For Rachel C 

We must cultivate our own Garden.
—Voltaire 

Interest in the care of the village’s gardens diminished inexplicably over the years. Where once the villagers had considered maintaining the garden and lawn to be honest and noble work, now many allowed weeds to flourish and strangle the wild daffodils, daisies and tulips that freckled their once-bright groves. And even the Prefect took no action on villagers neglecting their gardens. For it was a rare sight to find hoes, sickles, edging irons, pea hooks, spades or a shovel protruding from the soil. It seemed that none were as committed towards such a cultivation other than a particular citizen who had come to be known simply as the Gardener. 

  As if he had taken an oath, he tirelessly tilled every corner of his land, even neglecting his appearance. In addition to the smell of earth emanating from his skin, his dishevelment was disconcerting, and his ragged clothes—as if out of disdain for him—seemed to stand apart from his body. It wasn’t long before his neighbours kept their distance, their children instructed to never venture near the unkempt Gardener. Though he would skim past the villagers’ judging eyes, he was aware of their whispers, ridiculing his work, belittling the devoted life that he had chosen. 

  In spite of being both aware of their misconceptions about him and failing to understand why they neglected their own gardens, he did not go out of his way to engage his neighbours. On the occasion he made eye contact with a passerby, he would pause in his labour and hold his smile until they left. He would say nothing, though he wanted to. 

  Tired of seeing the Gardener’s well-groomed grove, villagers begrudgingly reseeded their fields and mended their trellises. And although the villagers enjoyed this reversal in appearance, many harboured animosity and spite towards the Gardener, as if he were solely responsible for what they deemed as unnecessary labour. Capitalizing on this sentiment, a maintenance service arose and spared villagers of this burdensome labour for a fee. What followed were identical heady, healthy green lawns, devoid of the character and the uniqueness of their owners. 

  With the rise of the service contract, owners became blessed with something in addition to a return to their former state. And instead of spending this free time with their families, or enjoying walks under parasols, or engaging their neighbours, villagers simply remained in their homes. They filled their time with the distractions offered by the latest craze of wooden box peg puzzles, whose goal was to stack matching marbles in their designated columns by tilting the device while avoiding traps and obstacles within the game. The clacking of the marbles and the clicking of the counter keeping score constantly chirped from the homes of villagers. 

  For his part, the Gardener took greater pains in cultivating his garden. In fact, there was a point in time when he dug up his entire lawn in an attempt to rid his land of weeds and their roots. For several days, the overturned soil lay scattered haphazardly like ripples of drifted sand on a dune, the drying soil no longer exhibiting the pink, wrinkled worms or the white, grooved grubs from when the soil was first overturned. During this disarray, a moderate rainfall flooded his garden and vineyard, as the uneven ground funnelled the flowing water and washed away what had been years of labour. 

  Although his garden had been ruined, he realized it could be restored, whereas his relationship with his neighbours and his extension of goodwill towards them was irreplaceable. He remained vigilant in caring for his garden, but he exhibited a greater openness with his neighbours, and the understanding (which he always knew but seldom acted on) that tending one’s garden was equally as important as caring for one’s neighbours; that goodness, generosity, and caring for others were vital for the village’s existence. “The village is my garden,” he said. 

The Garden appears in Resistance, Revolution and Other Short Stories.