The inner cathedral gardens see a bright square of light that moves as the day passes. A private area near the rectory, this is a part of the cathedral grounds that very few see. It's not so large, perhaps 10 x 10 meters, but for those who live in the lower levels of the cathedral, it is often the only light they will see.
     In here, Etienne Dumont, one of the small fleet of gardeners, tends to a set of roses on the west wall. He looks up to the sky, anticipating when the good afternoon light will grace his winning blooms. Dressed in blue slacks and a grey sweater, he also wears a blue smock, keeping him clean despite the dirt. A set of gloves are stuffed into his left pocket, and he peers at a particular bloom with a set of shears in hand. Nearby, a basket of cut flowers rests on the ground.

     For a millennia, I had the quiet peace of Nothingness to enfold me. There were the arms of God. In the bliss that Ignorance allowed me. That would make a hell of Intellect. Perhaps it is so, self-consigned.
     A human hand wipes against a human face. Not a pretty face. An ordinary face. A bookish face of a zoologist. On loan.
     Lord God, I would I knew what You wished of me. What my master, Your Heart, wished of me. Now, in the solitude of my thinking, I reach out for You but find only solitude. Is it possible that I should be saved?
     His clothing is rumpled, a jumper and slacks and serviceable shoes, a jacket over the light jumper. Ordinary. He sits in a corner of the 10 x 10 meter space, back to wall, feet to floor, knees bent and elbows upon his knees.
     His head in his hands...
     We have been wrong, My Lord, we have been wrong. But how now, after so much, do we begin to make it Right? Is it a matter, O Lord, of simply... saying it, wanting it, making it, somehow, happen? How does one find one's way to you, O Lord, after being so long and so... fabulously astray....?
     The man in the corner makes a sound. It is, at first, a sigh. It soon becomes a sob.

     Etienne looks up and around, hearing the noise. A frown grows and disappears in his features in the blink of an eye. He comes upright and moves around the current bed, heading towards the current guest.
     Avirel, Mercurian of Flowers, walks gently across the grass where his restored brethren sits. He puts the shears into his other pocket, and then wipes at his green eyes. A man in his early thirties, Etienne glances up at the sun, stopping near the zoologist and crouching low. He pulls a handkerchief from an inside pocket and offers it.

     Crying makes a mess of men. It lays them low. And he, among the lowest of the Low, how could he be anything but wretched looking. The poor zoologist is no more than thirty-seven. But his eyes, and his pain, are ancient.
     Red-splotched, his face lifts, the handkerchief (and perhaps the compassion behind him) takes him by surprise but only for a moment. Brown eyes look up at the man, his hand reaching up a moment later to take it with a soft: "Merci..."
     Mercy...
     It is not the man who weeps but the immortal soul that rests now within him. Wracked with Remorse, with Grief, with Fear, his back in the furthest corner he could find. Rats have been less cornered than he.
     He wipes his eyes, then covers his face with it, half-hiding it, and his shame. As the Damned tend to do.
     I am so lost. How did I come to this...
     When I stood, a general upon the nebula of Heaven, her City wracked by War, the Plains full of the Conflict, why did I not cry out to my brothers? Why did I leave? Why did I let him leave? Why did I as Ramariel, beg him, to follow me. Oh, he Loved me. And I Loved him. And I Loved You, O Lord, back when I Knew You.
     How did I ever come to ...this...
     Shoulders tremble a moment more and sobs are silent. Red-rimmed eyes look to you again. A breath taken, shaky though it is. It is held for a moment. To still himself. He looks at the handkerchief, wet and wrinkled, crushed in his hands. "I'm sorry," he whispers. And the zoologist goes to hand it back. Pharzuph pleads in his look. Please help me. I don't know what to do...

     The smock comes off and Etienne sits down beside his garden's visitor. He smiles and waves off the handkerchief, lowering himself to a comfortable akimbo. Instinctively, his arm comes around to embrace, and he exhales to receive whatever's offered.
     "We are all happy that you are here, General," Etienne using the term he's heard. He does not know of the War directly -- only the readings in the library and teachings from The Glade. "I know I am. Others say so too. We are happy to have you with us," he whispers. Know this. "It is a miracle to see you each day. We want it to be like that forever. Welcome, I will say again," Etienne smiles, "...well met, General."
     And from Novalis' servants in the upper and lowest levels of Notre Dame, it has been no less. As if they have expected and prepared for you. Etienne grins and hugs, his arm tightening at your shoulder.

     The handkerchief is kept, cradled quite nearly and he seems to take comfort when the gardener joins him, sitting beside him. Then comes an embrace and he could just melt. He does not, somehow. Pharzuph remains upright. He looks to Etienne, the face of the zoologist unable to convey the depth and breadth of his underlying emotions.
     It is so easy to be forgiven. So difficult to ask. What fools We All Are, O Lord...
     The Ordinary Man nods his head again, clearing his throat from the welling of emotion yet again. He wipes his eyes, his nose. What is it with these vessels that they must do so much leaking! Everywhere with the leaking...
     The zoologist takes a deep breath and he nods again at the hug, turning his face, a good face for this suffering, it is so malleable, so ordinary that great emotions sway its entire expression. "Thank you," Pharzuph says, his voice soft, tight. "I ... don't know what to do.... but... I am ... relieved, even though I am a terrified. All at once." There is a slight sparkle for a moment. "I had... it has been a long time since I have been in the presence of the Lord God, Gracious Gardener." A pause. "He always liked Gardens," he notes. "He would give me so many songs... I've lost them all," he frowns, "... I abandoned them once."
     And he sobs again, his face twisting in his grief. "I am so sorry," he whispers, closing his eyes. "For all of the ...wretched things I have done. The worst of which... the very worst of which ... was closing my heart to Him. And look," he is angry with himself, "...what I have done."
     Pharzuph stills himself again. Another deep breath and he wipes his face. "I did not know a body could hold so much water." He exhales. "Thank you... all of you for... such caring of me," the zoologist whispers it. He swallows then looks at you, eyes perhaps permanently red-rimmed, large, doey brown eyes of an Englishman. "What is your name?"

     "I am called Etienne," he grins, "Etienne Dumont. But, in other places," Etienne winks, "I am called Avirel, just a servant of the Glade, Sir," he bobbing his eyes. His arm is in no rush to leave you, and in fact, it occasionally tightens when he talks.
     "It's understandable to be nervous. But...He loves you. I know this. Everyone does. That has not changed. It has never changed. And your voice, for I have heard that you are so gifted, it is there I know. It will sing again and you will remember songs. They will come back to mind. They are there, inside. It will start to happen soon," Etienne explains.
     "Majean and Kielel will certainly wish to sing with you," Etienne thinks, hand touching your cheek. "I know they look forward to when you feel like joining them. Have you seen my garden?" Etienne asks, looking around the space and leaving your gaze for a moment.

     "I don't remember ...this man's name," he whispers. "It is new." This time when you hold him, he does melt, giving a little of his weight to the gardener. "My name is Pharzuph," he murmurs. So loving, O Lord. You speak to me now, through myriad voices...
     He begins to fold the handkerchief. There is the look of a man taking comfort in what it said. "I have only just remembered most of what I have done. Once, I had a Mind," he leans back and against you a little. "Then I lost it, it was taken from me for a while. And then it was returned. And when it was, I felt the shame of a thousand thousand thousand years..."
     The handkerchief is saved for later. He is sure that he will need it. It finds a new home in a jacket's pocket. He looks from you to the small space and he shakes his head. "No... I have not. I ... would like to see your garden, Etienne. I would be... happy to see it. You are... a great tender to wild weeds," there is the barest hint of a smile from Pharzuph. A clearing of storm clouds. "Not... just a servant of the Glade. A tender servant of the Glade. Thank you... for your sweet care..."

     Etienne shakes his head, grinning a little. Such intimacy is easy for him, as it is for his choir. Probably Mercurian, that one. Much like another angel once was.
     "No, Pharzuph -- I know your name, General -- I thank you. For doing what you did! For coming to be with us again. I can't explain to you what it feels like," Etienne nods, "...but then I know you know other Joy, Pharzuph. It will only grow. I am just glad..." he blinks earnest, "...that I have the honor of being here with you, now."
     A grin, "I will show you this garden, and the others. Whatever you wish to see. There are many gardens in the cathedral and even below. Come on," Etienne grins, a not-unattractive man, "...I will show you my roses here, then take you below, if you would like. The moon garden?" His hand slides from your shoulders and instead takes your hand firmly.

     "Moon garden?" He wonders on this as he clasps your hand. A squeeze returned for all the gentle intimacy, the closeness of a brother. "I would like to see your roses and your moon garden. I do not think I have... ever seen a moon garden," he notes. And then he smiles.
     I am not alone...
     I do not have to be alone ever again, for God is with Me...
     If only Ramariel were here... if only Andrealphus...
     Before wistfulness can make him tear up again, the zoologist puts on a game expression. A smile, in fact.
     One day, my Love, I will come for you... I will not forsake you...even as He has not forsaken me...
     Scientific fingers, soft though masculine, interlace with Etienne's and he begins to unfold, to rise. "I am glad... and it is I who am honored, Avirel, that it is you who are here to keep me company." It could be worse.
     Much worse...
     He turns his head and looks to you as he holds your hand still, and still he shall. "One day, if God should so Grace me with another song, I shall write one of your kindness to me..."

     The servant's eyes widen and he looks pale for a moment. But then, surely as blossoms bloom, Avirel begins to smile. "I'd be...so honored, General," he croaks out, squeezing fingers tightly, "...just...so honored. I know that day will come," he affirms, as if he knows it as surely as he knows his name.
     "This way," he walks out to the beds, "These are my L'Enfant Beate," he smiles, beginning a discussion of genus and species...

Posted by rowan at May 19, 2004 12:22 PM