In the Garden of Forgetfulness

Inthe Garden of Forgetfulness 

"If paradise thou shouldst seek this day,
Winged Phoebus shouldst thou emulate,
Who from his lofty chariot doth survey.
The moon and stars which with the angels vied.
And from the firmament were down cast,
Now earthbound may be found allied.
Within the giant's grasp held fast,
Save one wherein thy hopes be tied."

'Thus runs the verse to the solution of which I have devoted so much of
my life. I do believe that within the boundaries of this our demesne
are secreted such riches as are spoken of in legend that in years
before would scarce be given credence by reason of their vastness. By
constant study, I believe I have placed their repository in an ancient
part of our lands, that is the sunken gardens, being a part largely
unchanged from olden times. It is there that I believe I have descried
a pattern in conformity with that suggested in the verse, where are
represented in the form of beds and earthworks a handlike formation
enclosing a number of small features, one being crescent in shape. The
significance of the final line of the verse is a mystery to me, as
there appear no plantings or other features outside of the handlike
enclosure. I do intend therefore this night to ascend a tall tree that
overshadows the garden so that I may gain, by virtue of altitude, as
instructed, some clue as to some other feature possibly lost to
contemporary eyes. I bear in mind the appendix to this verse:

"Yet stay thy hand a while to delve,
No facile indications quick to meld,
Lest unseen guardians with horror fraught.
Render thee and thine endeavours as nought."'

Again and again I read the words on the yellowed scrap of paper. The
writing was in the hand of my great uncle, who had been dubbed black
sheep of the family after his sudden and mysterious disappearance. It
was known that he thought he had located whatever it was the verse
referred to, though few in our family thought that vast treasure was a
remote possibility, just a few bits of gold and jewellery being more
likely. By all accounts my great uncle Edwin had been a solitary and
secretive man, and there had been rumours that he had found what he was
looking for and had gone off on his own to spend it and enjoy it. The
authorities had not been called in to track him down for fear of
attracting bounty hunters and parasites, and the family had merely
expected he would turn up like a bad penny when his haul was
exhausted.
The piece of crumpled paper I found when I idly pushed my hand down
the back of an old armchair in a remote disused room. I had often found
interesting coins and other items in such a way, so had got into the
habit of trying all the old chairs and settees I could.
Maybe I was a throwback to my great uncle, but when I found the piece
of paper, I showed it to no one, not even my father and brother, and
when my mother called me for supper, I sat down to the table without a
word.
Over the next few days, I thought constantly about the paper and what
it said. I had seen the verse before, and thought it a harmless
curiosity, like a hoary old skeleton that surely all ancient families
have in some cupboard or other. But the more I thought about it and
about my great uncle's comment on it, the more I felt that maybe he was
onto something, and what a coup it would be if I could reveal what he
had done and how he had done it. I was sure that he was right about
trying to look down on the garden; I knew that Phoebus was the sun, so
presumably one had to look down on it from the East, or possibly from a
succession of positions as one travelled from East to West over the
garden. Here I felt that in this technological age I might find it
easier to do this than might my great uncle. I went down to the garden
and looked at the banks and flower beds. From where I stood they seemed
entirely random, so I looked to the large tree that grew at the eastern
side of the garden for inspiration. I reckoned that it would today be
considerably taller than in Edwin's day, so I might have a better
chance than him of seeing something, but for twelve feet there were no
branches, so I had to get a ladder before I could climb up into it. I
climbed as high as I could but found I could see nothing but leaves and
branches, so chose a sturdy bough and inched as far as I dared along
it, but still I could only get glimpses of grass and flower beds, never
an overview of the whole area. So that idea had been a failure, and I
couldn't wait until winter for the leaves to drop, so had to think of
some other way. I racked my brains but could only think of hiring a
helicopter or small plane, but couldn't do that for fear of arousing
suspicion, never mind the cost. I kept thinking about it and it was
purely by chance that the solution to my problem presented
itself.
"How would you like to go up in a hot air balloon, Jake?" my brother
asked.
I had a reason to hand. "That would be great. I'd love to take some
aerial photos of the house and gardens for our records. What's the
occasion?"
"Oh, Blackstones' Brewery have got one tarted up as a beer barrel and
have asked Adam Lumley to fly it, but they've got mares in foal on
their land, so asked if they can use ours for the takeoff. Well, I
jumped at the chance. They want to do it next weekend."
My brain raced. "Well, why don't they take off from the paddock by the
bog, then over the house and on over the town, if the wind is in the
right direction."
Of course this had to be an east wind, to carry the balloon across the
bog, as we called the sunken garden, in the direction of the sun's
course.
In the event the wind was from the Southwest, as it usually is over
this country, and although I was able to ensure that the balloon passed
over the sunken garden, I could see nothing of use. The banks and beds
formed random, strangely shifting shapes and patterns that tantalised
the brain. I had the idea that this was deliberate, so as to throw off
a casual glance, and I marvelled at the art of the ancient landscaper.
I would have to try again, but with the wind in the right direction. I
turned to Adam and told him:
"This is really wonderful, but to get the shots I want of the house and
grounds, I really need to come at it from the East. Is there any chance
this thing could be available when conditions are right?"
"I'll have to square it with the brewery," Adam replied, "but if its ok
with them, it's fine with me, I love flying it."
Blackstones were more than happy, as they saw extra advertising
exposure as more of a good thing, and when a couple of weeks later the
wind veered round to the East, the balloon was made available at short
notice, with the provision that the brewery should be mentioned in any
publication that might carry my pictures.
Passing over the garden from the East I saw the same subtle shifting
of patterns as before on the ground, and I began to fear that the
ravages of time and gardeners had taken their toll. We were almost over
the western end before I saw it, as the scene suddenly resolved itself
into a clear image of a hand appearing to clutch a number of points and
a crescent shape, all formed of light and shadows cast by the
sculptured earth. But why hadn't I thought of it anyway. Just out of
the clutch of the phantom hand, the shadow of the ruined grotto formed
an inky star. That must be the location.
I could hardly concentrate on taking photographs after that, but
couldn't let on. As soon as I could, I hurried home and smuggled a
torch, spade, trowel and wellingtons down to the bog. The grotto was a
mock ruin, but now so old that it could have been real. I walked round
it in the fading light, trying to see it with new eyes, having seen it
so many times before without really looking. All the stones seemed
solidly set, and scraping the moss and dirt from between them showed no
change. The only chink between them was where the trickle of water
emerged to feed the pool in the corner. I stood in thought. It emerged
under a slight overhang where the beginning of a mock broken vaulted
ceiling started to rise. What might be behind it, I wondered. Could
there perhaps be a conduit to bring the water from where it naturally
welled up somewhere else? I knocked at the stones with the trowel
handle, and it did seem that perhaps a couple of them might not be set
directly against the soil.
The dusk was deepening now, and the lengthening shadows and old stones
gave the place the air of an ancient burial ground, with me a sinister
grave robber wielding torch and spade. I tried to insert the blade of
the spade between the stones to lever one out, but they wouldn't budge.
Well, perhaps a frontal attack was too obvious. The only alternative
would be to try from above, where makebelieve toppled masonry suggested
an upper storey to the grotto's cellar. Two pieces of broken column lay
side by side, half sunk in the soil, and only my sturdy spade and great
exertion moved them apart.
There lay revealed a small square slab with the rusty remains of an
iron ring let into it. I scooped away the loose soil around its edge,
jammed the spade in and heaved. It came out surprisingly easily, a rush
of dank air rising from the black square at my feet. With a beating
heart, I shone my torch down into the darkness. The line of the verse
about "unseen guardians" leapt to my mind, for below me was a conical
chamber, with the stone slab I had removed at its apex. Around the foot
of the walls stood stone figures of mythical beasts, faces like
gargoyles, bodies deformed and twisted.
I gave a start, for I realised that the chamber was full to within a
foot of its top with water to feed the grotto, but water so clear I had
not realised its presence, and with growing horror I saw that one of
the stone figures had toppled forward, and that beneath it was pinioned
a figure, no, a skeleton, whose bones shone pearly in the beam from my
torch. The figure's arm was outstretched and just beyond its bony grasp
lay a casket blistered with rust but burst open, rings, trinkets,
jewels with the dull glint of gold and soft fire of ruby scattered on
the stone floor. Tatters of clothing still covered most of it, and I
recognised a scrap of still red cloak lining from family pictures. Poor
Edwin, so he hadn't run away with the treasure. No matter how black the
sheep, still the bones are white.
Perhaps he had fallen into the water not realising it was there, and
in his panic dislodged a stone guardian, and been crushed by it. But
what really concerned me, and made me scramble back from the brink was
the question that screamed in my brain - how had the slab and the two
pieces of broken column come to be replaced with Edwin down there?
Suddenly the shadows and rustlings of the sunken garden seemed even
less benign.

Approx. 2030 words F.B.S.R. offered