The Garden

1
The Garden.
Maggie didn’t know what to do. A stone had taken the place where her
heart had once been. Her head was sore, her neck stiff. And it wasn’t
PMS. She knew that. She was fed up, that was all. She was sick of
being blamed for everything. Surely, some of it was his fault? Nothing
could be just one person’s fault. She had her weaknesses, she knew.
But he was never happy. No matter how she tried, there was always
something wrong. Never a day went by without him blaming her for
something, whether it was sloppiness in housework, being too fat, too old
or too boring in the bedroom. She had put up with his accusations and
condemnation now for - how many years? She couldn’t remember.
Maybe she couldn’t remember, because she wanted to forget. Oh to
forget! There was so much she would love to forget.
Maggie would walk. She didn’t know where. It didn’t seem to
matter.
Stepping outside, she looked at the sky, overcast and foreboding,
and wondered how she had ever allowed herself to get into this state.
Did she hate herself? Perhaps. She didn’t know. There was only
confusion; a kind of slow whirling fuzz in her head where her brain had
once been.

Was she truly to blame? She glanced back. Would she even be
missed?
Maggie kept walking, for how long she had no idea. But darkness
had fallen. In the distance tree covered hills surrounded her, their softly
undulating forms lit by a full moon that had begun to rise steadily above
them. If only they were closer for it seemed they were calling her to enter
into their deep woodlands, to be enveloped by magical mists and rich
earthy scents. She laughed quietly to herself. What foolish notions.
They were the daydreams of a child. And then she heard a trumpeting
like an elephant’s call to its mate and something that sounded like a lion’s
roar. She was sure there were no zoos anywhere nearby and the circus
only came to town during summer months. She must be more tired than
she realised. She was beginning to imagine things. She stopped walking
to gaze at the moon. It looked bigger tonight and it was good that
darkness had fallen because she had forgotten her make-up and she felt
naked without it. God forbid anyone should see her without lipstick and
mascara. But perhaps it was as well she had forgotten it for she had also
become aware that it was softly raining. Her mascara would have run in
black streams down her tear stained face, along with the rain that drizzled
steadily from the now leaden skies. She stopped to listen to the water
running lazily along roadside gutters, tinkling melodically into drains that
led to the ocean. The ocean: deep and wide and never-ending, far from

the suburbia that threatened to swallow her with its stifling smallmindedness.
As she breathed in the sweet dampness, she saw the road
like a black river in the shimmering light of the street lamps. It mirrored
the bright colours of the traffic lights and neon signs that flashed from the
numerous continental style cafes and wine-bars lining the street, some
with wonderful gardens and window boxes that, small as they were,
seemed to grow the kind of flowers she had only ever seen in wildlife
documentaries. She heard a low growl and laughed to herself as a
motorbike roared past. She tried to fathom what kind of machine could
have made the trumpeting, but nothing came to mind.
Time must have distorted somehow. Or perhaps she’d just been
walking ages, for there were no distant hills or wine-bars or cafes in her
own part of town, only fast food shops and the odd bottle shop, places to
feed oneself with the mundane blandness of the everyday or to drown
one’s emotions in an alcoholic haze of forgetfulness. Her suburb: a
collection of too close together houses, concreted courtyards and gardens
savagely shaped by tidy minds and organised souls who seemed to take
delight pruning away the natural things in life as if neatness were a
bizarre way to enlightenment.
A rich aroma, wafting from a small café, met her nose. ‘Luciano’s
Garden of Delights’ said the flashing sign above the blood red door. She
stopped to breath in the powerful scent; slowly enjoying what smelled

like coffee…but more so; there were spices; ginger, nutmeg, cinnamon
and one or two others she didn’t recognise. There was no blandness
here. Tempted, she walked through the open door. She had forgotten her
purse in the upset, but there was loose change jingling in her pocket.
She pulled out six dollar coins and a little silver.
An elderly Italian man stood behind the counter, polishing glasses
with a soft cloth. He smiled at her, a fleck of gold in a front tooth
catching the soft candlelight that glowed on every table. There was
something in the way his hand smoothed over the contours of the glass
that made Maggie yearn for something out of reach. Something that
filled her with a deep craving.
And there was music. Music that seemed to be coming from
somewhere else: but from where? She didn’t recognise the instrument
that was playing so prettily and that was peculiar.
“Can I help you Signora?”
“A coffee, please. It smells so good.”
“Cappuccino? Long Black? Latte? Mocha?” He pointed to the
blackboard menu. There was an old clock hanging beside it. It ticked
rhythmically and Maggie thought how much more reliable the oldfashioned
clocks were compared to the modern battery operated
timepieces. There was something honest and earthy and almost spiritual
about clockwork machines.

The old man smiled again, “Take your time.”
She gazed at the list of beverages advertised on the blackboard
overhanging the counter, each outlined in coloured pastels. Myriad
blends of coffee, exotic herbal teas, fruit shakes and smoothies.
Her eyes lit up.
“I won’t have coffee,” she smiled herself now, “I’ll have hot
chocolate…a mug please.”
“The beverage of the Amazonian gods,” said the old man, his eyes
twinkling. “How very fitting.”
Maggie looked surprised.
“Forgive an old man such foolishness, Signora. But you have
lovely eyes.”
Maggie felt her face burning and wondered whether she had taken
her hormone replacement tablet. But no! This was a genuine blush and
not a hot flush. The heat she felt now was accompanied by a feeling
almost of…of innocence mixed with … was it expectation? Like a child,
the week before Christmas, Maggie thought.
Her hand went to her cheek as if to cool it and she suddenly
remembered, horrified, that her face was naked and, feeling very plain,
she lowered her eyes.
“They are the eyes of an Amazonian serpent,” he continued,
seemingly unaware of her awkwardness. “Green – like sacred jade.”

Maggie’s head was suddenly full of South American jungles,
tropical birds exotically clothed in bright plumage, the great Amazon
River, full and rushing through steamy forests and teaming with life.
She felt the blush deepen.
“And can I tempt you?” he went on.
She glanced up, meeting his eyes. Was it her imagination? He
looked a little younger.
She was speechless.
“…with marshmallows?” he went on, a little smile playing about
his lips.
He looked younger still: still old, but definitely younger. His
moustache was now considerably darker. Why he must have shed ten
years in the last couple of minutes.
“That would be nice,” she murmured, rubbing her eyes, in
bewilderment.
“Sit down signora,” he motioned to a table by a large painted
mirror. “You look tired.”
Maggie gave a wan smile, “Thank you,” she said as he pulled out a
chair for her.
There were only a few tables in the little café and only one other
customer. A beautiful girl sat by the window picking at a slice of
something. She turned and smiled as Maggie sat down.

Maggie returned the smile. The girl stood and walked over to
Maggie’s table.
“Do you mind if I sit here?”
“Of course not,” said Maggie. “I’d like the company.”
The beautiful girl’s eyes lit up, green like her own. Like sacred
jade, Maggie thought. The younger woman’s dark hair tumbled wildly
over her shoulders and Maggie remembered being young.
“So… you’ve been tempted.” said the girl.
Maggie smiled, “By chocolate.”
“You look sad,” said the other, placing her plate in the middle of
the table. “Perhaps you actually need the chocolate.”
Maggie nodded.
“They say that chocolate can lift the spirits,” the girl smiled.
“Something to do with endorphins and the brain.”
“Brain?” said Maggie, thinking about the slow whirling fuzz that
had been living inside her head for, she knew not, how long.
“Would you like to share the apple slice? It has cinnamon and
honey. Cinnamon has special qualities too - something to do with lifting
the spirit and with the chocolate, we may even experience miracles!”
“Miracles!” Maggie echoed, smiling again. “Apple pie…my
favourite dessert…my favourite fruit actually.”

“Mine too,” returned the girl. “But there is one other fruit I’m
rather fond of though I’ve never been sure of the name of it. It’s sweet,
like mangoes…and then again…it’s hot, like chilli and…so juicy, like
peaches.”
“I can’t imagine what it might be,” said Maggie. “It sounds
tropical and very different from apples.”
The girl nodded. “But apples are so good for you and an apple a
day keeps the doctor away. So I suppose they could be called ‘the fruit
of life’.”
The old man brought the hot chocolate.
“That smells divine,” said the girl. “I’m afraid I’ve been tempted
too. Another hot chocolate, please.”
He returned to the counter, humming a strange little tune that made
Maggie think of fairgrounds.
Maggie touched the marshmallows gently with her spoon, pushing
them into the rich brown brew, watching them slowly melt.
“Decadent,” whispered the girl, as Maggie took a spoonful of pink
marshmallow and sucked it slowly off the spoon. “They look like
summer clouds floating in a chocolate sky.”
The old man placed a second cup of hot chocolate on the table,
with an extra fork for the apple slice and a small bowl of marshmallows.
“I thought you ladies might like some extra…. on the house of course.”

“How kind,” said the beautiful girl and her eyes sparkled.
His gaze hovered on the girl’s face. “Forgive an old man such
foolishness Signorina, but you have lovely eyes.”
The young woman’s eyes crinkled with pleasure.
“It’s been said before,” she returned.
Now it was the elderly man’s turn to blush. “Ah! You are right, of
course,” he chuckled softly, shrugging his shoulders. “The Signora
here…she has the same eyes. I am just an old flirt…very old…”
Maggie giggled.
“Very old indeed…but I speak the truth, ladies. You are both very
beautiful women.”
“Indeed we are,” began the younger woman, a mischievous smile
dancing about her lips. “And just how ancient are you, kind sir.”
He waved his hands, drawing a spiral in the air, “I have forgotten.”
The two women laughed together.
“Are you Luciano?” asked Maggie, feeling a wave of confidence
wash over her. “Of ‘Luciano’s Garden of Delights’.”
“I am,” the dark stranger beamed. “And my son…and my
grandson also…three of us Lucianos. We take turns you know, in
guiding people when…”
“Bringer of light,” interrupted the girl.
“You know the meaning?” the old man beamed.

“I love names. Names are so important.” She turned to Maggie.
“Don’t you think?”
Maggie smiled.
“In some cultures they don’t have proper names until they come of
age; only pet names or nicknames,” the girl continued. “It’s as though
it’s important to keep the real name a secret until just the right moment.”
“How intriguing,” murmured Maggie.
The café owner bowed very slightly. “Allow me to introduce
myself. I am Angelo. Angelo Luciano.”
He seemed to grow younger again. His eyebrows suddenly lifted
in surprise as he glanced in the mirror. “I must stop that.” He murmured,
and, waving a hand before his face, his moustache began to grey once
more. “Beautiful women…they always do it to me.”
“Messenger,” said Maggie softly. “Angelo.”
The girl smiled. “Ah, so you too know the meaning of names.”
“Only a few…but I don’t know how I know that one.”
“Well, Angelo has introduced himself,” said the girl. “So it’s my
turn. My name is Lily and yours?”
Maggie thought a while, frowning slightly.
“I’m sorry,” said the girl. “I’m being far too personal. You don’t
have to tell me your name if you don’t want to.”
“No,” Maggie shook her head. “No, it’s not that.”

The old man leaned forward, his face full of concern. Maggie
was startled to see that his moustache was now completely white.
“I…,” Maggie faltered. “I can’t remember my name.”
The two strangers exchanged glances.
“God help me! I can’t remember my own name!” A strange shiver
wriggled up her spine, like a little snake, she thought.
“Is that all?” said Angelo, picking up a marshmallow and popping
it into his mouth.
“Is that all?” gasped Maggie. “Isn’t that enough?”
“It happens,” said Angelo, smiling broadly. “Perhaps it is time for
you to find another name.”
Lily put her hand on the older woman’s shoulder. “Do you know
where you live?” she began, her green eyes reflecting a depth of
compassion that Maggie had never seen in one so young.
Maggie nodded, and in her mind’s eye she saw the modest house in
the smart cul-de-sac, with the neatly concreted front courtyard that her
husband was so very proud of and the potted shrubs that lived in dread of
spreading their tiny leaves for fear of the pruning shears. Oh yes, she
knew well enough where she lived.
“Yes…” began Maggie. “I do remember where I live.”
A sudden flash of lightening lit up the mirror and Maggie fancied
she saw three amber-eyed lionesses prowling through a jungle and

shutting and opening her eyes in quick succession saw the mirror now
only reflecting her face. She yearned for a dab of foundation and just a
smidgen of lipstick.
A loud clap of thunder roared from beyond the hills. Maggie
glanced at the clock.
“11.45” she gasped. “I…. I should…I should go now. It’s very
late – almost midnight!’
The little red second hand clicked suddenly backwards ten or so
seconds and then stopped.
“Your name isn’t Cinderella by any chance?” teased Lily.
“It could be,” said Maggie, smiling unconvincingly. “I think I get
blamed for as much as poor Cinders.”
Another flash of silver lit the sky, followed by an almighty crack of
thunder that shook the little café and made the glasses on the shelves
tinkle. A torrent of rain mixed with hailstones began to pepper the street.
Angelo smiled slightly. “Do you really want to go back to your
house?” He called above the din of the storm.
Maggie didn’t answer.
“Or do you want to go home?” yelled Lily getting up and walking
towards the back door, and Maggie found herself following after.
“There’s nothing like the garden in a summer shower,” said
Angelo, opening the door. “Ladies before gentlemen!”

“Some summer shower!” gasped Maggie as the door closed with a
dull thud behind them, and she found herself looking through a veil of
rain at a beautiful garden: a beautiful forest: a beautiful jungle. It was all
of these things. It had begun as a little garden and, as she walked
through the veil, it had become like the forests of her childhood, filled
with oak and beech; the floor carpeted in tiny mushrooms and
wildflowers. She shivered as icy water saturated every part of her
clothing, clinging to every contour of her body. And then she was in a
jungle. Creeping vines embraced great trees that reached to the heavens,
the air filled with the pungent fragrance of tropical flowers and the calls
of wild birds that flew above her making her yearn for a pair of her own
wings. The rain was warm now and the feel of it on her body
temptingly delicious, like a tender yet sensual caress.
“I don’t want to go back, Lily,” said Maggie. “I really don’t want
to go back to my house…in fact…”
The rain stopped.
The jungle glistened in the moonlight. Lily had disappeared.
Angelo pointed to a little clearing up ahead. His finger was glowing;
glowing white as though it were made of crystal and Maggie followed the
brilliant shaft of light that lit the way.
In the clearing stood two trees. Maggie was surprised to see that
one of them was a small apple tree covered in what appeared to be golden

apples. She walked up to the little tree and touched one of the apples
very gently. It seemed to be pulsating as though it contained a tiny heart
and it was glowing from within.
“How beautiful,” Maggie gasped.
She turned to the second tree. It was much taller and wider than
the first, seeming to touch the very heavens. Around the base of the
broad trunk, a jewelled serpent coiled. The tree was heavily laden with
fruit and Maggie was astounded to see that each fruit was entirely
different in shape and colour and that every fruit was totally unknown to
her.
She turned to Angelo. He was glowing all over now.
“It’s up to you signora,” he said, pointing to the tree. “It’s your
choice.”
Maggie felt her heart quicken as her hand reached out to grasp a
perfectly round, multi-coloured fruit from the tall tree. She barely
needed to pluck it. It almost fell into her hand as if it knew exactly
where it was going. As she caught it, the serpent’s head rose to look her
straight in the eyes. She met its gaze full on.
Lily’s beautiful eyes stared back. Eyes of sacred jade. As Maggie
sank her teeth into the bright fruit, she began to laugh, and heard Angelo
laughing behind her.

“I know my name now!” Maggie exclaimed. “Angelo! Angelo! I
know my name!”
“I knew you’d find it,” said Angelo, glowing so brightly she had to
shield her eyes. Then, turning from the brightness Maggie’s gaze fell
upon another figure. A man was walking from the dense jungle. He
looked remarkably like her husband, but…there was the touch of a Greek
god about him. He was naked, young and obviously virile and his olive
skin glistened in the moonlight, his face lit by a smile that her husband’s
face had not worn since they’d first met. Maggie had no desire to look
away. She felt no shame in having this naked Adonis so close. He
reached for a golden apple and plucking it from the tree, offered it to
Maggie. She bit deep, and, as juice trickled down her chin, she tasted all
at once everything she had always yearned for and closed her eyes with
pleasure. Then, offering him the fruit she’d plucked, her clothes fell from
her body. For the first time in her life she knew that she was beautiful.
“What is your name, signora?” came Angelo’s voice.
Maggie looked into the young god’s eyes, as he sunk his teeth deep
into the celestial fruit that she had offered him.
“My name is Eve,” she said, turning her gaze back to the
shimmering being who had once served her hot chocolate, “and this time,
oh bringer of light…this time things will be different.”

The end….. or the beginning?