The Garden of Gwior

by Simon Whitechapel

Hish opens hirs eyes and finds hermself in a garden of flowers, bees, and butterflies, face brushed by light spray from a tall central fountain whence three glittering jets of water are spouting. They arc wide of the bowl to fall to the bowls of three smaller fountains, eachwhence three smaller jets of water arc to three yet smaller fountains, eachwhence three jets of water arc to the bowls of three fountains barely as high as his knees, eachwhence arc three jets of water again, down and down and down. Hish moves closer, stooping to see thread-arcs of water, glittering like steel, arc from fountains smaller than mushrooms, to fall through the lush grass of the lawn to, hish presumes, the smallest fountains of all.

Of all? Hish turns, looking round the garden, and sees that it is triangular, with three walls of brick, one of white, one of yellow, and one of black, glimpsed through zephyr-rustled, sun-flashed ivy. Three paths, one of white dust, one of yellow, one of black, curve from the central fountain to the midpoint of each of the three walls, putting out curling side-paths like a fern, each of which in turn puts out side-paths; and when hish walks forward three paces on the yellow path on which hish stands, feeling its surface mould itself to hirs steps, hish kneels to see that the side-paths of the side-paths put out side-paths, and the side-paths of the side-paths of the side-paths, till the tendrils of dust vanish beneath the grass.

The surface of the path shifts strangely beneath hirs knees, and hish pushes hirs hand into it, feeling it flow almost like water as hish tries to grasp it, pouring between hirs closed fingers. But as hish lifts the handful it seems to solidify and hish feels the weight of it, as though it were gold, and yes, the lessening trickles gleam in the sun, and it is gold. When hish turns hirs hand over and opens hirs fingers, hish sees that the gold has changed, for where before it was a dust, now it is a sand, and then, as hish lifts hirs hand higher, a gravel, but a gravel of perfect golden spherelets that ripple and grow larger the higher hish lifts hirs hand.

Hish experiments, raising hirs hand, lowering it, and sees that there are layers in the air, each at a greater distance than the one below it; and when the golden spheres are lifted through a layer they lessen in number but grow in size, and when they are lowered through the same layer, they grow in number but lessen in size. Hish pushes hermself to hirs feet with what remains of the handful, watching it shift on hirs palm. Hish realizes the secret now: one sphere lowered splits to make three, and three spheres raised join to make one, and when hish is fully standing hish has three small spheres of gold on hirs palm.

Hish lifts them higher yet, closing hirs hand on them and pushing them into the air above hirs head, and at the utmost stretch of hirs arm hish feels them melt suddenly together, so that hish has a single warm and heavy sphere of gold in hirs hand. Hish lowers it, opening hirs hand, and there are three golden spheres on hirs palm again. Hish smiles and begins to juggle them, but hish is clumsy and unpractised and drops one almost at once, seeing it glitter at it dissolves in its fall, trifurcating again and again to land with a rustle of dust on the path. Hish drops the other two, watching them pulverize in their fall, and bends to lift up a larger handful.

But hish fails again with the larger three spheres he makes, laughing as hish misses one and watches it fall into glittering dust, and hish walks around the fountain to the path of white dust, which proves to be a dust of silver. Once more hish tries to juggle and once more fails, and once more hish walks around the fountain, to the path of black dust. This is iron, hish thinks, but hish lifts the handful only as high as nine spheres before turning hirs hand over and letting them fall back, trifurcating to land with a rustle on the path.

Hish looks up, following the curve of the black path between banks of vivid flowers and drifting flights of bees and butterflies and sees what hish has not seen before, that it ends at a door of black iron, perhaps half hirs height, in the iron-bricked wall; and when hish turns hish sees that the path of silver dust ends in a silver door in the silver-bricked wall, and the path of gold dust in a golden door in the gold-bricked wall. Hish walks forward down the path of black iron dust, but stops to examine one of the blue flowers that line it, tugging the flower towards hirm by its stem. It has a hemispherical head of dense-packed sky-blue florets surrounded by three smaller hemispheres that are surrounded in their turn by three hemispheres surrounded in their turn, down and down smaller than hish can see.

Hish puts hirs nose to the central hemisphere and draws in the sunwarmed scent of it, like honey mixed with cream, and as hish releases the stem and the flower springs back a cloud of butterflies descends on it: the largest, with weirdly ocellated wings, landing on the central hemisphere, with three smaller butterflies landing on the three hemispheres that surround that, and nine smaller still landing on the hemispheres that surround those, and twenty-seven more, small almost as midges, descending on the hemispheres that surround those, and down and down and down.

Hish laughs and walks on down the path to the black door, where hish sees to one side, half-hidden by the ivy, a key of black iron is hanging on a black iron chain, ready for the triangular keyhole. Hish looks behind hirm and to hirs right, and behind hirm and to hirs left, and thinks hish sees a silver chain glitter, and a golden chain glitter, ready by the silver and golden doors. Now hish chooses whether to open the door before hirm or walk across the garden to one of the other doors.