It was in my youthful rambling that I found the garden. My exploration had taken me to a derelict section of the city. That neighborhood was strange. Tumbling, crumbling structures bent over the street like a forgotten race of judgmental giants. The pavement was cracked, the sidewalk shattered as if it had been abandoned mid demolition. None of the street lamps worked either, but that did not deter me for a moment.

During that rebellious year, I had taken it upon myself to discover every obscure district and alley in the old polis. I had complied maps and exaggerated notes about my various findings, altogether creating a fantastical perversion of a very normal city. I spent hours dreaming of what could have been, longing for some truth in my world of deceit.

It was in the garden that my eyes were opened.

After spending what little that remained of the daylight hours searching through musty houses and garish basements, I decided to settle for the day’s findings and return home. This unusual ghetto had offered quite little in terms of material treasures; a few twisted forks, a moldered almanac; no shining gems to weave into my personal mythology. What it did offer was much rarer, and that was its atmosphere. It felt as if that street had been left unmolested by traffic for decades, as though the rest of the city had banished it into the embrace of entropy as a punishment for some heinous act.

That aura of notoriety, that this district was a pariah in its own right despite being so near the heart of the city no less, gnawed at my imagination, urged me to understand its cause, so that it would not fade into oblivion. I found my footsteps leading me in endless circles, my gaze lingering on every aspect of the ruin. Yet some primal part of me flinched at its mystery. The last rays of sunset had disappeared at this time, plunging this forgotten quarter into shadow. The light from my lantern seemed inadequate against the pervasive gloom that stretched out further with every passing second. Despite my fascination with those dusty corridors, I felt the need to depart, lest I fell through some hole in the darkness or my lantern burn out.

As I reached for what I had hoped to be the exit of the mildewed mansion I had been touring, I smelled something fragrant and sweet wafting in from the other side. For the moment, my baser fears were overridden by the sense of delight I had in encountering this new wonder.

The door swung open easily under my touch, making almost no sound, which struck me as odd after forcing open every other barrier before this. What I beheld resists description. I believe it had been a courtyard at one point many years ago, it was walled in on all sides by various buildings. What those walls contained was almost more bizarre than my mind could sanely understand.

Humongous sliver flowers, each nearly as tall as I was, grew along the path pouring out sweet perfumes. Growing in tangled rows were some sort vine bearing what I will call grapes, although I know that no grape of human knowledge swirled with such colors. I found that it was not grass nor dirt beneath my feet, but some weird breed of moss that seemed to shiver with my passing.

Following that path led me into a grove pale white trees, laden with red oblong fruit. In the glow of my lantern everything seemed to shine with profound splendor, and I wondered just how such a marvelous place could exist in the midst of such disarray? As my mind mused over these things, my body traversed onward, past wonders, each more fantastic than the last. The path wound its way in maddening twists and turns, leaving me disoriented.

At the end of the path I found a pond. I could not tell if was simply a trick of the night that made its waters appear so black, or if that was their natural hue. My lantern had nearly run its course, finally flickering out pitifully. And I stood there, staring into that dark pool, trying to discern its purpose in such a beautiful space. From somewhere in the shadows, a gentle feminine voice spoke.

“Welcome to the garden.”

I heard something approaching, steady footsteps getting nearer, and nearer. I found two silvery eyes glowing in the night, staring at me. Their height suggested she was at least a head taller than me, if not more. I heard a light sigh.

“Welcome to the garden.” She repeated.

Remembering myself, I thanked her.

“Would you like to eat?” She asked.

Realizing how long I must have been out, I became aware that I was very hungry. I nodded, not sure if she could perceive the motion or not. She answered by taking my hand and leading me back along the path.

Her fingers were long and calloused, and her grip was firm. I was intrigued by my guide’s nonchalant behavior. I asked if many people came to the garden.

She laughed, a clear, wholesome sound.

“No, you are the first visitor in many years. I just don’t think it hurts to be hospitable. Don’t you agree?”

I replied in the affirmative, still somewhat confused by the situation, but happy for the company. I could vaguely discern the shapes of the pale trees I had seen earlier. She released my hand, placing one of the fruit in my palm instead. I cautiously took a bite.

The outer skin broke gently in my teeth, and my mouth was filled with the flavor of blood. I began to gag, but before I could spit it out, I felt a hand cover my mouth and the voice saying.

“Shh, it’s okay, eat it.”

I struggled for a moment longer, but realized that it was not a winning fight. Against my better judgement and basic humanity, I swallowed the sanguine fruit. And for a heartbeat the night became still around me.

Then I saw visions, dreams of splendor and joy, wonder and triumph. I dreamed the most beautiful dreams I had ever experienced. I lived what felt like entire lifetimes in that blissful state. I felt light and detached from everything I had known. I was a new person, a new being-

The hand released me and I took more bites, greedily sating a hunger I had never known. I felt alive and happy in ways I did not know could exist. There was nothing except me and the next bite of eternity.

My mind was numbed by the euphoria I felt still coursing through my being as my guide led me back to the pond. Through the haze, I heard her asking me to help her water the plants. I dumbly complied filling a bucket with the dark water and following the sound of her footsteps. What I remember from that night was mainly moving back and forth carrying water around the garden.

“The power is not in the fruit itself,” She explained as we worked. “The water changes the plants and makes them like this.”

“May I have some of the water?” I asked, my mind more settled.

She laughed again, the voice in the dark. “No, I doubt you will enjoy it quite as much. It takes time to adjust to that flavor; however, once one does so, the fruits are even better.”

I urged her, desperately, to give me some of the water. The gardener relented, and passed me a chalice. I stared at the silver eyes for a long second, distantly recalling a need to run away.

“Drink!” She hissed.

And that was that. I ignored my doubts and downed the cup. The first taste of it was putrid. Then it went down in all of its profane glory. I felt pain, my body seemed fine, but something was wrong with me. As if a giant hole had been ripped into my very being.

The water was death. I saw the history of the pond, the garden, all of the bodies buried here so that the fruit could grow. I saw the gardener, whatever she was distilling the essence of dying from each victim. More, and more died until none dared to enter that neighborhood. And the water remained, fueling the perverse life cycle of the garden. But beyond those images, I saw death’s true purpose.

I closed my eyes, soaking in the knowledge of death’s nature. “What was that fruit?”

“The dreams of lives that could have been.” She replied.

I opened my eyes, suddenly able to see clearly. Everything glowed with a silvery light. I looked at the gardener. She was tall and regally built, like some strange monarch. Her eyes still shone with the silver light, on a face that could be beautiful were it not for the stained, shark-like teeth of her smile. Her hair framed her face in mossy locks, out of which, poked pointed ears. She wore a cloak which seemed to be comprised of leaves and bones.

She gestured to the pond. I looked and saw my reflection, with little silver lights in my eyes.

And then the first rays of dawn touched the garden, and every plant, the pond, and the gardener vanished, leaving me staring at a puddle.