Garden of the Gods

I am the desert, the call of the wind. I want to taste life, warm and finite and wet against my tongue.

Approaching footsteps stir a carpet of low-growing thyme. Sitting in the shade of a primeval crabapple tree, I twitch my tail, then brush aside the ledger which torments me. Once my joy, this long list of men’s names I’ve killed in an eternal guardianship. I spread my tawny wings. A habit of anticipation.

I prefer kings, warriors, even the guileless pilgrims. This visitor is different. A man of no distinction, unmarked by allegiance or purpose, a homespun cloak fading him to obscurity. Is he prey or a fellow predator? I sniff, taking his scent—salty, but not born of fear. Yet, I don’t take him for a hunter either. He carries no weapons, and his movements have been too brash, too visible.

I lick my lips, wondering what he tastes like.

He is a riddle, a long shadow to unveil. I must have his name for my ledger. Only then can I claim his meat for myself. Without it, who am I?

“Leondra,” he says, speaking my name with unearned familiarity. “I’ve found you.”

His words are an opening to put me on my guard, to corner me. I peel back my lips and show him my fangs. He stands his ground, his feet wide.

The next move is mine.

A breeze dances among the tall foxgloves, fairy-like impatiens, forget-me-nots, and the patches of delicate lady slippers growing amidst bones yellowed by age. I clench my claws, their sharp edges like fine daggers. The man flinches, and well he should, for I am a monster to his kind, a guardian of old, but more, a reminder of a past best forgotten. My wings are mighty as an eagle, my body strong and lean, covered in honey-brown fur.

I stretch my forelegs, then rise.

“I am not alive,” I say, “but I grow. I am not wild, but must be tamed. I thrive in light, warmth, and gentle rain. What am I?”

The man takes in the summer’s offerings, then smiles, though an early frost lingers in his gaze. “A garden.”

I fan my wings for his admiration. His eyes watch with wariness, lacking awe or envy. I used to pity men, bound to this earth, unable to know the wind’s true voice or the gentle touch of the clouds. The heady thrill of freedom without bounds. Now I grow curious. Perhaps I’ve lost something without roots to hold me or death to make me afraid.

I pace back and forth. One wrong answer and he is mine. I pause beside the ledger set beneath the gnarled tree, placed among twigs and sun-dried skulls. Its fine leather is brittle, cracking. I fumble on the second riddle, my thoughts tangled and blurred. “I am life without end.”

“The answer is what I seek,” he says with weight to his words. “It is immortality.”

My fur hackles. He’s clever, I’ll admit, but I’ve one riddle left to ask. My stomach growls. I long to taste what I have not yet tasted, but my will is stronger than my hunger. I sit, wrapping my tail around my front legs.

“I am a question asked by poor and rich alike. Many look for me, but none agree what I am.” As I speak, I lean forward. Not with appetite, not completely, but an interest which I’d thought lost. For too long, I’ve breathed without living, watching leaves bud and wither, unable to join them.

He shifts his weight from one foot to another and mumbles to himself. “Happiness fits. But no, that isn’t a question. . .”

I salivate and stalk closer. The smarter ones make it passed two. Not three.

“The meaning of life,” he says, his words wet and swift. “Its answer has eluded us all, mortals and monsters and gods alike.”

***

I pause, and he waits for his fate with both feet planted on the earth. He dares to challenge a world he doesn’t understand. It’s admirable but foolhardy. I tap my claws. The man pales as though he sees his own death approaching on dark wings. My hunger nags, a feeble attempt to hide thorns of loneliness.

A similar craving reflects in the man’s eyes. It chills me. He wants what he can never have, but unlike the rest who’ve come and failed—he knows it.

We are more alike than not.

I turn, my view of bark and leaf and stem. The apple tree is older than me, and its fruits are rare and precious. I find a golden apple and shake it from its fragile branch. The fruit is leftover by the gods—their legacy. I know its sweetness, its lingering acidity. Sometimes I regret eating it. Will he?

The apple thuds. Circling tightly, I settle back down, closing my eyes against the sun’s glare. My ears follow his footsteps. He approaches, takes the fallen fruit, and bites into it.

“Why do you stay here, Leondra?”

I blink. He chews, then wipes juice off his lips.

It’s true, I can leave, but change is no simple challenge, especially to one with as many scars as mine. The garden of the gods surrounds me, and below, roots tangle beneath the dark earth. It is peaceful, though never mine. Still, what role can I claim but that which has made me? This man who questions me has become an immortal—an equal—but he is naïve. Time will teach him the emptiness of never-ending days. The alienation. The rumbling of resentment that grows until it’s too loud to be ignored.

“It’s complicated,” I say, my chin low. “I don’t think you would understand.”

He shakes his head. “The answer seems simple enough. You’re afraid, aren’t you?”

I growl to hide my shame, but he ignores it, for what threat are my claws, my teeth? Like me, he cannot die.

“You know my name,” I say, “but I don’t know yours.”

He meets my open stare. “I know the value in keeping mine a secret.”

His eyes are as warm and bright as the sky up high. Like me, he seems to long for a change of seasons. Perhaps it’s a sign, like green shoots on ice-clad branches. I will learn his name, but in return, I will show him this world from a different vantage.

***

With resolve, I stretch my aquiline wings, then bow, offering my strong back. “Tell me,” I say, “do you know what clouds feel like?”

Thank you all for being with us through the first year of Orion’s Belt. Starting this magazine has been terrifying and thrilling and one of the best choices I can remember making. For our last story of the year, we present to you this philosophical fable about alienation, mortality, and raw yearning by the great Anna Madden.

Anna Madden lives in Fort Worth, Texas. Her fiction has appeared in Zooscape, Apparition Lit, Hexagon, and elsewhere. She has an English degree from the University of Missouri—Kansas City. In free time she gardens, mountain bikes, and makes stained glass. Follow her on Twitter @anna_madden_ or visit her website at annamadden.com.