The Garden (part 1 of 3)
Posted: Fri Aug 22, 2003 2:14 pm
Disclaimer: Not only do I not own Gundam Wing, I don’t own the concept of this story. The woman and her garden are taken from the short story “Roses by Moonlight” by Patricia C. Wrede, whose literary genius surpasses any I can hope to attain. The story comes from the collection “Book of Enchantments,” which I definitely recommend to any fans of fantasy.
The story has always fascinated me. On a recent car trip, I began to wonder how Heero would react to the garden, and what he would see. Thus, this story was born. Enjoy.
Rating: G
—
The Garden
by Eienvine
Night had fallen over the city of St.-?tienne. The clattering of the factories had ended with the workday and given way to the sounds of night: dogs barking, cars on the highway, the el trains making their last runs of the day. From somewhere far-off came the faint sound of music and laughter trickling out of a distant bar.
As the night deepened, the street lights came on, adding their brightness to the lights coming from the windows of clubs and apartment buildings, until the whole valley floor was covered in points of light. The bright glow hovering over the city obscured the stars in the night sky; they were further masked by the cloud of pollution that always hung low over the city as though to suffocate it.
Bells began to ring the hour from the old cathedral, the only building in the old part of St.-?tienne not bombed out in the wars. The sound floated up through the smog and crept up the side of the mountain that towered over the city, finally reaching the ears of the solitary young man who sat in the foothills. ‘Midnight,’ the man thought to himself, and narrowed his eyes a little. He knew he ought to get back to his apartment- his shift at the factory started at eight- but he felt too restless to sleep.
He had come to the hills, as he so often did, to think. He was seated on a wide, flat rock, his eyes fixed on the stars shining dimly overhead. He hadn’t bothered to change after work and was clad in his standard issue brown pants and a wifebeater. The darkness of the night obscured his handsome face: delicate features, thick brown hair, and dark blue eyes that had the look of one who had seen too much, though he was only twenty years old.
The mountain had been his sanctuary since he’d arrived in St.-?tienne four years earlier. It was where he retreated to when he couldn’t stand the noisy, dirty city any longer, as though by climbing above the town, he could somehow escape his mundane life at the factory.
The factory was what was occupying his thoughts this particular night. When he’d first come to St.-?tienne to disappear, hiding his identity and adopting an assumed name, he’d been glad to get the job. As the years had gone by, though, it had become more and more unbearable to work there. He had grown up in a world of constant action, and spending every day supervising a canning machine was terribly tedious.
Thinking about his past made him think, as it always did, of the wars and the life he’d left behind. He sometimes wondered what would have happened if he’d stayed . . . he shook his head angrily. He would not let himself dwell on it. He hadn’t belonged in that world. Leaving had been his only choice, and it wouldn’t help to sit and wonder.
The thoughts of his old life, he was sure, were just a result of his lack of companionship. He had no friends in the whole city; he never went out, and his co-workers were all a little wary of the messy-haired young man who never smiled and always worked holidays. He wasn’t desperate for a friend- he’d always been a loner- but sometimes he wished he could talk to someone who understood him.
Despite his best efforts at staidness, his thoughts wandered back to his old life. He wondered if anyone had tried to find him after he’d left, although he knew it wouldn’t have mattered. After leaving, he’d changed his identity and covered his tracks so well that no one could have ever found him. Somehow, the thought depressed him. Not being the type to sigh, he simply uttered his usual comment on life: “Hn.”
What was it all about? he wondered. Why was he working at a dead-end job for minimum wage? What was it worth? He didn’t want to stay, but if he left, he had nowhere to go. Life wasn’t worth living, but suicide seemed the coward’s way out. Were those the only options? He grunted again and lay back on his rock. Folding his arms behind his head, he let his eyes slowly drift shut.
“Heero Yuy.” His eyes flew open. “Or should I say Sean Tanamera?” the melodious voice continued, as Heero quickly sat up and turned around. A woman stood behind him, dark-haired and beautiful, clad in a simple silk dress. She looked to be near his age, but something in her face spoke of countless ages of wisdom. There was a hint of a smile on her face, but Heero didn’t feel inclined to smile back. Who was this woman? How had she gotten so close without his hearing her?
Most importantly, how did she know his name, both his old name and his pseudonym? He didn't know her, and there was no way anyone could have traced the connection between the former Heero Yuy and the fictitious Sean Tanamera.
These thoughts tore through his mind as he stared at her, and she politely waited for him to speak. “Who are you?” he finally asked. She smiled calmly. “The first question you ask, I cannot answer. Do not ask of me, rather of my roses.”
This made no sense to Heero, so he tried the other question on his mind. “How do you know my name?” She smiled. “I know all about you, pilot 01.” In his surprise and confusion, Heero’s mind barely registered the fact that she was speaking his native Japanese, rather than the French he’d adopted when he’d arrived in St.-?tienne.
“How do you know me?” he asked warily.
Her eyes became distant, as though remembering something from a long time past. “Twenty-one years ago tonight, I visited a man called Odin Lowe, who wanted to be the greatest fighter in the world. After he chose, I watched him, until he died.”
Heero’s surprise surpassed any he could ever remember feeling. Few people knew of the deceased assassin Odin Lowe, and even fewer knew of the little boy who had once worked with him. He couldn’t think of how to reply, so he simply asked, “What do you mean, ‘he chose’?”
The woman smiled. “I will show you.”
She turned and walked into the trees, leaving a bewildered Heero behind her. Although his face was serious, inside, his thoughts were in turmoil. How could this woman know things about him that he’d never told anyone? Part of him said the woman knew too much and was dangerous, but the rest of him still yearned desperately to find out what she’d meant. In an instant, he made his decision, and stood up to follow her.
The woman seemed to have been waiting for him. Once he reached her, she turned and walked gracefully through the trees. He followed.
They were following a path that wove through the trees. Heero knew the woods well, and he knew the path led to a nearby meadow. But why, he wondered, would we be going there? The meadow had once been the site of a battle, and nothing had grown there since. The ground was scorched and barren, and the trees that had once surrounded the meadow with shade were blackened and twisted.
The woman seemed sure of herself, though, so Heero followed her in silence, walking briskly to keep up with her quick pace. They reached the last turn in the path, and Heero stepped into the meadow, expecting to see a desolate field. He was wrong.
There before him, bathed in moonlight, was a rose garden. More rosebushes than he could count stretched out before him, filling the night air with their beautiful scent. He stood under a white lattice archway, woven through with dark green leaves and delicate white roses. Around the edge of the garden stood a wall of beautifully-colored hedge roses.
Inside the garden were bushes every different kind. There were tall bushes of red roses, carefully pruned, and small, delicate bushes of wild roses. On the right side was a long, low hedge of yellow roses, and on the left side stood a similar hedge of wild, magenta blooms. There were bushes pruned into fanciful shapes, and tall, graceful, pink- blossomed bushes shaped like trees. Everywhere he looked he saw a riot of different colors: white, pink, orange, yellow, magenta and red.
Dotting the maze of roses were stone benches and delicate Greek statues, and in the center stood an ancient fountain, now dry, grown over with white roses. And in the very back, almost obscured by darkness, was a lattice archway covered with leaves, forming a canopy over an intricately carved bench.
Although the night had been dark, the entire garden was bathed in bright moonlight. Heero looked up and saw that the cloud of pollution was gone, and the stars were shining as brightly as they did when he was in space. Looking around, he realized everything had changed. The mountain and trees above them had disappeared, and he suddenly noticed he could no longer hear the cars on the nearby highway.
Heero whirled around to face the woman, about to demand an explanation. She just smiled enigmatically, and the words died on his tongue; he knew he wouldn’t get the answer he wanted, so he turned back and surveyed the scene before him. The whole affair was impossible, and since his Spartan upbringing didn’t allow for a belief in anything mystical, he could only believe he was dreaming.
Although . . . he discreetly reached over and pinched his own arm. It certainly felt like he was awake. “No, you’re not dreaming,” said the woman, and Heero dropped his arms quickly. “This is impossible,” he told her monotonously.
The woman raised an eyebrow. “Quite the opposite. You will find my garden contains all possibilities.” Before Heero could reply, she swept past him and seated herself daintily on a bench. Raising her arms to gesture at the garden around her, she spoke. “My garden is yours for this one night. Try as many flowers as you wish, but remember that you may pick one and only one rose, so do not choose one until you are sure it is the one you want.”
Heero had no idea what the woman was talking about, but she seemed to want him to smell a rose. Although he was still half-convinced she wasn’t real, he decided to comply with her wishes, partly out of curiosity about what the woman thought might happen. Turning to the rose covered archway, he reached out and grasped a stem.
Her voice stopped him. “Take care as you go. If you break a stem, even if it is by accident, your choice is made.” He nodded and released the flower carefully. With his hands at his sides, he leaned forward, closed his eyes, and inhaled.
Heero motioned for the bartender to bring his sixth . . . seventh . . . it didn’t matter how many he’d had, he just wanted another glass of beer. The bartender brought it over, eyeing the heavily intoxicated man with concern, and said, “This is your last glass, Tanamera.”
Heero nodded and downed the glass. Throwing money on the bar, he tottered shakily out into the cool night air. How did it come to this? he wondered. In his youth, addiction to anything was a sign of weakness, and a detriment to the mission. After a few years in St.-?tienne, though, he’d sunk into a deep depression, and soon turned to drinking.
He reached his apartment and threw himself on his bed, hoping he wouldn’t be too ill at work in the morning. He stared at the ceiling, a bitter smile twisting his face. What would people say if they could see the perfect soldier now?
Heero’s eyes flew open and he pushed himself away from the flower. “What is this?” he asked the woman angrily. What were these visions in his head? They felt so real . . . She just smiled. “Try another flower.”
Still eyeing the woman suspiciously, Heero found another flower, just above the first, and leaned forward to smell it.
The door opened and Lynne walked in, a tired smile on her face. “Hey, Sean,” she murmured. “Hard day at the factory?” Heero asked dully. She put her arms around his neck and kissed him, then pulled back and smiled.
Heero smiled back, but in her eyes he saw the truth he’d known all along. There was no love in their relationship. They were just two desperately lonely people, both wanting happiness, and looking vainly for it in each other.
Heero straightened, frowning. Why did they all show such dismal scenes? Was this supposed to be a vision of his future? Even if the garden wasn’t real, he hated seeing his life portrayed that way. Moving to the other side of the archway, he found the largest, fullest blossom and smelled it.
He was lying on his back, covered in something white. Where was he? Why couldn’t he move? He heard movement somewhere above him, and a man with a deep, gruff voice spoke. “The landlady called around midnight about a gunshot. We searched the building and found him on his balcony.”
A second, gentler voice spoke. “Suicide. Self-inflicted gunshot to the right temple. The bullet matched the gun found in his right hand.”
There was the sound of approaching footsteps, then a third voice. “I checked his records and talked to his supervisor at work. He had no close friends, and we have no record of family of Sean Tanamera.”
It was then that Heero realized he wasn’t breathing . . .
Heero’s eyes flew open and he shook his head, trying to rid it of the . . . dreams- hallucinations- what were they? Pushing himself up and away from the rose, he rounded angrily on the dark-haired woman, who was still sitting on the bench. “What is this?” he demanded. “Are you saying my life is destined to be screwed up?”
The woman shook her head. “My garden does not show the future. It only shows possibilities. When you find the possibility you desire, you may pick it and my garden will make it a reality.”
“But everything I’ve seen so far has been terrible,” he replied. Though the logical part of his brain was still convinced nothing was real, he was sure he wasn’t dreaming, and there was something about the garden that made him believe. And what she’d said about Odin . . . he knew, somehow, that this garden truly could give him anything he wanted.
“I have no control over what my flowers show you,” said the woman. “I do not even know what you see.”
Heero frowned. “They’re all bad,” he said haltingly. “I always end up trapped here in St.-?tienne, living terrible lives. Am I destined to be stuck here?”
“There are some things we cannot change,” she replied. “Sometimes we are too far down one path. It is more likely, though, that the roses show you in St.-?tienne because that is in your thoughts tonight. Keep searching. There are flowers here that will bring you happiness.” She smiled suddenly. “I suggest you try another bush.”
---
There's the beginning. This will be the longest of the three parts, I think. Anyway, please review, even if you think it's terrible- well, maybe not . . .
The story has always fascinated me. On a recent car trip, I began to wonder how Heero would react to the garden, and what he would see. Thus, this story was born. Enjoy.
Rating: G
—
The Garden
by Eienvine
Night had fallen over the city of St.-?tienne. The clattering of the factories had ended with the workday and given way to the sounds of night: dogs barking, cars on the highway, the el trains making their last runs of the day. From somewhere far-off came the faint sound of music and laughter trickling out of a distant bar.
As the night deepened, the street lights came on, adding their brightness to the lights coming from the windows of clubs and apartment buildings, until the whole valley floor was covered in points of light. The bright glow hovering over the city obscured the stars in the night sky; they were further masked by the cloud of pollution that always hung low over the city as though to suffocate it.
Bells began to ring the hour from the old cathedral, the only building in the old part of St.-?tienne not bombed out in the wars. The sound floated up through the smog and crept up the side of the mountain that towered over the city, finally reaching the ears of the solitary young man who sat in the foothills. ‘Midnight,’ the man thought to himself, and narrowed his eyes a little. He knew he ought to get back to his apartment- his shift at the factory started at eight- but he felt too restless to sleep.
He had come to the hills, as he so often did, to think. He was seated on a wide, flat rock, his eyes fixed on the stars shining dimly overhead. He hadn’t bothered to change after work and was clad in his standard issue brown pants and a wifebeater. The darkness of the night obscured his handsome face: delicate features, thick brown hair, and dark blue eyes that had the look of one who had seen too much, though he was only twenty years old.
The mountain had been his sanctuary since he’d arrived in St.-?tienne four years earlier. It was where he retreated to when he couldn’t stand the noisy, dirty city any longer, as though by climbing above the town, he could somehow escape his mundane life at the factory.
The factory was what was occupying his thoughts this particular night. When he’d first come to St.-?tienne to disappear, hiding his identity and adopting an assumed name, he’d been glad to get the job. As the years had gone by, though, it had become more and more unbearable to work there. He had grown up in a world of constant action, and spending every day supervising a canning machine was terribly tedious.
Thinking about his past made him think, as it always did, of the wars and the life he’d left behind. He sometimes wondered what would have happened if he’d stayed . . . he shook his head angrily. He would not let himself dwell on it. He hadn’t belonged in that world. Leaving had been his only choice, and it wouldn’t help to sit and wonder.
The thoughts of his old life, he was sure, were just a result of his lack of companionship. He had no friends in the whole city; he never went out, and his co-workers were all a little wary of the messy-haired young man who never smiled and always worked holidays. He wasn’t desperate for a friend- he’d always been a loner- but sometimes he wished he could talk to someone who understood him.
Despite his best efforts at staidness, his thoughts wandered back to his old life. He wondered if anyone had tried to find him after he’d left, although he knew it wouldn’t have mattered. After leaving, he’d changed his identity and covered his tracks so well that no one could have ever found him. Somehow, the thought depressed him. Not being the type to sigh, he simply uttered his usual comment on life: “Hn.”
What was it all about? he wondered. Why was he working at a dead-end job for minimum wage? What was it worth? He didn’t want to stay, but if he left, he had nowhere to go. Life wasn’t worth living, but suicide seemed the coward’s way out. Were those the only options? He grunted again and lay back on his rock. Folding his arms behind his head, he let his eyes slowly drift shut.
“Heero Yuy.” His eyes flew open. “Or should I say Sean Tanamera?” the melodious voice continued, as Heero quickly sat up and turned around. A woman stood behind him, dark-haired and beautiful, clad in a simple silk dress. She looked to be near his age, but something in her face spoke of countless ages of wisdom. There was a hint of a smile on her face, but Heero didn’t feel inclined to smile back. Who was this woman? How had she gotten so close without his hearing her?
Most importantly, how did she know his name, both his old name and his pseudonym? He didn't know her, and there was no way anyone could have traced the connection between the former Heero Yuy and the fictitious Sean Tanamera.
These thoughts tore through his mind as he stared at her, and she politely waited for him to speak. “Who are you?” he finally asked. She smiled calmly. “The first question you ask, I cannot answer. Do not ask of me, rather of my roses.”
This made no sense to Heero, so he tried the other question on his mind. “How do you know my name?” She smiled. “I know all about you, pilot 01.” In his surprise and confusion, Heero’s mind barely registered the fact that she was speaking his native Japanese, rather than the French he’d adopted when he’d arrived in St.-?tienne.
“How do you know me?” he asked warily.
Her eyes became distant, as though remembering something from a long time past. “Twenty-one years ago tonight, I visited a man called Odin Lowe, who wanted to be the greatest fighter in the world. After he chose, I watched him, until he died.”
Heero’s surprise surpassed any he could ever remember feeling. Few people knew of the deceased assassin Odin Lowe, and even fewer knew of the little boy who had once worked with him. He couldn’t think of how to reply, so he simply asked, “What do you mean, ‘he chose’?”
The woman smiled. “I will show you.”
She turned and walked into the trees, leaving a bewildered Heero behind her. Although his face was serious, inside, his thoughts were in turmoil. How could this woman know things about him that he’d never told anyone? Part of him said the woman knew too much and was dangerous, but the rest of him still yearned desperately to find out what she’d meant. In an instant, he made his decision, and stood up to follow her.
The woman seemed to have been waiting for him. Once he reached her, she turned and walked gracefully through the trees. He followed.
They were following a path that wove through the trees. Heero knew the woods well, and he knew the path led to a nearby meadow. But why, he wondered, would we be going there? The meadow had once been the site of a battle, and nothing had grown there since. The ground was scorched and barren, and the trees that had once surrounded the meadow with shade were blackened and twisted.
The woman seemed sure of herself, though, so Heero followed her in silence, walking briskly to keep up with her quick pace. They reached the last turn in the path, and Heero stepped into the meadow, expecting to see a desolate field. He was wrong.
There before him, bathed in moonlight, was a rose garden. More rosebushes than he could count stretched out before him, filling the night air with their beautiful scent. He stood under a white lattice archway, woven through with dark green leaves and delicate white roses. Around the edge of the garden stood a wall of beautifully-colored hedge roses.
Inside the garden were bushes every different kind. There were tall bushes of red roses, carefully pruned, and small, delicate bushes of wild roses. On the right side was a long, low hedge of yellow roses, and on the left side stood a similar hedge of wild, magenta blooms. There were bushes pruned into fanciful shapes, and tall, graceful, pink- blossomed bushes shaped like trees. Everywhere he looked he saw a riot of different colors: white, pink, orange, yellow, magenta and red.
Dotting the maze of roses were stone benches and delicate Greek statues, and in the center stood an ancient fountain, now dry, grown over with white roses. And in the very back, almost obscured by darkness, was a lattice archway covered with leaves, forming a canopy over an intricately carved bench.
Although the night had been dark, the entire garden was bathed in bright moonlight. Heero looked up and saw that the cloud of pollution was gone, and the stars were shining as brightly as they did when he was in space. Looking around, he realized everything had changed. The mountain and trees above them had disappeared, and he suddenly noticed he could no longer hear the cars on the nearby highway.
Heero whirled around to face the woman, about to demand an explanation. She just smiled enigmatically, and the words died on his tongue; he knew he wouldn’t get the answer he wanted, so he turned back and surveyed the scene before him. The whole affair was impossible, and since his Spartan upbringing didn’t allow for a belief in anything mystical, he could only believe he was dreaming.
Although . . . he discreetly reached over and pinched his own arm. It certainly felt like he was awake. “No, you’re not dreaming,” said the woman, and Heero dropped his arms quickly. “This is impossible,” he told her monotonously.
The woman raised an eyebrow. “Quite the opposite. You will find my garden contains all possibilities.” Before Heero could reply, she swept past him and seated herself daintily on a bench. Raising her arms to gesture at the garden around her, she spoke. “My garden is yours for this one night. Try as many flowers as you wish, but remember that you may pick one and only one rose, so do not choose one until you are sure it is the one you want.”
Heero had no idea what the woman was talking about, but she seemed to want him to smell a rose. Although he was still half-convinced she wasn’t real, he decided to comply with her wishes, partly out of curiosity about what the woman thought might happen. Turning to the rose covered archway, he reached out and grasped a stem.
Her voice stopped him. “Take care as you go. If you break a stem, even if it is by accident, your choice is made.” He nodded and released the flower carefully. With his hands at his sides, he leaned forward, closed his eyes, and inhaled.
Heero motioned for the bartender to bring his sixth . . . seventh . . . it didn’t matter how many he’d had, he just wanted another glass of beer. The bartender brought it over, eyeing the heavily intoxicated man with concern, and said, “This is your last glass, Tanamera.”
Heero nodded and downed the glass. Throwing money on the bar, he tottered shakily out into the cool night air. How did it come to this? he wondered. In his youth, addiction to anything was a sign of weakness, and a detriment to the mission. After a few years in St.-?tienne, though, he’d sunk into a deep depression, and soon turned to drinking.
He reached his apartment and threw himself on his bed, hoping he wouldn’t be too ill at work in the morning. He stared at the ceiling, a bitter smile twisting his face. What would people say if they could see the perfect soldier now?
Heero’s eyes flew open and he pushed himself away from the flower. “What is this?” he asked the woman angrily. What were these visions in his head? They felt so real . . . She just smiled. “Try another flower.”
Still eyeing the woman suspiciously, Heero found another flower, just above the first, and leaned forward to smell it.
The door opened and Lynne walked in, a tired smile on her face. “Hey, Sean,” she murmured. “Hard day at the factory?” Heero asked dully. She put her arms around his neck and kissed him, then pulled back and smiled.
Heero smiled back, but in her eyes he saw the truth he’d known all along. There was no love in their relationship. They were just two desperately lonely people, both wanting happiness, and looking vainly for it in each other.
Heero straightened, frowning. Why did they all show such dismal scenes? Was this supposed to be a vision of his future? Even if the garden wasn’t real, he hated seeing his life portrayed that way. Moving to the other side of the archway, he found the largest, fullest blossom and smelled it.
He was lying on his back, covered in something white. Where was he? Why couldn’t he move? He heard movement somewhere above him, and a man with a deep, gruff voice spoke. “The landlady called around midnight about a gunshot. We searched the building and found him on his balcony.”
A second, gentler voice spoke. “Suicide. Self-inflicted gunshot to the right temple. The bullet matched the gun found in his right hand.”
There was the sound of approaching footsteps, then a third voice. “I checked his records and talked to his supervisor at work. He had no close friends, and we have no record of family of Sean Tanamera.”
It was then that Heero realized he wasn’t breathing . . .
Heero’s eyes flew open and he shook his head, trying to rid it of the . . . dreams- hallucinations- what were they? Pushing himself up and away from the rose, he rounded angrily on the dark-haired woman, who was still sitting on the bench. “What is this?” he demanded. “Are you saying my life is destined to be screwed up?”
The woman shook her head. “My garden does not show the future. It only shows possibilities. When you find the possibility you desire, you may pick it and my garden will make it a reality.”
“But everything I’ve seen so far has been terrible,” he replied. Though the logical part of his brain was still convinced nothing was real, he was sure he wasn’t dreaming, and there was something about the garden that made him believe. And what she’d said about Odin . . . he knew, somehow, that this garden truly could give him anything he wanted.
“I have no control over what my flowers show you,” said the woman. “I do not even know what you see.”
Heero frowned. “They’re all bad,” he said haltingly. “I always end up trapped here in St.-?tienne, living terrible lives. Am I destined to be stuck here?”
“There are some things we cannot change,” she replied. “Sometimes we are too far down one path. It is more likely, though, that the roses show you in St.-?tienne because that is in your thoughts tonight. Keep searching. There are flowers here that will bring you happiness.” She smiled suddenly. “I suggest you try another bush.”
---
There's the beginning. This will be the longest of the three parts, I think. Anyway, please review, even if you think it's terrible- well, maybe not . . .
Can't wait to read more!! 