the tadpoles and then she whispered to him what she had witnessed the night before. They stood silent together in the garden staring at the three figures in the mural and feeling the strange magic of the place.
That evening when Gertie was preparing supper, she fried some extra strips of bacon and sliced a juicy red tomato from the garden. The memory of her friend’s words filled her with both happiness and sorrow—then she picked up the telephone and dialed information.
“Do you have a listing for a Mr. Paul Silva?”
Creeped out by this story? Fran ups the ante in her horror and dark fantasy collection MAMA’S BOY AND OTHER DARK TALES.
2008 Stoker Award-nominee (Superior Achievement in a Collection)
2008 Black Quill Award Winner (Reader’s Choice Award Best Dark Genre Fiction Collection)
The Bram Stoker Award-nominated novella “Mama’s Boy” is the cornerstone of this 14-story collection from author Fran Friel and Apex Publications. A man whose mother’s demented love for him has turned him from an innocent boy to a serial killer to a near-comatose mental patient opens his world to a psychologist determined to reach him as a way of dealing with her own mother’s battle with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. But is she helping, or is there more damage to be done?
