“Don’t worry, we’ll get them,” the police officer patted me on the back. “We’ll contact you when we know some more and are further along the investigation, so just hold tight.” He gave his farewells.
“Thank you,” I said, waving him off as he drove off in his cruiser.
I turned to face the black ground, covered in soot and ashes, the ground which had been smoldering and billowing just two hours ago. My garden which I had spent years on, was now gone in an hour at the hands of someone. I didn’t know if it was someone that meant me harm. Perhaps it was just someone that had a soft spot for fires, and simply liked the layout of my garden—an easy target for an arsonist. Despite the police officer’s words, I already knew that I’d never know the reason.
I went back inside, started the kettle, and looked back at the garden. It was four in the morning and I wasn’t going back to bed—and even if I were, chances of falling back asleep were slim at best.
The kettle hummed in the quiet blue of the early morning, not even the sound of birds was present. They should have been, I thought, the birds usually began their early morning choir around this time. The little birds rose with the sun and left their hiding spots when it started brightening outside, right before the sun came over the horizon. They’d call to their friends, before setting off to look for insects and seeds. However, not this morning. This morning I was alone.
I prepared a tea strainer and filled my cup to the brim as the kettle rang. I grabbed leftover bread from the previous day and topped it with avocado and chili flakes. I then cut up an orange, filled a glass with juice, and brought it all out on the patio so that I could look at the garden—or whatever was left of it.
The smell of burnt wood hung heavy in the air, and it was quiet, the quietest it had ever been since I moved in. Just like the birds, the insects too waited for the catastrophe to end. Alone was me, my breakfast, and the memories of yesterday that I tried to imprint into my fragile mind—the trees, the flowers, the fruits, and the vegetables. The winding gravel paths that tourists would walk, leading from section to section, showcasing my life’s work.
The bread was good, not stale, and the avocado was perfectly ripe, lacking brown spots. The avocado and the chili flakes were both products of my garden; vegetables from the last produce that I had kept for myself.
The ground, now weary and parched, would not be able to hold any water. It was as if the fire, in its brief but ferocious dance, had drained it of its will to embrace life. The earth, once full of possibility, now lay in a forced rest, besieged by an invisible weight on its soul, unable to muster strength for even the simplest of tasks. Much akin to a burn-out, or perhaps exactly like it, profound, and all-consuming—where the very act of rising out of bed in the morning feels like a Sisyphean task. And so, it must rest, cloaked under a comforting layer of mulch, in a silent plea for rejuvenation. What mulch did I have?
The old olive tree I had planted when I first started the garden stood with a deceptive calm near my house. From my point of view, it appeared merely to slouch, tired yet enduring, cloaked in the soft yellow glow of the dawn. But a closer inspection, if you were to walk to the other side, it would reveal a stark contrast—a canvas of black, the scars of the fire against its bark, as if it bore the weight of the night sky itself.
It had been my companion for many seasons. I had seen it grow up, just as much as it had seen me. Its roots intertwined with the essence, the very soul of the garden I had cultivated. I held a quiet hope for its survival, a whispered prayer in the wind. Yet, I tempered my hopes with a stoic acceptance.
I polished off my breakfast and left the dishes on the table. At the edge of the patio, I swapped my slippers into wellingtons and trudged out onto the black crust. A lonesome voyage into the sea of black.
My tomato plants never got a chance to grow up, staying in their infant stage, relying on my watering, waiting for the day it could proudly present me its fruit. Such a day never came, such a day never would.
The olive tree stood as a guard before the fire, halting its razing power from reaching my house. The side facing the garden had its branches leafless, its trunk black and brittle, the other side verdant and green, seemingly untouched, okay. My house was left untouched, barely even the smell of smoke had reached inside the walls. I might be a smidge dewy-eyed, or perhaps carry a large piece of optimism bias, but it was my strong belief that the fire would not reach my house, the olive tree made sure of it.
I trudged around looking at the once-was garden. Time passed as the clouds moved on and the sun made its way towards the west. The smell of burnt wood and scorched earth still hung heavy in the air—any birds or insects yet to be heard.
After walking around the garden, losing track of how many times I had circled back around, trudging on as I made my way back to the olive tree, I suddenly found myself at lunchtime. Stopping at the olive tree, my stomach growled. I changed back to my slippers on the patio and went back inside.
I decided to fry some fresh sausages with mushrooms and bread. I brought it out on the patio where I had eaten my breakfast. I nudged the dishes from the morning to the side and started eating.
In the middle of my meal, the yell of a woman rang out into the once-was garden—although it was much closer to a scream. It came from the corner of the house, the entrance of the garden. From where I was sitting, I couldn’t see who it was, but her voice let me know immediately.
“What happened?” she yelled, before, in a daze, making her way to the olive tree. She extended her hand and gently put it against the warm bark as if to check how it was doing, or perhaps to mourn. I looked at her tanned neck and back, revealed by her open red dress, her brown hair was set up in a ponytail, falling over her left shoulder and down her chest. She didn’t know I was watching, her heart filled with ache and shock, almost theatrically so.
“Linda,” I said with a quiet, husky voice, yet loud enough for her to hear. My voice was shockingly monotone. I took a piece of sausage and ate it. My thinking was straight, the food was still hot, and so, had to be eaten before going cold.
Linda jumped and turned to me, holding on tight to the olive tree.
“You startled me,” she murmured, her eyes lingering on the charred remnants of what was once a green landscape. “What happened here? Why is it that you didn’t call me?” She walked up to the patio, her eyes wide and questioning, seeking an answer which to me seemed to show on the entire garden. She seemed to be oblivious to any sadness, perhaps she had yet to remember her corner of the garden, filled with herbs and roses, now resting as a charred black mat. Or the fountain where we had our third-anniversary picnic, now black from soot, cracked from the heat, leaking out water into a small pool which the ground refused to accept. Perhaps she shared this quality with the ground, I thought.
“Honey?” she asked again as I was chewing, I looked at her and shrugged before swallowing, taking a new bite, and looking out into the garden again. I knew she meant well, of course, but it was hard to accept it, not that any of it was her fault, but I didn’t feel in the mood to speak. My face felt wooden, my voice, not mine. I focused on chewing, the one anchor that still connected me to the world, the one wall that stood tall against the onslaught of emotions that lingered beneath the surface.
“Don’t do this,” she got up next to me and put her handbag on the chair across from mine, crossing her arms in front of her. Linda’s voice pierced through the layers of numbness I had painstakingly wrapped myself in. The more she pressed for answers, telling me I was in the wrong for not calling or letting her know, the tighter I pulled the shroud of numbness. If I were to let even a hint of emotion through, I didn’t think the dam would hold. Like the fountain, I too would crack. I wasn’t ready for that. Not yet.
“There’s some sausage and mushroom in the kitchen, a bottle of wine as well if you didn’t take the car.”
“I didn’t, I took the bike.”
“Does it run well?” I asked. I didn’t want to talk about the garden, it was the last thing I wanted to discuss. Her bike served as a good subject as I had changed a cog in the gear the week prior, and she hadn’t taken the bike out since.
“It does, like new again,” she replied before leaving for the kitchen. “I’ll get some food.”
“Do bring out the salami rolls if you decide to bring the wine.”
I kept eating, finishing off the sausage and the mushrooms, only a piece of bread left that I saved for the wine—if Linda didn’t bring the wine out, I would go and get it myself.
Linda came out with a platter, a silver one that she had found for cheap at a flea market, giving it to me as she thought it didn’t fit her apartment, but didn’t want to leave it at the market since the price was so low. No, I didn’t understand it either. The previous owner of it hadn’t seemed to know that it was silver, a tough loss if they were to know, but Linda had kept the knowledge to herself.
The platter held a plate that looked identical to mine, blue ceramic decorated with sausage, mushrooms, and bread. There were also two wine glasses, the aforementioned bottle, a bottle opener engraved with a Spanish wine brand, and a bowl of salami roll-ups.
She put it down on the table, moved the chair next to mine, and sat down. I proceeded to uncork the wine.
Linda didn’t say a word until she had finished her food. The wine bottle was empty, the last now waiting in our glasses. I’d have to get a new bottle soon, I thought.
“When?” Linda asked, taking her last three gulps of wine all at once.
“You’ll get drunk.”
“I know,” she said, eating a salami roll-up.
“And now we need a new bottle.”
“I know,” she repeated. “Answer. When?”
“Early morning, after midnight sometime.”
“Were you sleeping?”
“I was, the neighbor woke me up. Not sure how he noticed, but I’ll have to go over with a bottle of wine later.”
“I have a bottle of Comtes, we can go get it later.” Linda offered.
“Champagne after a house—” I paused to correct myself, “garden fire. It feels a bit out of place.”
“Opus One then?”
“Let’s give the Comtes.”
We sat in silence, I sipped my wine and Linda would pull off pieces of bread now and then, before finishing her piece, and getting started with what was left of mine.
Finishing the last sip of wine, I got up to grab a second bottle. I felt dizzy as I stood up, the alcohol from the wine noticeable. The hollowness from today’s loss had left me without an appetite. My earlier meals were meager, almost an afterthought. Now, as the wine took effect, a glass felt like a bottle, which worked harmoniously with my emotional disarray.
I uncorked the bottle and filled our glasses. Linda started drinking hers immediately. It was an Italian wine that she liked a lot, however, I didn’t believe for a second that she was drinking that fast purely out of enjoyment.
“It’s heart-wrenching,” her voice trembled, she might have been crying, but I didn’t dare look. The weight of the loss reached a breaking point, a point brought down several levels due to the wine. I didn’t respond—or rather, there wasn’t much to say in response. I could agree, and say that it is indeed sad, but that wouldn’t do much, wallowing in sadness together wouldn’t bring the garden back, and wallowing in wine together was more than enough. Every tremor in Linda’s voice as she took a deep breath to calm herself, every tear that slid down her cheek, stood in stark contrast to the void I felt inside. Her pain was raw, visceral. Mine was a gaping chasm I dared not peer into. The walls and the numbness were all built up to block that void.
“Will the olive tree make it?” she asked. Her question lingered, much like the smoky haze of the early morning. I could hear the silent plea in her voice, wishing for that sliver of hope, the silver lining in the cloud amidst the charred remnants.
“I hope it will,” I told her the truth. “But chances aren’t good. I’m not really getting my hopes up. You didn’t name it did you?”
“I didn’t, you said I ought not to in case something were to happen, or in case we have to cut it down.” She took another sip of wine, quickly followed by another. “I didn’t think this would happen when you said that.”
“Me neither,” I said. “It's not good going around naming things, brings bad luck.”
“I wonder what would have happened if we named it.”
“I don’t want to imagine it, perhaps even the whole house would have been caught in the flames. I think the tree saved the house, maybe as a thanks for not receiving a name.”
“That’s stupid, you’re talking nonsense.” Linda finished her glass of wine and let out a small burp into her closed fist. “I think it deserves a name as a thanks for its service. Oliver the olive tree?”
“Have no fantasy, do you?”
“You’re just sore,” she hit me on my shoulder.
“I am.” I agreed. There was no way I wouldn’t be sore with just a half-burnt tree left to show for all the years of hard work.
“What about Pax the olive tree? Like Pax Romana, standing as a guardian for your peace in the dark of night.”
“You and your Latin, you’ve had too much to drink,” I stood up, my feet taking a little longer than usual to find its footing, I leaned against the table until I found my balance. “Let’s get that Comtes,” I said.
As we stood up to make our way to Linda’s apartment, it was less about the wine and more about the ride, seeking an old comfort and the semblance of a routine in a day that had defied all forms of normal.
“So you’re okay with Pax?”
“Sure,” I said before switching my slippers for my wellingtons once more, and walking off, leaving the dishes and empty wine bottles on the table. Linda grabbed her purse and caught up, and as she did, I was reminded of the countless times we had ventured out together, to get wine for us, or mulch for the garden.
We cycled to Linda’s apartment and picked up the Comtes, and a bottle of rosé she liked. The bottles clinked softly in Linda’s bike basket on our way back to my house. We parked the bikes and walked over to my neighbor. I knocked on the door and an older gentleman opened the door. He had deep dark circles under his eyes, hinting at sleepless nights. I wondered if the garden fire alone had contributed to his weariness, or if something else kept him up—insomnia, late-night poker, or perhaps other concerns. I would never know.
He appreciated the bottle of Comtes. His eyes crinkled in the sides and his mouth revealed a line of pearly white teeth, too good-looking for someone his age, he must have had them fixed recently.
I mentioned that Champagne might seem like an unusual thank-you gift after a garden fire. However, to my surprise, he confessed that it was his drink of choice after beer and that it was the only wine he’d drink.
We got back to the garden, and I brought out two new wine glasses, and cut up a cantaloupe I had grown. It wasn’t fully ripe, but I considered it better to eat it slightly unripe with a good bottle of rosé instead of having it ripe with my morning coffee.
As the evening settled, we finished the bottle of rosé, ordered pizza, and opened another bottle of wine, followed by an apple cider a friend had crafted in his orchard. A bit on the drier side, something I didn’t appreciate too much. Linda, however, seemed to enjoy it, or she had drunk enough wine for anything to taste great.
The night ended with us more intoxicated than intended, though to be fair, we hadn’t made any plans. Linda would come over on Saturdays and we’d spend the whole day together, often tending the garden or going out for activities, visiting friends, and so on. However, we had ended up indulging in alcohol, neither of us saying much about the garden.
I was lying in bed, still hazy from the wine, sweat making the blanket stick to me. Linda however, surely more sweaty than me given her efforts, didn’t seem too bothered. She was fast asleep, the blanket covering half her body, her chest growing and shrinking with her deep breaths. She was tired both physically and mentally, and the garden fire seemed to be just as big of a hit for her as it had been for me, something I hadn’t realized until then. I didn’t know that she liked the garden so, not to that extent. Perhaps she was just kind and wanted to help me, I had thought. And maybe that had been the case in the beginning, but the garden had permanently carved out a spot in her heart, a spot that was now left void and empty. I should have called her when the fire was raging.
The morning after, we both woke up with a headache. Linda moaned incomprehensibly when I asked her if she wanted breakfast. I went to the kitchen and prepared breakfast for two, if she didn’t want any, I could just box it for tomorrow, or for lunch.
I made two glasses of fluid replacement, making sure to put two tablets in each. I fried some eggs, as well as some toast, and bacon, plating it together with leftover pieces of cantaloupe from the day before. I went to the bedroom where Linda was now sitting on the corner of the bed. She was gazing tiredly into the garden through the window as the sun shone in, warming her skin.
“Want the breakfast here or on the patio?” I asked. Linda turned to me, traces of pillow showing on her cheek. She must have slept well despite the wine.
“I’ll come out on the patio, just gotta find something to put on, wouldn’t want to accidentally let your neighbors see me in the nude.”
I carried out the plates and the glasses of fluid replacement. I popped a capsule into the coffee machine and pressed go before hot liquid energy came pouring out. When the coffee was done I carried our two cups out to the patio where Linda had just gotten seated. She had found a big white T-shirt to put on.
We enjoyed breakfast mostly in silence, nothing had to be said as we sat in each other’s quiet company. I tried my utmost to resist the feeling of vulnerability, yet the thought of having her to lean on was comforting and brought with it a sense of calm.
“How are you feeling?” Linda asked me after breakfast.
“Like shit,” I answered honestly.
“Headache?”
“Just everything, it feels like. Headache is slowly going away I feel, but the garden...” I stopped for a second and tried taking a sip of my coffee, but I had already emptied the cup. “My heart hurts, at least I think it does, and I feel a bit hazy when thinking.” I put the cup down.
“Let’s go out into the garden,” Linda said. Standing up, her T-shirt snagged on the table’s edge, momentarily baring herself to the world.
“What are we doing?” I asked, not out of confusion, but a need to voice the heaviness that clung to my thoughts like the soot on the leaves. I grabbed her T-shirt, unlatching it from the edge, and allowing it to fall back down to cover her again.
“I just want to walk around, really,” she admitted, her voice carrying a layer of resolve that covered the hidden tremble beneath. She stepped into my wellingtons with her bare feet. “I looked at the garden with tear-filled eyes yesterday. Today I want to see it through a lens of hope.”
I was unsure if I could do what she was asking, yet I’d follow nonetheless.
“Sure,” I said, before going back inside the house to get Linda’s wellingtons. “We’re switching,” I said as I came back out, however, Linda was already halfway out into the garden. I took my slippers and trudged out into the blackened garden.
Linda transitioned from my wellingtons and into her own. I stepped into mine, before throwing my slippers aside on the last patch of grass behind the olive tree.
We trudged around the remnants of the garden, taking us past Pax, the once vigilant olive tree, now standing guard over a memory. We made it further through the vegetable patch, the flower fields, and the corner that had the ever-existing scent of spices.
Our path led us to the fountain, or what remained. A dark brown spot surrounded the ground around the crack as water had slowly trickled out for hours.
Just past the fountain was the corner that Linda had cherished, her spices and roses now lost. Everything was gone, and looking at the situation with hopeful eyes turned out to be impossible.
Yet, as my gaze lingered on the fountain, a sensation gripped me—the uncanny echo of ache mirroring the fountain’s broken silhouette against my heart. Amidst the devastation, something caught my eye, a speck against the backdrop of ruin. Looking closer, I saw something sticking out of the ground, something small and green, barely noticeable. I leaned down to take a look. A single sprout of lavender dared to breach the blackened soil. “Lavender,” I whispered.
Written by Elliot Lakefield.
Cover photo by David Clode.