G - The Garden

Alice peered around. She could see: but only shades of grey. There
was a huge blackish mass hovering over her, but then the shape became
more distinct like that of a kindly nun, and she saw a young, delicate
hand offering her food. Alice opened her mouth, but the nun drew
back.

"No, Alice", she said, "you must touch the food".

"Touch the food", thought Alice and she was furious with herself. How
would she grow if she could not master the basics? She wanted to get
back. She wanted to see her children. She wanted to see what happened
in the world. She reached out her hand to take the food and as she
touched it, it dissolved into her skin and was gone. So was the nun.
Now Alice was alone again. "What do I do now?" she wondered. She could
sit, but she could not move. She could make noises, but she could not
form words, although she could understand and think them. She peered
about her, but everything was indistinct and uninteresting in shades of
grey so she closed her eyes.

"The greylands", the thought popped into her head. "Now where was that
from? Some book she had read", she supposed. "What use was that now?
She would never read again". Alice sighed, thinking of her past life. A
nursery rhyme popped into her head, "Bobby Shaftoe". She tried to sing
it but the words were just a stupid babble. Still the melody played
insistently in her head; so instead of singing, she hummed, then she
shaped her mouth a little and a sound similar to a flute came out and
after a few practises she could pipe "Bobby Shaftoe" perfectly. Alice
smiled as she felt the pleasure of achievement seeping through her
body. She opened her eyes and then shut them again quickly. Everything
was so bright. She half opened them and allowed time for them to adjust
to the change. Then she realised she was seeing in colour for the first
time.

She looked down at herself. She was wearing a plain white gown and was
sitting in a pile of ashes; or rather she was rising from a pile of
ashes from the waist up: her bottom half did not exist and her middle
seemed glued to the ashes. "No wonder I can't move", thought Alice. In
front of her was another stump, but this one was only a neck with a
head; to her left was a nose just beginning to protrude from the ashes;
to her right was a pile which looked as though something was beginning
to force its way upwards. Alice turned her head as far as she could in
an attempt to see what was behind her, but there was nothing else as
tall as she was, just another neat row of ash piles.

"I am in someone's garden", she thought. "The garden of the dead." She
tried to remember how she came to be there. The faces of her three
children came into her head; one of them was still quite young, only
fourteen, too young to lose her mother. A dull ache began in Alice's
right temple and she screwed up her eyes trying to rid herself of the
pain. Standard epitaph words came into her head: "peace after much
suffering". "But I hurt", she moaned inwardly, "the dead aren't
supposed to feel pain". "Passing on - is this what I have passed on to?
To be a plant in someone's garden?" This time she groaned aloud and a
discordant rumble of bass notes tumbled from her mouth. Alice dropped
her head and sank into a despairing sleep.

She was dreaming. The earth was shaking. She could hear voices. A man
was complaining loudly, demanding to be let out immediately. People
were rushing to attend him, soothe him, grant his wishes. Alice could
hear the anxious, sycophantic footsteps, the rustling of the busy
clothing as it rushed towards him. She could feel the clothes brush
against her as they swept past ... wait a minute ... "did I FEEL that?"
thought Alice. She opened her eyes. She could still hear the commotion
behind her, but it was gradually taking on the form of reality. The man
was not talking, he was singing. No. He was not singing he was playing
a cello; and sometimes the note was not quite true; and always the
volume was loud, the tempo quick and the rhythm uneven, giving rise,
first to irritation, then to annoyance, as the listener tried to follow
and understand the piece.

Alice frowned. "Let me out," shouted the man, "I am ready to go. I want
to go NOW!". "Come on, come on, what part of NOW didn't you understand?
What's the hold-up? Oh for God's sake why am I surrounded by decrepit
old crones? Come on, come on, let's go!"

"Here you are. Here's the spade. We just need to dig your roots out.
You sprang up so quickly, we weren't ready," replied some flutes,
flustered and not quite together.

"Well you would think by now that you would recognise my ashes. This is
the third time I have been through here and I'm the fastest thing that
you lot are ever likely to see."

Alice listened eagerly, her mind automatically supplying the words for
the music. Understanding was dawning. It was possible to communicate.
It was possible to leave this place. She turned her head and over her
shoulder she could see a tall slim man, perfectly formed, beautiful
blue eyes, golden hair, the perfect angel but for the frowning face
full of anger and contempt.

What stopped him moving, was a netting of delicate roots growing up
through the black soil under his feet and curling round and over them
like a pair of shoes. She could see his knees jerking impatiently as he
tried to uproot himself and then she could see the gardeners carefully
digging around and under him. She watched as they exposed the main root
and then started to cut the tendrils. The man was finally silenced:
just the sharp screech of a misbowed note with each clip of the
secateurs.

At last it was over and Alice, amazed, saw the man shake his rooted
feet and stomp off through the tall gate in the corner of the
garden.