Pence Read online

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  Two green gemstones came to rest by a row of moondaisies. They looked up at the setting sun and were filled with every kind of light.

  A grain of rice rolled to a stop by the fence. It smelled the harvest wind blowing through the cracks.

  Pence’s head, laden complete with half-exposed brain and misaligned brow of deep-cut concern, landed next to a white root that looked remarkably like the gardener’s left foot. Though blind and deaf and arguably quite dumb, his mouth smiled, happy to be in the company of his favorite friend.

  “The boy was named Poeto,” said his mouth, and all the flowers leaned in closer to hear, “don’t ask me why. He had a good and simple lot in life. And he wore a fantastic cape…

  Epilogue

  A cold wind slices him. The predators that stalk his pigs have begun to bay. He has still not found his daughter.

  With his mind an icy concentration of paternal panic and a calmness born of desperate reason, he has covered much ground in the last hour yet found no trace of her.

  From where he last knows her to have been, it is as if she simply sprouted wings and flew away, so silent are her tracks. But if he stops running he will cripple inward for the fear in him. Losing her will bring an end to his own life as surely as spilt blood will kill a man who loses his hand.

  And so he comes upon the well. No fool, he finds her footprints at once by the gift of day’s last light.

  How long ago? He lifts his eyes and searches the shadows surrounding him. Is something watching me? But there are no trees or plants nearby to hide devious eyes.

  The well comes not halfway to his knee. Prehistoric as the untamed world before man, it promises to soon crumble in under its own weight, by his reckoning. Then again, he thinks.

  The depths of the well reced to a nonexistent blackness that knows no light.

  Did she fall in? The notion brings him to his knees. He stares into the void and inhales the ancient musk of the world. The hole falls forever, claims the scent.

  Hallucinations of her screaming as she falls twist his mind.

  Wait. What if…?

  He checks the tracks. Shame! He had all but succumbed to his fears when the tracks are right in front of him, waiting to tell the rest of her story. He hastily studies the ground, then again to be certain he has missed nothing. She did not fall into forever. She circled back to the foothills.

  He rises, hesitates… and digs a calloused hand into his overcrowded pocket, withdrawing an old brown penny. If there ever was a time…

  The coin is filthy as a curse, but the face engraved upon it is just visible. A girl… young… such a sad smile…

  On the reverse side is a straight but shallow cut set through the middle. There is perhaps some earlier engraving underneath, now obscured. He cannot remember how he came by the penny.

  The image of the girl echoes in his thoughts. It squeezes his racing heart in a wretched rapture; it torments him as time itself transforms.

  Got to move! Getting dark. What about the pigs? Must find my little girl. “Bleed the pigs!” he loudly swears.

  Without further reflection he drops the penny into the well, turns, and sets off. He is a grown man, and grown men do not believe in fairytale endings when their children are lost. But he welcomes the small company of hope in his wish that his daughter’s fate is not foregone and that she might fly back to his arms before the end.

  The End

  Cool rain fell for days. Deep roots were replenished. In the morning sun the dew on the grass sparkled like viridescent gemstones.

  After the day that a Prince’s head was raised on a spike outside its gate the garden was no longer so hard to find. For many seasons swarms of animals and men traveled to see the White Tree grow, first as a tiny sapling in the middle of a stump; a hundred years on and it was grown taller than ever before. When the wind blew strong the high branches once again swayed in the shape of a man watching the far-off mountains, never having received what long-awaited wish he waited upon.

  It was traveler’s tradition to try to pull free the purple-handled knife that stood fast in the tree, but even the mightiest could not remove it. When they left the garden they gave their children coins to toss into the well.

  Birdkind returned to their capital, filling the hidden world of white leaves with singsong and chatter. Fruit grew heavy from the bough and down below the garden prospered with flowers and plants from all over the world: rose… dandelion… moondaisy… apple… onion… checkered pumpkin… parsley… potato…

  The fence was disassembled by generations of tinkers and traded to scattered carpenters and craftsmen, plank by immaculate plank. What was made with the ageless white wood–good luck charms and toy swords, birdcages, wagon wheels, and wardrobes–was always highly valued, finding homes in kingdoms all around the world.

  After countless quiet seasons the number of inquisitive pilgrims to the once-secret garden subsided.

  *****

  In the highest branches a pair of symmetrical white petals spontaneously diverged. The petals grew large and then uncurled. There was a boy in one and a girl in the other, both green-eyed and dimple-cheeked with wild white hair. They stared at one another. In unison, and without speaking, they raised their hands in mirror time–he his left, she her right–and on their palms were a pair of identical green hearts, as smooth as newborn skin. They shared a knowing smile and climbed down from the tree.

  The girl saw the purple handle of the ancient knife and tugged it free without an effort. She gave it to the boy, as if he might care what it was for. He laughed and put it aside.

  They walked hand-in-hand through the garden, retracing ancient steps. The boy found a pair of little green gems hiding in the dew and gave them to the girl, but she tossed them away with a playful wink.

  Later, when the sun was high and hot, they knelt by the well of crumbling stones to fetch a drink. When the white bucket emerged from the abyss it was chock full of coins: gold, silver, all sizes and every suit. Among the haul were ninety-nine old pennies all of a set, each blank on one side but engraved on the other with a girl smiling brightly enough to bring the sun up early.

  As they sipped handfuls of cool water, the boy and girl tossed the pennies back into the well, wishing nothing more in return.

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