We stand at
Summer’s threshold
in the spot
where the tributary
suddenly switches
from frozen
to flowing.
A perfectly defined line
separates the seasons:
ice becomes water
snow gives way to grass
bitter winds calm to gentle breezes.
It is like standing at the brink
of a whole new world.
One single step
and we will bask in
Summer sun.
The garden seems oval,
though I cannot see
the full boundary
past all the greenery.
The space overflows
with towering trees,
blooming bushes,
tall grasses waving
in a gentle breeze.
So much green.
More than I have ever seen.
Best of all,
just beyond
Summer’s boundary
to our right
stands an orange tree.
Brimming with
oranges.
My mouth waters
at the sight.
I have only seen
an orange once before,
when Marten brought
one to Lute’s Hollow
from the gardens.
Unless you count
my dreams, where
the orange has made
near-nightly appearances.
Seeing one now is
surreal,
like walking through
the shadow of a dream.
Children flit among
the garden’s trees.
Their sheer joy and
the carefree way they play
reminds me
of the fox pups at Ymir River.
Soon Zave will be
just as healthy,
just as free.
“Can’t catch me!”
a small brown boy cries
as he dodges between two rows
of brightly berried bushes.
A squeal is his
only answer
as a blond girl,
no more than five,
chases after him.
“Can I play too?”
Zave asks in a near-whisper.
He looks frail,
like he might topple over
at any moment.
“Of course. Just as soon as
we get you warmed up.”
I pull off my glove.
Reach tentatively
toward the orange tree,
still secretly fearing
I will hit
the magical barrier
of a ward.
Hardly believing
the rumors of
an unwarded garden
could be true.
My hand slides
past the line
between snow
and rich green grass.
Sun’s warm rays against my skin.
It is real.
I pull an orange
from the tree.
Its dimpled rind
is waxy, just like I
remember.
The tangy citrus scent
is pure heaven.
“And, look,” I say,
smiling down at Zave.
“Now we have a snack.”
LYRIANA
One Step In
With a single step,
howling wind dies.
Heat pours
from a Summer sun.
I peel our
orange treasure.
The scent of citrus
sharpens.
“Here, eat this.
It will make you
feel better,” I say,
handing a section of
orange to Zave.
He lifts it to his mouth
slowly but smiles as
juices run down his chin.
I bite into a piece as well.
Sweet-tartness
bursts
on my tongue.
I hand the rest of the
orange to Zave.
I will get more later.
Summer’s heat
sends sweat
running in streams
under my furs,
so I unravel Zave’s scarf
and pull off his layers
while he eats.
Take mine off too
and stuff everything
into our pack.
Glance warily
at the children,
all my age or younger
playing
skipping
climbing
singing.
No one seems to
notice new faces
in the garden.
Maybe newcomers
are commonplace here?
Gairda certainly
has its share of orphans.
I wonder again
how Orphan’s Garden
knows us,
how it finds us,
how it calls us.
The mysteries of a magic
I might never understand.
We creep farther
into the garden.
Zave’s gait is
stumbling and slow,
so I help him along.
From this angle I can see
that the tributary twists
through one corner
of the garden, cutting
it off from the rest
so there is just a small
secluded
patch of Summer
on the other side.
The river then
juts back out into Winter,
freezes solid.
It winds to a cliff,
where it transforms
into a majestic
frozen waterfall.
Billowing curtains
of ice form a sculpture
of epic proportions.
All this, not twelve paces
from Summer’s edge.
A small log bridge
crosses the river.
I help Zave across.
So unsteady on his feet.
He still shivers,
even under Summer sun’s rays.
Definitely hypothermia.
He needs a healing tree.
There is only one tree
in this corner of the garden;
I hope it is the right kind.
Its massive trunk is so
gnarled and twisted
it looks like two
trees wound together.
The lowest branch is
too high to reach.
And Zave is too weak
to climb.
BROB
Doubts and Delusions
After a night of no sleep, the last thing I want is a leisurely
hike through the Winter Blight. But here I am. Following a
song. Each step I take makes me shake with equal parts
excitement and DREAD. I want to believe I’ve got this.
Want to believe my luck will hold out, and I’m about to walk
into a thriving garden and not a Winter wasteland of dead trees
and nothingness.
But each minute that passes with no garden in sight shrinks
my confidence. It’s now shriveled to the size of a snowflake.
(Good thing it’s so ridiculously cold, or even
that last little scrap of faith would melt away.)
In fact, I’m beginning to wonder if everything I
remember about creating a garden when I was six
is just one big Blight-induced fever dream.
Maybe the Winter sickness ate away at my brain,
leaving me with delusions of garden grandeur.
Only one way to find out.
LYRIANA
Boost
Zave’s little boot
in my hands.
One big boost
is not enough.
Zave
reaches
reaches
reaches
grabs hold of a branch
but cannot
pull
himself
up.
A boy
heads toward
our corner.
He stops at the bridge:
midnight skin
welcoming eyes
oh-so-friendly smile.
“Do you need some—?”
“We are fine,”
I say, thorns in my voice.
Like I said,
it is Zave and me
against the world.
No trusting strangers
with our secrets.
Or asking them for help.
And remember,
everyone is a stranger.
The boy’s eyebrows
shoot up at my tone,
but it works.
He turns away.
I turn and press my
back against the tree,
squatting slightly.
I pat my thighs.
“Zave, step up here.”
I will be his step stool.
I will be his boost.
I am enough.
He plants one foot
on my legs, the other
in my hands.
I brace myself
against the tree.
Push.
It takes all our
combined strength,
but he hurls himself
onto the branch.
His body jolts,
a moment of panic
written in
those wide-set gray eyes.
I reach for him
ready to rip him away—
But he melts
back onto the trunk,
pulls Major out
of his pocket,
snuggles the goofy
acrobatic bunny close.
Smiles
and closes his eyes.
Color brightens
pale cheeks.
There has never been
a sweeter sight.