The Last Gardener
By Crystal Bourque
“Good morning, Mother.”
The Mother is in her garden on hands and knees. The tips of her shoes bury deeper in the fine sand as she slowly leans back on her heels to look at me. Her skin is sallow. Arms that were once plump, now struggle to support her upper body. Her collarbone protrudes sharply from the base of her neck. She averts her eyes and smoothes the front of her dust-stained blouse.
“Good morning, Elijah,” she says. Her once inviting mouth is now too big for her face. “Tell me. What do my children require?”
I lick my cracked lips, but my tongue is too dry to be of much use. “The Mayor requests strawberries, Mother. Large and juicy. Most importantly, sweet.” I clasp my hands together in front of my body. “He says the strawberries were too sour last time. That everyone refused to eat them at the festival.”
The Mother nods her head. “What else?” she asks.
“Wheat,” I say. “The Mayor wants you make sure that the kernels are large. If you can’t manage, he’ll need twice as much.”
A light breeze sprinkles me with sand. The grains cling to the tiny beads of perspiration peppering my skin like freckles. I shield my eyes as the sun, taking advantage of my silence, peeks over the horizon. Its deep shade of red means that today will be even hotter than the day before.
“He also wants tomatoes, zucchini, potatoes and peas,” I continue. An earthy taste fills my mouth as my teeth crunch down on the grit that has found its way past my lips. “Hundreds of baskets worth; I brought an extra cart. The Mayor wants me to remind you that there wasn’t enough last time.”
I clear my throat. “The Mayor wants enough food for three servings a head. Two will no longer be adequate.”
“And you, Elijah?” The Mother asks. She lifts her head and looks at me through red-rimmed lids. “What would you request of me?”
“Nothing, Mother,” I say, as always. “What you grow for the village will be sufficient.”
“As you wish.”
“One more thing. A question.” I pause, rubbing my chin with my hand. “Have you seen any people, Mother?” I ask.
“Only you,” she replies with a slight shrug.
Her words put me at ease. The Mayor had heard rumours of desperate neighbouring villages hunting for our gardener. I am relieved that I won’t need to hide her in a new location. The Mother is happy here. I also don’t want to miss tonight’s festival. In recognition of my dedication and commitment to the wellbeing of the village, the Mayor has invited me to dine with him at the head table. I suppress a grin thinking about it. It all seems a little silly. We are childhood friends, and yet he insists on complimenting me in this way.
The Mother’s attention returns to the small mound of sand in front of her. She places one hand over the other so that they resemble the shape of a triangle. They hover, shaking, as she closes her eyes.
As always, the tiny green sprout that forces its way out of the sand fascinates me. It unfurls, rising upwards until several vines break away, growing in every direction. Round, speckled buds form beneath tiny, leafy caps. A moment later and they are stretching downwards, like an upside down drop of water. The fully formed strawberries are now a deep red, each one more perfect than the last.
“Try one,” the Mother says.
I bend down, pick a medium sized strawberry from the vine, and raise it to my lips. Juice runs down my chin as I bite through the fleshy meat of the fruit. The sweet flavour fills my mouth, growing stronger with every chew. I swallow and take another bite, chewing slowly, not wanting the experience to end.
When it does, I stand, licking my fingers, only to find that the Mother has grown another five plants. “Thank you for your gifts, Mother,” I say.
The Mother pauses in her work for a moment, then continues, as if I hadn’t said a word.
My carts rest in the sand to our left, near the mouth of her cave. I retrieve a basket, sling the tight strap over my neck, and begin to pick the fruit.
We work our way across the garden. The Mother has it marked out with large stones. The space is big enough to fit one hundred strawberry plants both length and width wise. She is always very careful not to grow anything outside of these lines. I have asked her why, but she has yet to answer the question. Each time I fill a basket, I return to the carts to get an empty one. We work in silence, the kind of quiet that I have come to associate with being companionable.
The sun is directly above us when the Mother produces a tomato plant a head taller than I am. I pick the last strawberry and look up in time to see her collapse beside it.
“Mother!” I run towards her. The strawberries in my basket tumble back and forth, as I get down beside her. “What happened?”
“I tried. Tell them.” Her laboured breathing separates each word. “Tell them I’m sorry.” Her chest rises and falls one more time before stopping.
“Mother?” I ask, grabbing her by the shoulders and lightly shaking her. “Mother!” I shake her harder.
I close my eyes, but tears still escape my lashes. I wipe them away with the back of my hand. I’m not sure if I’m crying because she’s gone, or because I have failed to get her to grow enough. If anything, I am thankful that I can bring back enough fruit to last the village until the end of the season. But after that?
The Mayor will know what to do, I think, rising to my feet.
I look down at my basket, still wiping tears from my cheeks. My hands freeze in midair. The strawberries have turned black and are rapidly shrivelling. I blink and the decomposing fruit disintegrates, leaving behind a pile of black sand. The same thing is happening to all the plants around me.
Dark clouds of sand blur my vision as I stumble backwards a few steps before turning and breaking into a run. I pitch forward, falling to the ground and rolling before the basket across my chest stops me. I don’t give myself time to catch my breath. I start running.
The heat of the sun is unbearable, and the air feels thick and heavy as I force my body to keep moving. The stone buildings of the village appear hazy to my watery eyes. The villager’s faces are a steady blur as I rush by. My presence does not go unnoticed, as I have returned without my carts. Whispered speculations trail after me as I run through the busy streets.
“Where’s the Mayor?” I shout at the Baker, busy sweeping his storefront.
“The Village Square!”
I make a sharp left. My legs are burning. Sand flies up around me, burning my eyes and throat. It takes all my concentration to just put one foot in front of the other.
When I reach the Square, the Mayor approaches me as I try to tell him what has happened between gasps for air.
“Why have you returned without the food?” he says, pitching his words so low I can barely hear him. He uses his hands to smooth his slick dark hair to the side before resting them on his wide hips. He has never spoken to me in this tone before. It startles me. “The festival is tonight, in case it slipped your mind. Come back at sunset like you’re supposed to.”
“She’s dead!” I manage to say in between gasps for air. My voice is too loud; it echoes off the surrounding buildings. I notice the villagers are beginning to trickle into the Square, watching us with wide eyes. “All the food is gone. Look!” I shrug my shoulder out of the strap and swing the basket to the ground. The Mayor leans forwards as I open it. He reaches inside and pulls out a handful of black sand. He opens his palm and lets it filter through his fingers until the wind carries the last grains away.
The Square erupts with sound and motion.
“What are we going to eat?”
“She was the last one of ‘em left!”
“We’re all going to die! All of us!”
“Nothing will grow without her. Nothing!”
The Mayor’s attention remains fixed on me. His chin tilts downward, eyes darkening beneath his hooded brow. It makes the hairs on my arm stand on end.
“What’s this?” he asks, grabbing my hand and turning it over so that my palm is facing him. Red stains cover the tips of my fingers. The Mayor’s eyes narrow as he looks from them to me. The corner of his mouth twitches upwards. “Have you been eating strawberries, Elijah?” The words sound sickly sweet.
“What?” I reply, staring at him. “You ordered me to get some from Mother.”
The Mayor grabs hold of my chin and jerks my head to the side. His thumb trails the corner of my mouth, down my chin. The path the strawberry juice had taken hours before.
“You did it, didn’t you?” he says, spraying my face with spittle. “You asked too much of her and now she’s gone!” He turns to the crowd, grabbing me by the front of my shirt. I can feel the energy of the crowd shift with each word. There is a large crowd now, and he is the centre of their attention. I swallow hard. “Elijah the Glutton, the Murderer, has condemned us all to die!” The Mayor yells, making wild gestures with his hand.
“No!” I cry out, struggling against him. “Why would you say that?” I have to shout to hear myself over the crowd’s outrage. “I have always brought back what you asked for. When you wanted two servings per person, I got Mother to provide.”
“Quiet,” the Mayor snaps.
“When you wanted grain to replace what the bugs had ruined, I roused the Mother in the middle of the night and brought you back twice as much!”
“Stop. Now!” he hisses through clenched teeth. “It’s too late.”
A rush of understanding overwhelms me. I want to strike him. Anywhere. But my entire body feels as though it’s paralysed. The Mayor’s betrayal is almost as effective as poison.
“I did everything you asked, Jacob!” I manage to yell. “I followed your orders!”
“Enough!” the Mayor shouts, holding up a hand. As if it were a magnet, the crowd’s eyes lock onto it. They quiet, listening. “Elijah has taken everything from us. He deserves to die. We deserve to eat!” The villagers erupt in cheers and more taunts. He twists the material of my shirt with his other hand, holding me in place. “We all know the great legends of pigs and cows. This is no different.” The Mayor snaps his fingers. “Bring me a knife. We will have food tonight!”
The crowd quiets. No one moves forward.
The Mayor tightens his grip. “Go ahead. Pity this monster,” he yells, shaking me. “But know that he has none for your children! Will you choose to do nothing and watch them starve?”
“I’ve done nothing wrong,” I call out, but no one will meet my gaze. The murmurs have increased in volume. Shouts soon echo around the square.
The Mayor releases me. The villagers surge forward with outstretched hands and fury in their eyes. I scramble forward a few feet before they swarm me. I lash out with my limbs, striking anyone who touches me. There are too many of them. I am helpless. They tear off my clothes. Scratch my skin. Tear out handfuls of hair. There is dust and sand everywhere. It clings to my sweat-drenched body.
“Stand back!” The crowd parts to reveal the Mayor. He holds up a long knife. The sun glints wickedly off its edge. The villagers fall eerily silent. “Hold him.” Hands clamp down on my wrists and legs. I twist my hips and shoulders. Thrash my head from side to side. The hands press down harder. Stilling me.
The Mayor kneels down beside me. Puts his hand on my cheek.
“Sorry, Elijah,” he says. The corner of his mouth quirks upwards. “But I’m hungry.”