Dandelion By J. F. Tompkins
There was a chill in the air as soon as I woke up. There was a smell of fresh pine riding the gentle winter wind through the opened window. It smells lovely. Mother used to collect pine needles to make wreaths during the winter. I must be home.
I stepped onto the floor and a chill crawled up my spine. Hardwood floors as cold as a winter lake. I believe the open window is to blame. A few steps and a couple of skips, avoiding the icy floor as if it were lava, soon I was at the window.
Before I could close it, I stopped. I gazed upon the sunny garden outside. Full of flowers from every season, a small patch in the center for herbs, tomato plants surround the exterior of the house, and pine trees surround the garden like a giant garden wall.
I don’t understand, when I went to bed last night while it was fall, but the summer sun was shining overhead. Why is it warmer out here than in my room? I closed the window without another thought. Suddenly, the temperature in the room started to rise to my relief.
I reach out for the curtain. A soft cotton texture, but flowed like the finest silk. Flowers dance upon the pattern, spring flower buds and sunflowers in a harmony I have never seen before. Did Mother get new curtains while she was in town?
I wonder what fabric this is, I would love to have a dress made out of it. It’s so light, it would be perfect for twirls around the yard. Or playing princess by a frog pond. If only we had a frog pond.
My thoughts were interrupted when I noticed someone in the garden below. The figure of a tall man standing somberly in the garden. He was turned away from me, I couldn't see his face. Now and then he shifted his weight, relaxed as if he were stepping out for a bit of fresh summer's air.
My father wouldn't be caught dead wandering in a garden such as this. At least not without his hatchet or his gun. Besides, it's not like him to be so well dressed either.
He stopped. The wind stopped along with him as if they were connected spirits. Like the wind was a part of him somehow.
He turned around and began walking toward the house. I could see his face clearly now, or the lack there of one. A skull was in its place, making me question if the figure was real. He seemed so real. The grass crunched under his feet as he took slow and gentle steps, as to not disturb the rows and rows of flowers. In his hand, a bundle of fresh herbs. He held it gently like a bouquet of roses. What he needs them for, I do not know.
A sudden knock on the door pulls me away from the window. The knock was so quiet, I almost didn't hear it. Just a gentle tap, tap, tap. I had no idea how long they were knocking for, but nothing could have prepared me for the site that awaited on the other side of the bedroom door.
"I see you are finally awake!" The woman exclaimed as I answered the door, "I was worried you would miss dinner. The master of the house will be preparing the meal himself tonight."
"Oh, how rude of me! I am called Rose. You must be Blair, the master has been expecting you for a while. Please, follow me so you don't get lost. The house is a rather complicated structure."
I saw the hall behind her. This was not my home. A multitude of doors lined the halls. Flowers of every shape and color filled almost every nook and cranny. It all felt so dreamlike. Am I asleep? Where am I?
Like I am home. Rose lead me down the hallways that twisted and turned like a winding maze. The aroma of all the flowers was over powering. There was only a faint smell of a boiling stew coming from somewhere in the house. Though, it was becoming increasingly clear that this quite house was rather a mansion. Some of the hallways felt like they went on for miles. More rooms I could count. Eventually, she shouts, "Here we are! The dining room!"
"Everyone, meet our newest guest of The Watching Manor!" At Rose's request, everyone gazed upon me. Contrasting Rose's enthusiasm, despite there empty socket eyes and skeleton grins, they gazed upon me with a somber look. The once lively atmosphere replaced rather quickly with gloom as soon as they saw me. Jaws hanging open in shock. "But... but she is far too young to be one of us!" A man sitting across the table blurted, gripping his bride's hand in horror.
Rose attempts to calm the crowd a futile. Her boney fingers grabbed my hand as she dragged me into the hallway. "They need to learn some manners, or at the very least broaden their horizon. It's tragic, but not unnatural." Rose says with a huff and a stomp in here step, "How about you and I check on the master's cooking. He knows you yet have yet to meet him formally."
I tugged at her skirt, "Tell me about the master. Is he scary, or is he nice?" Rose laughed at my question, "That's for you to see for yourself on what he is too you." She patted my head and fixed my curls, pinning a white chrysanthemum flower in my hair.
The strong aroma from the flowers is dulled down, the smell of veggie stew and blueberry pie in it's place. It smells heavenly, like a holiday dinner. A faint scent of pine follows the wind from the open door. At the center of it all the shuffling of pots and pans was a familiar sight. The man I saw in the garden.
"Evening, Rose." A low male voice bellowed from the man. "It's a bit early for it to be evening." Rose corrected him. The man merely chuckled softly, "Time is all the same to me, but none the less every second is beautiful."
"I see our newest guest is awake and about. I am delighted you are able to join us, I made few dishes that are personal favorites of most of my guests." His voice continued to bellow calmly like a haunting midnight wind.
I was frightened by the sound of his voice and his empty gaze, but I new better to be rude. Like the princesses in the stories I used to read, I took a bow and introduced myself proudly, "It's nice to meet you, master of The Watching House! My name is Blair, and your home is lovely." Rose nudge me in the shoulder. For a second I thought I did something wrong. I quickly apologized, "I am sorry for being too loud, sir..."
"No! No, no, no! I love your spirit! It's not often we have guests who first meet the master who address him with such optimism." Rose gives me a big hug. A bit uncomfortable, but such genuine admiration. The master chips in, "Well, Rose, she's rather young. Ten years old, was going on eleven. The fear humans have of me usually doesn't come until later in life, or during tragedy. If at all."
"Allow me to properly introduce myself as well. I am the one that waits, the one that comforts. I am the embrace of peacefulness, and the choke-hold of sorrow. I am the doorman that greets you at the end of your journey. I am the flowers in the ever changing seasons. I am Mr. Watcher."
As he spoke, the wind blew in a few dying leaves. Withering away, rather ugly compared to the mountains of flowers that filled the mansion and the gardens outside. Mr. Watcher caught one with his right hand. Gently, to not crush the leaf. "Isn't it beautiful?" He asks. "Beautiful..." Rose responds, catching one of her own. Letting it go as quickly as she caught it. "Dead leaves?" I asked.
"The leaves have lived a long, fulfilling life. And now here they are, and soon new life will sprout and live their own lives. That's what's beautiful about these here leaves." He admired the leaf for a few seconds more before setting it back free to fly in the wind. Another voice chimes in, "There y'all are, I thought y'all died again." followed by a symphony creaking steps across the wooden floor.
"Sorry to interrupt your talk of leaves, but there is a group of guests in the dinning room that are weary of, and I quote, 'But she's too young'." A skeleton dressed in ragged formal attire leans against the the kitchen counter, knocking several silverware onto the floor with the impact. "Amaranthus! What a surprise." Mr. Watcher hums as he goes to hold his dear friend's hand, "We weren't expecting you back for another month or so."
"Well, I thought I'd surprise your old eyes. Maybe even ruffle your feathers if there is time. But it seems our new guest will be having all your attention." Mr. Watcher nudges him in the shoulder, "Oh, don't be like that. What would I be if I wasn't a good host?" "Then I suggest you scurry off to the dinning room before someone ends up with a fork lodged in their eye socket."
"I see, but I can't blame them one bit. It is rather uncomfortable to think that a child could be taken away so young. They just need time to process, such as they need to process their own." What did they mean by taken away? Before I even had the chance to ask, everyone grabs several dishes and dash towards the dinning room. Unsure what to do, I just grab a bunch of napkins and hurried along with them.
By the time I made it to the dinning room, almost dropping the napkins, Mr. Watcher had sat down at the head of the table. Rose on his left, Amaranthus on his right. Everyone is eating in silence, some are whispering. There is an empty chair next next to Rose. No where else to sit. The dinner was delicious, but the air was tense. I hated it, did I do something? Amaranthus looks up from his plate at me. In between chews of steamed pork, he leaned over to whisper something to Mr. Watcher. Mr. Watcher shook his head, dismissing what Amaranthus said. Amaranthus huffs, stuffing mashed summer squash into his mouth. "Chew with your mouth close, you are not a child."
"But she is! Doesn't that bother you?!" Amaranthus shouts, slamming his fist on the table. All the guests turned to face Amaranthus. Mr. Watcher puts a hand on Amaranthus's shoulder, "I know she is, but there is nothing we can do now. You know that just as much as I do. The next right thing we can do now is welcome her until she is ready to go."
Amaranthus slumps back against his chair, "You're right. You are always right..." Mr. Watcher hold's his hand tightly, looking deeply into his eyes. Amaranthus sighs, "Hand me a napkin there, will ya?"
He sat up in his chair, his face was unreadable but he lowered his head. He was expecting the question, I could tell. He doesn't seem very thrilled to answer. Maybe it's the worry of telling a child terrible news. My mother hated telling me terrible things. Father would shout terrible things from the roof tops as he beat us. None of it could compare to the answer I would receive, "You're dead." Mr. Watcher said, lifting his head up to look at me.
With an answer like that, you assume you'd be scared, terrified. I felt nothing. No different than I felt before. "How did I die?" I asked, wanting to know more. "Are you sure you wish to know?" "Yes, please."
The whole room froze in time as Mr. Watcher spoke. The winds outside went silent as well. "Your father shot you when you tried to run away."
"Why did I run away?" I continued, taking a sip of my stew which was now cold. It was delicious as ever. He took a sip of his tea, cold as well. "You didn't want to die. However, it wasn't me you feared." "...Was I afraid of him?"
"Yes, you feared what he would take away from you." Mr. Watcher set his tea down. The meal on his plate has turned into a small pile of dead leaves. The air grows chill like autumn air. The spell of pine became overwhelming. "He took away your brother, your sister, and your mother. He was the very embodiment of the opposite of peace and contentment. A sorrowful pattern doomed to repeat itself until the end of time. Then it starts all over when time starts again. Agony and Tragedy is what he became."
"...Why did he become agony?" "He was born into pain, much like yourself." "...Why did he become tragedy?" "He never found the peace he wanted."
"Will he ever find peace?" Mr. Watcher went silent. His chair scratched against the cold hardwood floor as he stood up. Drowning the entire dining table in shadow, his tall frame blocked the window. "He has been given many chances to find peace for himself. The only one holding him back is his mind. He believes there is no peace left for him."
"But that's not true. Isn't it?" A smile stretched across my face. My first genuine smile in years. I was sure I knew what he was about to say.
He chuckles, delighted, "You are such a smart little girl." He straightens his jacket, brushing off the dirt that remained from his walk in the garden, "Follow me, please. Let's go for a walk in the garden."
Mr. Watcher takes my hand in his cold one as he leads me to the garden. It's vast beauty right before me at last. A sight thought only to be real in wishful imagination. Here it was, as real as death and life. "My guests often take days, months, years to be ready for this. I am going to give you a very special gift."
We walked together along the stone path that twisted and curved through the garden. The wind was gentle and inviting. The sunshine felt amazing and warm. The aroma of flowers was wonderful. I stopped several times to smell them. "You can pick a flower if you want." Mr. Watcher says as he strolls along the path.
In a field of flowers, every flower you could ever think of, which one would you choose? The tough beauty of a rose, the harsh cluster of amaranthus, the tearful chrysanthemum? A smelly carrion, a wise old aster, an emotional hydrangea, perhaps a delightful bird of paradise, and so many more?
Although a dandelion is not a flower, it's just as pretty and ever more so resilient. You cut them down, and they grow back ready for more. That's the person I dream to be. Even when death has opened his arms to me.
"I wish my father will find peace," I whispered, before blowing the danelion. The seeds blew away as the wind picked up, carrying the seeds far away and beyond.
We reached the garden's edge. Arriving at the garden wall of pine trees. Dark and dreary compared to the wonderous garden. It reminds me of the forest edge that surrounded my old house. "Before I give you the gift, are there any other questions you have for me?"
"Is my family okay?" We sat down on a couple of rocks by the forest edge. "I welcomed them like any other, and they went when they were ready," he said, "I have yet to welcome your father into my home, but I am expecting him very soon." "Will you help him find peace?"
"I promise. For he needs to feel peace just as much as any other. A human right it is." He paused, taking in a deep sigh, "It's a shame. He may only find peace during death. It's nothing I haven't seen, but it saddens me every time. I'd rather not have it be so at all, but such is life, and what will be will be such... Any other questions?" "No."
"Alright, I am going to give you a very special gift, a choice. You can either stay here in my mansion, or you can walk through the forest and see what is there for you on the other side. This is a choice for you alone to make."
I gazed upon the forest in front of me. As much as I want to stay, I know I have to go. Whatever is waiting for me on the other side, I'll have to be ready for it. I am ready for it.
Mr. Watcher must have stood there for an hour or two, maybe three. Watching the young girl wander off into the forest. He hates watching his guests go, but he was happy to see one so optimistic for what is to come. It gave him hope and a sense of belonging. It's been millions of years since he lost his way back up to heaven and became one with the forest. An angel of death he became, and here he remains. For death is not to be feared. Through the inevitable, is life's true beauty.
When she finally disappeared into the deep pine tree forest, he turned around and strolled back home. He still had more guests to attend to.
He comes across an old man in his garden. A rusty shotgun lying next to him as he sulks. Mr. Watcher chuckles to himself, softly, "I have been expecting you, but you are early it seems." The old man grunts in response, "Couldn't stand another second in those woods. Nothing but pain remains there now."
Mr. Watcher sat down beside him, "Well, you didn't have to kill yourself. I would have waited for you." The man did not reply. He gazes upon the weeds mixed in with the chrysanthemum blossoms. Sorrow filled his eyes, but no tears were shed. Mr. Watcher respected his pain with company but did not pry further into the man's grief. The man wasn't ready for it. He will be ready in due time. That day is not today. "I have a gift for you, sir,"
Mr. Watcher held out a dandelion, "Your daughter picked it out for you. She hopes one day you will find peace too."
The man stared at the flower for a while, holding it gently in his scarred hands. Admiring its beauty, something he hasn't done since was a little boy. Eventually making a wish of his own, watching the seeds fly across the wind before settling into the flowerbeds.