The Secret Garden
Ellwyn and Aldous
Long ago, a lovely maid
spurned a Lord’s amorous advances. In anger, the Lord bargained his soul to a
Warlock. Thus, the maid was cast into a garden, forever to be neither Fae nor
mortal and always beguiling. The Lord and each one who followed would reap
prosperity for only so long as the ritual remained unbroken. It was a bargain
not without price. In trade for these riches, happiness was forfeit. Each Lord
must instruct the one to follow, so as to perpetuate the spell.
The old Lord muttered
and shifted restlessly on his deathbed. “Not ready. Left too late. All shall be
undone. The ring, the ring.” Aldous leaned forward, but the words held no
meaning. He stood and crossed to the tiny window. The poor old man was addled
with pain and would not last the night. As the only remaining heir and newly
returned from the wars which had robbed Craigmoor of all direct descendants, he
was not prepared for the mantle of Lord. His childhood had been a lonely one
and the old manse had shared few secrets. His Grandfather had shared none.
Distant and proud, he was unapproachable to a small boy and much had been left
unsaid. Perhaps that was his regret. With a small moan, the dying man found his
peace. The new Lord sighed. He would wait with his kin till the moon settled in
the mist. None should be alone in death.
The song was just a
breath on the night air. Faint and haunting. Perhaps it was a night bird or a
stray waft of wind through the old window. His eyes traced the pale, moon-dappled
garden below. As a child, Aldous had explored every nook and cranny of the huge
old estate. He could swear he never found this garden. Walled and derelict, it
was a tiny garden, hidden from any view save the one from this window. Even a
small boy would not dare trespass in the Lord’s chambers.
Her pale form drifted
through a moonbeam and Aldous stood transfixed. She lifted her eyes to his. As
if she willed it, a puff of air stirred the tapestries and he saw the door.
She waited. One life had
passed and he must come, surely as all those before him. The ritual was old as
time. She drew the scroll from the old oak, gently strummed her mandolin and
began to sing. In her tongue, it was a musical though not a joyous lyric.
Perhaps this time would be the last. A forlorn hope cradled in her heart, for
she grew weary of her prison and longed for freedom. But, of course, he would
have been given the secret of his future and her eternal bondage would
continue. She turned and bowed at his deep query, “Who are you fair one and how
do you come to be in this garden?” Her eyes pierced his, then with quickly
lowered lids she offered him the parchment. Could it be? Did he not know? She
closed her eyes, fully prepared for that which must surely come.
Aldous stared in awe.
She was a winged creature. Just there, in the pale light, he could see their delicate
gossamer reflection. “Can you not tell me by what magic you play and sing in
the moonlight?” His barely whispered words nearly made her meet his gaze. But
she dared not till the ritual was complete. In his bewitched state he fumbled
for the scroll. His hand was bare. There was no ring. He would not be able to
read the scroll. She smiled and stole a last glance into his eyes. Her voice
startled him. “I almost wish.” Then, before he could speak again and as the
scroll left her fingers, she vanished. All that remained was her mandolin,
abandoned among the dewy brambles and the memory of her secret smile and green
eyes.
Original Story by Cheryl Crawford
