The Garden (A Short Story)



  The Garden

  A Short Story

  by

  Charles Sheehan-Miles

  "You believe in God, but your God is a heartless and cruel one...."

  The words of his wife echoed in Sir Colin Scott Cross' mind as he stared out across the blasted terrain of the Arabian Desert. For what seemed to be the thousandth time that day, he brushed the flies away from his face and eyes, wondering how in God's name they managed to live, even flourish, in this desolate place.

  In God's name, indeed.

  Five weeks had passed since he had left his home in Manchester, hard as that seemed to believe. Good‑bye at the channel, the long train ride across Europe to Athens, then the boat ride to Jaffa; these seemed only a prelude to what he would soon experience. Though he had spent much of his adult life in North Africa and Egypt, nothing had prepared Cross for his first visions of the decaying Ottoman Empire. The fetid swamps of Palestine, the beggars in the streets of Jerusalem, the palpable death pall over Aqaba.

  Ironic, Cross thought, that this is the "Holy Land." Ibrahim, his bedu guide, grunted and brought his camel, laden with goods for their long trek, to a halt. Sniffing the air and slowly gazing at the distant, flat horizon of sand, he dismounted and dropped to his hands and knees. Cross simply stared as the bedu peered at the ground, finally holding up a tiny shred of paper.

  "Your friend has been on this trail," he said.

  Cross nodded, bringing his own mount to a halt. The friend Ibrahim referred to was William Hastings, another anthropologist Cross had known since their college days together at Oxford. The two had not seen each other for years, until '83, when Cross was in French Algeria. They had worked together from time to time, but Cross "retired" in 1890 in favor of an appointment at Manchester University. It was better that way, he thought. There would be no more long absences from his Spanish wife Maria or their twelve year old daughter Aimee. They all had their own scars to live with.

  Then the telegram came. Cross received it on 15 October 1893.

  "I HAVE FOUND IT. STOP. REMEMBER BURLING. STOP. MEET IN AQABA 20 NOVEMBER. STOP. MOST IMPORTANT EVER. STOP. SIGNED, HASTINGS."

  Studying the faint yellow paper gave Cross a jolt even now, weeks later. Burling has been a colleague who theorized that the Garden of Eden was a specific archaeological site that could possibly be located. Unfortunately, for him at least, he had never gained any support for the idea. Working alone, he was killed in a riot in Jerusalem. The body was never recovered ‑‑ rumor had it that he had been dismembered ‑‑ but Cross and Hastings both spoke at the memorial service in London.

  Despite this, Cross would have laughed at the telegram had it not been for his respect for Hastings. He had always scoffed at Burling's theories, despite the fact that he had personally liked the man.

  Burling had a quiet, submissive wife, Cross remembered. What was her name? He couldn't recall. He snorted to himself with quiet amusement, for more than once he had fantasized that his own wife was such a woman. Maria was anything but submissive.

  What could the telegram mean? Surely Hastings did not truly believe that he had found the mythical Garden? If so, what was he doing in Arabia? Burling's theory had stated that such a site would be in the Tigris‑Euphrates Valley.

  Despite this, Colin's curiosity was aroused, and on 20 November he was in Aqaba, only to find another message, delivered to Cross' room by the owner of the hotel.

  "Couldn't wait any longer," Hastings wrote. "Find the bedu guide Ibrahim. He will bring you to me. He is a Muhommeddan, but can probably be trusted. Will see you soon, my friend. Hastings."

  Ibrahim had hardly been difficult to find. In fact, Ibrahim had sought out Colin within a few hours of his arrival in Aqaba.

  The man was dark and swarthy and spoke English with apparent difficulty. Despite what Hastings' letter said, Cross did not trust him, any more than he trusted any other Arab, Turk or Moor. A knife in his stomach and near death in Algiers has taught him that. The two had disagreed almost at once. Cross had wanted to use the sturdy and swift Arabian horses for their journey, but Ibrahim had been steadfast about taking camels, insisting that the horses could only carry enough water for a trek to be measured in days, rather than weeks. Thus, Colin's legs and thighs were excruciatingly sore from their three weeks of travel across the desert. Other signs of the hardship were apparent ‑‑ the sandstorms that tore at his eyes and his face, and his hands had grown rough again in such a short time. What little skin he exposed had turned reddish brown, though Colin wasn't sure if it was from the sun or from the dirt.

  In truth, he had grown quite soft during the last three years of easy living in comfortable Manchester.

  Even more frustrating was Ibrahim's refusal to tell him exactly where and what their destination was. When asked how long the trip would take, he simply answered. "Insh'allah." God willing.

  Thus, it shocked Colin when Ibrahim remounted his camel, looked directly at Cross, and said, "We should arrive tomorrow, Insh'allah."

  As evening fell, they made camp in a small depression that was somewhat shielded from the wind. Unrolling his heavy wool blanket, Colin sighed and looked up at the stars. Truly the

  night sky here is amazing, he thought. Never before in his travels had he seen such a majestic sight. And yet, he did not feel at peace. There were too many burning questions, not the least of which was what he would find on the morrow when his journey ended.

  ***

  "There." Ibrahim pointed in the distance, his eyes seemingly dulled.

  Colin fought against the glare, trying to see the unknown point Ibrahim saw. This was made difficult by the violent heat shimmer, as if the entire horizon were really under a pond that had been recently disturbed.

  Just for a moment he thought he could see the beginning of a great crevice in the land. Then it was gone, leaving Colin alone with his bedu guide and the endless sands of Arabia.

  "I see it," he said to Ibrahim.

  The Muhhommeddan nodded and dug his heels into the camel's flanks. Their advance continued.

  As morning wore on, the crevice grew closer and clearer, until by mid‑morning Colin could see clearly that he was looking at a great canyon. He felt uneasy looking at the opposite sheer walls that dropped to unknown depths.

  By mid‑afternoon they reached the edge. What Colin saw when he looked to the bottom of the canyon made him gasp.

  It appeared to be a jungle. A trail led to the bottom of the canyon, but disappeared beneath a great canopy of giant trees, the rich green contrasting violently with the stark, dull desert sands and the walls of the canyon. From somewhere he could hear the sounds of a waterfall, almost musical in the distance. It was a vision of almost unrivaled beauty, especially after weeks in the barren desert. Cross could see birds and other small animals, skittering from tree to tree.

  He turned to his guide.

  The bedu simply grunted and spat on the ground. "From here you go alone. I will not enter this place."

  Cross was astonished. For a moment he stood there, unable to react. Ibrahim spoke again.

  "Follow the trail ‑‑ I can see even now traces of your friend's passage. We are not far behind him."

  Cross considered for a moment, then asked, "What about you? Surely you're not just going to leave. I'll have no way back to Aqaba."

  Ibrahim nodded. "I stay one week. Then...." He shrugged. Colin nodded and turned back to the trail, heart thumping in his chest. Slowly, he dismounted the camel and handed the reins off the Muhhommeddan guide. Then, adjusting his belt and slinging his bag over his shoulder, he began the descent.

  Initially it was a difficult climb down, as Cross searched for hand and foot holds. After a few minutes of climbing,


  however, the trail broadened out enough for two men to walk abreast, and Colin began studying the forest ceiling below his feet.

  If anything, the tropical vegetation below gave an impression of sub‑Saharan Africa. From this much closer vantage point Colin could see that the largest of the trees were truly massive, unlike any he had ever seen before. In the few places his vision could penetrate the dense foliage, he noted that the shade cast by the trees kept the underbrush from becoming too thick. He couldn't imagine what water source supported this lush environment. Not in this climate of Arabia, where even the hardiest of plants wilted and often died in the summer heat.

  Oddly enough, the temperature began to cool drastically with each step deeper into the canyon. The sound of water falling continued to grow in volume, until it seemed a roar when he reached the canyon floor.

  Colin paused here, studying the place where the beaten track led into the forest. The trail was wide here, but shaded by the massive trees that grew along a regular interval on each side of the trail. The soil here was black and rich, again totally unlike anything he had seen in the desert.

  Taking a few steps forward, he entered the forest. Here, the waterfall was somewhat muted, replaced by the sounds of many birds chirping and singing, as well as the noise of other, unknown animals.

  Cross felt at ease here, surprisingly so. He sighed, noting that the area was quite beautiful. Heart strangely light, he walked forward into the forest.

  Forty yards beyond the entrance, a small path branched off the larger trail. It led off to the right, and judging by the sound, led toward the waterfall. Colin followed it, and five minutes later he stopped once again, his eyes wide with wonder.

  The water was cascading down the canyon wall, cutting deep into the rock and spraying a light mist over the entire area. At the bottom, it flowed into a large pool that was clear as a polished crystal. To the right of the pool was a fine sandy beach, and to the left the water flowed away in a small brook.

  Delighted, Colin walked forward. Cupping his hands to take a drink of the clear water. It was crisp and refreshing. For the first time in days, he became aware just how filthy his body was. He looked around a moment, then took off his clothes and dived into the pool with abandon. He suppressed the urge to burst out in laughter as he bathed in the cool water, then carried his clothes in and washed them as well. After all was done, he stretched out and basked in the sun's warmth, feeling no urge to move on quickly.

  As twilight fell, Cross slowly drifted into sleep.

  ***

  Dreams came quickly. He was in Alexandria, it was the summer of 1879, and he had fallen in love with the beautiful young daughter of a Spanish colleague. They were sitting in a small cafe, and she was laughing.

  "Of course that's not true," he answered her long forgotten question. "I am an atheist."

  She was still laughing at him, the mischievous look in her eyes lessening the sting of her words. "You claim that it true. I can see your heart, You believe in God, but your God is heartless and cruel. He is the God of the Israelites, striking with fire and flood."

  Colin, taken aback, was only half aware just how true her statement was.

  Then, he was no longer in Alexandria, but in Algiers with Hastings, years later.

  "Burling's theories are ridiculous and insupportable," Cross said. The Garden is a parable, not a place.

  Hastings raised an eyebrow and asked, "Do you believe that for sure? Really, Colin, there is no way to prove either your belief or his."

  The heat of Algiers faded away into the soft forest of the canyon. Colin was walking, searching. He was confused, because his daughter, Aimee, was missing, and what was he doing in the forest anyway? He was growing frantic, and began to run this way and that, up and down the trails, calling out her name. He could barely hear her calling to him if he stopped running, but he couldn't stop or she would get away from him. Somehow she became his bruised wife Maria, and she was taunting him, laughing because it was too late, he had proclaimed himself an atheist and now the Garden would never be his so he kept running, wanting only now to make her silent, to leave him alone and take away the guilty, haunting memories that were threatening to destroy his mind.

  ***

  Colin awoke with a start. It was the half light before sunrise, and a dew had set in during the night. Despite that, he felt warm and his clothes were dry as he pulled them from the branches of a nearby tree, where he had placed them the afternoon before.

  Traces of the dream stayed in his mind, but the substance left him as he dug in his rucksack for some bread and cheese that would serve as breakfast. As he ate his meal and drank of the fresh water from the pool, he considered his plan of action for the day.

  First priority was to track down Hastings. He would have to go back to the main trail and see if there were any traces of his colleague's passage. Hastings knew more about this place than he did, and should be able to explain at least some of the questions in Colin's mind.

  Failing that, he catalogued his other tasks. He had to find out if anyone lived here, past or present. Was this the home of some lost tribe, perhaps, or was the entire canyon empty of people? If this place was populated, it would be an incredible discovery. Any thoughts of the canyon being the mythical Garden were swept away ‑‑ Cross did not believe such a place had ever existed. Nothing in his forty two years of experience had given him any indication that such ideas had any truth, and, in fact, such an idea would shatter everything he'd ever believed in.

  Throwing his rucksack over his right shoulder, Cross began walking down the path. It was a short walk back to the main trail, where he turned deeper into the forest.

  As he walked he scanned the area for any signs of his colleague, and it wasn't long before he found footprints in the moist soil. As he bent over to examine them, Cross felt a cold chill running down his spine. Though hardly an expert, it didn't take much thought to understand what these prints meant. They led irregularly from one side of the trail to the other and back, then stopped, where it appeared that Hastings ‑‑ or someone else, possibly ‑‑ had fallen to his knees. A dozen feet beyond that point the trail had been disturbed, as if a man had fallen to the earth, unconscious. There were no more tracks.

  Cross looked around, apprehensive, no longer so confident or at ease in this strange place. Surely Hastings, if indeed these were his tracks, hadn't been dragged away by someone ‑‑ or something? Yet Cross couldn't deny the clear message there on the trail. Feeling a vague, undefined ache in his stomach, he continued to follow the trail.

  As he walked, he was reminded strangely of a similar search almost a decade earlier, that time through the forest outside Kent. In a fit of rage at her mocking tone, he had badly beaten Maria. She had run away, and it took almost thirty six hours to find her and convince her to come home. That had been almost a month before he'd been knighted, by the Queen herself. By that time the bruises had all faded away, but it had taken much, much longer before the memory began to fade. Particularly the fact that all the while, a strange, hidden part of his soul had enjoyed the experience of hurting her.

  Why such things came to his mind now, he didn't know. What was it that had prompted that incident, so long ago? They had been discussing religion, of course, a subject that had since become taboo between them. Specifically he had refused to have their daughter baptized or taught anything about the Catholic ‑‑ or any other ‑‑ Church.

  Now, as Aimee was growing into a young woman, he often wondered if his insistence may have been a mistake. Perhaps some background in religion wouldn't have hurt her. Of course now, he imagined, it didn't really matter any more.

  "Ah, my stupid, arrogant friend! Do you actually believe that?"

  Cross jerked. It was Hastings, appeared as if out of nowhere. He looked quite different than when Cross had seen him last, two years before at Burling's memorial service. He had grown a full beard, and the monocle was replaced by wild, flaring eyes. Rather than his habitual c
onservative suit, he wore the robes of a bedu tribesman. He spread his arms and spoke again.

  "Can you not see the evidence all around you? This, Colin, is the Garden of Eden, the Garden of Life!"

  Cross glared at him. What was this nonsense?

  Hastings shook his head, as if disappointed. "Of course you do not believe. The problem, you see, is that your own disbelief is not your only sin. You have kept another, a child even, from knowing the truth. What is your answer to that?"

  A dark scowl on his face, Cross answered in a sharp tone. "I do not have to answer to you or to any God!"

  "You are wrong, Colin. You must answer. You see, Maria was right. Your God is heartless and cruel. But he is also just, especially when exacting his punishments. That is what you must deal with now, because you will not leave this place you have come to. There is no going back for one such as you."

  His face red, Cross shouted a meaningless curse and lunged at Hastings. The man, if that is what he was, vanished.

  Panting, he spun about, searching the area around him. He couldn't simply disappear, Colin thought. Yet there was no sign of Hastings.

  Panic began to rise in his breast. Heart beating wildly, he turned back down the trail. Dropping his rucksack, Cross ran toward the edge of the forest.

  Five minutes later, he stopped and looked around in terror. The path had disappeared from beneath his feet! He was disoriented, could not see the sun for direction through the canopy over the forest. Once again he ran, this time he knew not where. The wind was picking up, blowing sand and dust around him, as the forest began to dissolve before his eyes. He was running from the visions of Maria's bruised body, of his innocent, unknowing daughter, of a life that was haunting him.

  Finally he collapsed to the ground, as darkness swept over him. The sun was gone, as was the Garden. Sir Colin Scott Cross was left alone with only his past ‑‑ and it was not enough.

  www.sheehanmiles.com

  Copyright 2012 Charles Sheehan-Miles.

  Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is unintentional, with the exception of certain named historical characters.