chapter 17
In Which It Is Detrimental to Have Food in Your Pockets (Detrimental Means Yes, You Just Might Die)
The sun shone down, and Burt’s little boots padded down the cobblestone path as she chatted. “These are lupines. They were planted approximately fourteen hundred years ago. Every year I divide them and collect their seeds. These are sunflowers. I collect their seeds, too. This patch here is filled with annuals, so I have to till the ground and replant every spring.”
Jackson whistled. Muffy’s ears perked up and he growled. Jackson stopped walking.
Burt glanced at Jackson. “I wouldn’t recommend whistling. Or clapping. Or making any sudden movements at all, really. And don’t talk to him. He doesn’t really like people. Or eels. Or kangaroos for that matter. Loathes rhinoceroses. He’s highly trained to protect, you see.” She patted his head, and Muffy thumped his stubby tail on the ground.
Burt looked up at Jackson suspiciously. “You don’t have any food in your pockets, do you?”
Jackson shook his head.
Burt released a breath. “Good!” They kept walking.
“So …” said Jackson after a moment. “Do you take care of the garden all by yourself? I mean, does anyone else work here?”
Burt stopped walking and stared at Jackson. “Are you saying,” she began in a steely voice. (Steely means very angry, but quiet—not that her voice was made of steel. But wouldn’t it be cool if it was?) She stepped closer to him, her finger pointing at his chest like a weapon. “Are you saying that I am not capable of doing this job all by myself?”
Jackson jumped back. “No! No, of course not! I … it’s just that this is such a big garden and you’re so …”
“Small? That’s what you were going to say, weren’t you?” Her voice trilled upwards.
“No, that’s not what I meant! I just meant that gardening is hard work!”
Burt sniffed and crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m sure you have no idea. This is the finest garden in the whole world. There could not possibly be another garden of such gorgeousness and beauty as this one. Could there?” she snarled.
“Ah, no, of course not.” Jackson watched the hackles rise on Muffy’s neck. He quickly averted his eyes and looked at the cobblestone path. It was incredibly tidy for a garden. “So, this is your job then?”
Burt patted her hair. (It was still immaculate.) “I have been given the very important job of minding the Author’s garden.”
Jackson started. “The Author? You work for the Author?”
Burt nodded.
“We are talking about the same Author? The one who created everything?”
She put a hand on her hip. “Duh.” She examined her perfectly pink nails. “We need to continue with the tour now.”
The path led to an arbor that was covered with climbing roses. Burt opened a little white gate and led Jackson on a path that circled around a white gazebo. Inside the gazebo were a black wrought-iron table and two black wrought iron chairs. On top of the table was a red-and-white checkered table cloth with two place settings.
“This looks kind of familiar,” Jackson murmured to himself as he walked toward a chair.
A death grip snatched his arm. Jackson stared at Burt in surprise.
“It’s not for sitting,” she hissed.
“I’m sorry?”
“No need to apologize. I’m sure you didn’t know.” Her snarl turned into a bright smile. Jackson suspected it was forced.
“Why can’t I sit down?”
“Because you’ll get it dirty.”
“I’m sorry?”
“No need to apologize.”
Jackson grunted in frustration. “Why would it get dirty? I’m not that dirty. And it’s a chair. An outside chair!”
“Well …” Burt’s voice trailed off as she looked him up and down. She sniffed disdainfully. “I’m sure you’re a very nice boy and all, but I can’t have you messing things up.”
“Why is this table and chairs set up then?” he argued. “So one can sit and eat a snack in the garden.”
“Does anyone actually come and sit and eat a snack?” he asked.
Burt’s laugh tinkled the air. “Of course not! Then it wouldn’t be neat and pretty and perfect anymore! What a silly thing to do!”
“But we could sit down and have a snack, and I could help you clean up afterwards,” said Jackson. “Aren’t you hungry?”
“Or you could just not sit down and we’ll continue with the tour and then you can go away,” said Burt.
“What’s the point of this being set up if you can’t sit down?” Jackson’s voice rose, his cheeks turning pink with frustration.
Muffy’s hackles rose and he began to growl. Burt smiled sweetly at Jackson. “I’m sure you didn’t mean to raise your voice at me. Muffy doesn’t like it when my feelings are hurt. Does he, my little Muffy-puffy?” she sang.
Jackson sighed. “This is ridiculous.”
“You just don’t know what you’re talking about. Only an ignoramus wouldn’t understand why things have to be perfect here.” (Ignoramus is what you call someone who clearly has no clue what’s going on. But it’s not really nice to call them that.) Burt patted Muffy’s head and walked on.
Jackson was starting to get annoyed. Could you blame him? (His empty stomach probably wasn’t helping his mood.) Burt was being ridiculously difficult. But some elves are just like that.
“Let’s pretend I am an ignoramus. Why do things need to be perfect here? It’s a very pretty garden, and aren’t gardens for enjoying?” Jackson followed Burt down the path.
Burt raised her eyebrows. “The Author made this garden. He made the garden perfect. He made it to be kept perfect.”
“What?”
Burt’s hands began to wave in the air. “Because he’s perfect! How can you not understand? Look. The Author made everything, right? You, me, Muffy, this garden, the world. And he is so wonderful that he never ever makes a mistake.”
“Right, but …” Jackson began.
“So if I am in charge of his perfect garden, then I need to keep it perfect.” Burt sniffed and raised an eyebrow as she glanced at Jackson’s shoes. “You’ve dropped a piece of lint. Pick it up, please.”
Jackson looked down and picked up a piece of lint that had fallen from his shirt.
“Put it in your pocket for now,” said Burt. “You can place it in the garbage receptacle on your way out. Don’t worry,” she continued. “With more hard work, you can be as perfect as I am.”
Jackson burst out laughing. “Are you serious? You’re not perfect! No one is!”
Muffy growled. Burt smiled sweetly, but her eyes had gone cold. “Yes I am.” She flipped her ponytail. “And the Author loves me best.”
“Excuse me?”
Burt twirled a lovely twirl, right in one spot, not disturbing a single flower. “He loves me best!” she sang out. “My clothes are neat and tidy, I speak nicely, and I keep his garden spotless.” She stopped and stared at Jackson with a sudden intensity. “Now you … You are a mess. Your sandals are old and worn, there are some loose threads on your shorts, your toenails are too long, you have dirt on your knees, your shirt is ratty …”
“I was cleaning the pool!” Jackson protested. Burt did not stop to listen.
“And I dig holes and plant seeds and weed the garden, but I still manage to stay clean and neat. Your hair needs cutting and your teeth are crooked. How could the Author possibly love someone as messy and sloppy as you?”
“Now wait a minute, he loves everyone!” Jackson began to breathe faster.
Burt rolled her eyes. “Of course he does. But he can’t love everything the same, can he? That’s like comparing his love for me with his love for a filthy rat that lives in a sewer. Doesn’t make sense, does it?”
Jackson’s heart began to beat faster. “But … he loves people the same.”
Burt smoothed her skirt. Her eyes peeked up at him from under long eyelashes. “You don’t really believe that, do you?”
Jackson slowly shook his head. That couldn’t be true.
Could it?
“You know,” she said as she stepped toward him. “You can make him love you more.”
Jackson was hyperventilating now. “How?”
“Well, for starters, how about you get cleaned up a bit?” Jackson nodded quickly. His brain was so fuddled and messy, like a tangle of knots.
Burt placed her little hand on his chest and slowly pushed him backward. “And I know how to make that happen. There’s a beauty shop very close to here,” she said, fluttering her eyelashes at him.
“But I’m not a girl!” Jackson protested. “I don’t need makeup and a hairdo!”
Burt smiled. “Think of it as a transformation.”
“Um …”
Burt’s little hand shoved Jackson hard in the chest and he stumbled and fell …
… down a hole …
… until he bounced into a gargantuan white hammock. (Gargantuan means huge, honkin’ big.) His fingers touched the fabric. Toilet paper. “Yeeeeeees? May I heeeeeelp you?” a voice sang out. It came from a chicken.