Garden of a Valley King

(c)1991 Debra L. Clifton

It is said among the townspeople of old that a garden miraculously appeared in the valley below. The garden was not visible from the mountains encircling it, for it remained in the darkness of their shadows. The mountain inhabitants knew it surely existed, since the easterly winds blowing through the valley wafted its delicate scents into the air above. Never had the mountain dwellers beheld such an aroma. So beautiful was the garden that those who visited it declared that it was a "little bit o'Heaven" on earth. Now those that never ventured to it would say that it was just a garden, however, those who visited it came back changed.

There was no known pathway to this garden, nor could those who went there ever map out the way. "Just follow the fragrance to its source," they would say. Now those who went down who were blind, could now see, and the dumb shouted its praises throughout the valley. The deaf, it is said, could hear the song of the garden as the winds embraced each flower petal. The lame, captured by its aroma, were lifted to their feet as they entered into the increasing thickness of its fragrance. All who ventured to it ran forward in eagerness to see the source of their delight.

As the fame of the garden spread, people from miles around came to see it. They wondered at its appearance. All who tried to recreate it failed. For it was the gardener alone who formed it and tended it, and he would not leave it to help anyone start another. To those who knew him not, it was a mystery; a mystery that money could not buy nor any ruler recreate.

For you see, the garden was beautifully organized,

but not.

but not.

but not.

but not.

but not.

but not.

yet itself lay beneath the shadow of a rock cleft.

How odd it was indeed,

A balance, but not a compromise.

Those that walked among the garden were many. Not all that came wanted to meet the gardener. They came to behold its glory and then leave. Many visitors, feasting their eyes on the splendor of the garden, would pull out a sketch pad and begin to furiously draw. This, they soon found, was to no avail, for once they returned home it seemed as if their perceptions did not match what they thought they saw.

Bold visitors dared to take seeds and cuttings from the plants, cataloging them with great care as to the light and soil they were found in. Some even went so far as digging up entire plants and stealing them away in the night. Their efforts were fruitless, however, for while the plants seemed to thrive, they eventually ended up in a wilted heap. They marveled that neither the gardener nor his purported helper seemed to be about, to stop their confiscation of the garden plants.

They would often mutter among themselves that surely, the gardener would take notice of what they had done and come to reprimand them for disturbing his flowers. Maybe then they could apologize, and in pity, he would share some secret of the garden with them. That way they could always sneak some flowers home and try again, maybe with some success. "Would not these truths of the garden be of value to others?" they would rationalize to one another. But alas, the gardener never came to them, although it has been reported that he spends time with the children.

"Of what use could the children be to him?" they would muse. "They have no knowledge of horticulture or growing things. Why, look at what a nuisance they are! Traipsing about the garden without regard for the paths! Don't they know that all their dancing about could spoil the beauty of the garden? They could at least take some responsibility for its care. Surely the gardener will return, greatly vexed at them, and cast them out. What value have they to him?" And so the conversations would go among this group of admirers. They were so consumed with the aesthetics of the garden and their desire to imitate it back in their own gardens that they did not hear the voice of the gardener mixed in with the children's laughter.

To those that made frequent pilgrimages to the garden, its pattern seemed to change. It was not that the path had altered, but rather that the flowers along it bloomed at odd times. The garden was a never-ending kaleidoscope of colors that appeared to vary daily. Each day spent in the garden had a charm of its own. Those who came to behold its beauty day after day realized that the glory of the garden was not created by the flowers, but that it was the flowers that showed forth the glory they beheld in the gardener.

Visitors often journeyed into the depths of the garden, beyond sight of the entrance. Past the beauty at the entrance, many who ventured deeper would wonder at the sight they confronted. They stumbled upon an iron gate, enclosing what appeared to be the ruins of a once magnificent garden. Unlike the gentle paths they currently walked, these were laid out like a puzzle. Surely this had been the site of a magnificent garden maze! Instead of the grandeur of the former garden, however, only thistles and weeds thrived within. The center of the garden was littered with a torn canopy. "Surely this cannot be all that remains from the celebrations held here," many would say to themselves, as their eyes strained to find a hint of the former beauty in the spot.

Fascination overcame even the least curious of them. Caught by the sight of a distant mosaic walkway untouched by thorns and thistles, they grasped the handle of the gate. Their heart tinged with anticipation, until they saw the sign, "Do Not Enter."

"Surely the gardener has put this sign here to keep the children from entering and injuring themselves. It cannot cause any harm to go in and look around. Perhaps there will be something of value overlooked here. Wouldn't the gardener be pleased that I have redeemed it from the ruins for his use?" This and many other rationalizations would be offered up while each visitor opened the gate and ventured forth.

Once in the inner garden, the pilgrim would hear a sound as if in the breeze, urging him toward the mosaic path. To journey forth was not an easy thing. Some would start and, deterred by the thickness of overgrowth, give up. Others would give up, only to come back the next day with a machete to beat their way to the mosaic pathway ahead. "For such a difficult path there must something of value, a secret known to few!" they would exhort themselves. "Truly what lies at the end, will win the praises of the gardener when I show him." Statements such as these they would use to justify the journey to themselves, as all the while their bodies were being buffeted by the limbs of tree-sized weeds. The thorns raked across their skin, tearing their skin and staining their clothes with blood. It did not matter how prepared they came, the wilderness prevailed.

The strangest thing about the path was that a constant breeze seemed to sweep through the garden, undeterred by the overgrowth. It was this wind that caused the intruder to press on with even greater fervor. Each person venturing down this path had a sense that someone was watching them, but never stopped long enough to catch a glimpse of the onlooker. Urged on by the knowledge that there must be "something more", a "secret for those who could endure," the visitor eventually completed his quest.

The clearing at the base of the mosaic pathway was so still. The breeze had relented and nothing but silence penetrated the clearing. Each visitor reaching this spot would drop to the ground in awe. Looking down the glistening pathway, they would sit stunned. "Truly no man has come this way before. For never has this site seen the footsteps of a man," they would all exclaim.

Once the journeyer regained composure, his eye would wander down the path to something glistening in the sunlight. The pilgrim would pick himself up off the ground and race down the path toward his goal. At the end of the path lay another small garden. His heart would sink. "Are these not the flowers in the outer garden? Why should I come all this way to behold only a small portion of the vast garden I left?" Some, in disappointment, would leave, forgetting the desire to search any more for the object they saw from the start of the path, glistening in the distance. They could see nothing of value and retreated despondently, back to the other garden. Oddly, their spirit would begin to lift. By the time they reached the iron gate and the living garden, they were filled with joy.

Some sojourners furiously scanned the flowers, looking for the object which had glistened before them. "I have come too far to go back without finding something of value," they would mutter to themselves. "I'll just bet that the gardener has hidden something of value here." No sooner would the words escape from their mouths, than their eyes would catch a glistening light. A strong wind would then come out of the north, blowing the delicate flowers away from around the source reflecting the light.

"Why, it's a flower! How can this be? A flower of gold!" each would exclaim. "Why, this flower is so magnificent, it makes all other flowers pale in its glory! If the ordinary flowers of the gardener's plot bring such signs, can you imagine what wonder this plant must hold? What a rare find indeed; a plant such as this should fulfill all my needs." Each pilgrim, after reveling in the glow from the plant, would sit still before it in awe.

"I shall take this plant to my house and divide it. Then I shall present one to the gardener and keep one to reproduce. Surely, the gardener will honor me for such a gift. The portion of the flower that remains I shall plant in my garden, and tend it so it will grow and abound. I shall then share this with those I love, and they will have no need to visit the garden for refreshing, for they shall have the most valuable plant in all the kingdom." The pilgrim carefully withdrew the plant from the ground and wrapped it in his shirt.

The loud screeches of eagles were heard overhead. The pilgrim, recognizing the sound as the distant cry he often heard somewhere outside the garden, looked toward the sky. He beheld a person in the distance. "Who is this who has followed me?" he thought. "I shall hide my flower and be on my way, in case he is a thief." As his foot hit the mosaic pathway to leave, a heaviness filled his heart. He trudged back to the iron gate.

Sunset came upon the abandoned garden. A figure in the horizon, kneeling as if in prayer, got up and walked to the iron gate left open by its intruder. The figure shut the gate tightly. He then walked through the desolation onto the mosaic pathway, toward the small garden plot. He bent down and laid his hand on the bare spot in the garden. The gardener wept.