The Gardener
from the vaults
One day the gardener awoke to find a new bush growing in the middle of his carefully manicured lawn. He pulled back the curtains and there it was, with its thin stem casting a pencil shadow on the grass, and its dark, lush foliage glistening in the morning light. His heart skipped a beat when he saw it, and he rubbed his eyes in disbelief, trying to remember whether it was he who had planted the seed of this specimen or if it had been blown in on the wind and taken root and grown overnight. Thrilled and surprised in equal measure by this new discovery, he wasted no time in pulling on his boots and striding out to examine it more closely. A light breeze ruffled the leaves as he approached, and an alluring scent reached his nostrils. He could hardly contain his excitement because he suspected that this was no ordinary bush, but an exotic specimen of a genus he had always dreamed of discovering.
He reached out his hand to touch it and the leaves seemed to move towards him, willing him to make contact with them. They had a deep sheen, yet when he touched them they felt as soft and light as feathers. He bent forward and breathed in their odour with the air of a connoisseur assessing the bouquet of a fine wine. It was impossible to separate out the elements so subtly combined in this intoxicating scent, but he thought he could detect a hint of the sea, traces of white roses, musk, vanilla, sandalwood, ambergris ... a heady mixture that made his senses reel, conjuring visions of lost loves, forgotten smiles and laughter, gardens in rain, and strange dreamlike landscapes which he knew yet did not know.
Filled with a mixture of joy and longing he rested his cheek against the filigree of branches, allowing them to caress him softly. He ran his fingers through the leaves as a lover might idly stroke his lady's hair, then he knelt down and studied the smooth, shadowy stem, examining every aspect of his new discovery in minute detail. Finally he drew a tattered old notebook and pencil from his pocket and began to meticulously record his observations, his hand trembling with barely suppressed excitement at the discovery of this beautiful rarity. Page after page was filled with notes and measurements, and when he finally finished writing he turned to a new page and drew several detailed sketches of the bush from different angles, as if afraid that what he was seeing was a mirage that might vanish the moment he turned his back on it. Then he went in and ate breakfast, positioning himself by the window where he could feast his eyes on this welcome and unexpected gift.
Inevitably an idea began to take hold of him. He glanced around at the other bushes and shrubs growing elsewhere in the garden. Each one had been transformed by his hands into something other than nature intended. His hobby was topiary and he had lovingly fashioned all the shrubs and smaller trees into living sculptures. Birds, animals, insects, flowers, words, abstract shapes, clouds, and dozens of other things, imaginary and real, peopled the garden. In fact, keeping his creations trimmed had become his main occupation throughout the growing season. He tried to imagine a suitable form for the new bush. At first he thought of a singing bird, beak open in rapturous song and with a long slender tail reaching to the lawn. Then he considered something simpler, a dewdrop or a rose perhaps, but none of these seemed quite right. Finally he settled on a heart. It seemed appropriate, and the shape would be easy to achieve because the bush, having just appeared, was not unduly overgrown. He whistled a little tune and there was a spring in his step as he went to collect his bag of trimming tools from the shed.
from the vaults
One day the gardener awoke to find a new bush growing in the middle of his carefully manicured lawn. He pulled back the curtains and there it was, with its thin stem casting a pencil shadow on the grass, and its dark, lush foliage glistening in the morning light. His heart skipped a beat when he saw it, and he rubbed his eyes in disbelief, trying to remember whether it was he who had planted the seed of this specimen or if it had been blown in on the wind and taken root and grown overnight. Thrilled and surprised in equal measure by this new discovery, he wasted no time in pulling on his boots and striding out to examine it more closely. A light breeze ruffled the leaves as he approached, and an alluring scent reached his nostrils. He could hardly contain his excitement because he suspected that this was no ordinary bush, but an exotic specimen of a genus he had always dreamed of discovering.
He reached out his hand to touch it and the leaves seemed to move towards him, willing him to make contact with them. They had a deep sheen, yet when he touched them they felt as soft and light as feathers. He bent forward and breathed in their odour with the air of a connoisseur assessing the bouquet of a fine wine. It was impossible to separate out the elements so subtly combined in this intoxicating scent, but he thought he could detect a hint of the sea, traces of white roses, musk, vanilla, sandalwood, ambergris ... a heady mixture that made his senses reel, conjuring visions of lost loves, forgotten smiles and laughter, gardens in rain, and strange dreamlike landscapes which he knew yet did not know.
Filled with a mixture of joy and longing he rested his cheek against the filigree of branches, allowing them to caress him softly. He ran his fingers through the leaves as a lover might idly stroke his lady's hair, then he knelt down and studied the smooth, shadowy stem, examining every aspect of his new discovery in minute detail. Finally he drew a tattered old notebook and pencil from his pocket and began to meticulously record his observations, his hand trembling with barely suppressed excitement at the discovery of this beautiful rarity. Page after page was filled with notes and measurements, and when he finally finished writing he turned to a new page and drew several detailed sketches of the bush from different angles, as if afraid that what he was seeing was a mirage that might vanish the moment he turned his back on it. Then he went in and ate breakfast, positioning himself by the window where he could feast his eyes on this welcome and unexpected gift.
Inevitably an idea began to take hold of him. He glanced around at the other bushes and shrubs growing elsewhere in the garden. Each one had been transformed by his hands into something other than nature intended. His hobby was topiary and he had lovingly fashioned all the shrubs and smaller trees into living sculptures. Birds, animals, insects, flowers, words, abstract shapes, clouds, and dozens of other things, imaginary and real, peopled the garden. In fact, keeping his creations trimmed had become his main occupation throughout the growing season. He tried to imagine a suitable form for the new bush. At first he thought of a singing bird, beak open in rapturous song and with a long slender tail reaching to the lawn. Then he considered something simpler, a dewdrop or a rose perhaps, but none of these seemed quite right. Finally he settled on a heart. It seemed appropriate, and the shape would be easy to achieve because the bush, having just appeared, was not unduly overgrown. He whistled a little tune and there was a spring in his step as he went to collect his bag of trimming tools from the shed.
posted by alan at 11.8.04
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