A Wolf Among Snakes

I saw him in the gardens. When I arrived, he kissed my feet and thanked them for carrying me here. Surrounding us were pretty purple and blue flowers, which he later told me were “delphinium,” and trees so short you could barely see the bark. I had traveled a long way to get here and was certain that if I had to go back to where I came from, I would not make it. I was relieved to see the well water, to splash my face and quench my thirst.

The man led me to the deer, the butterflies, the rabbits, and the snakes. He feared none, so neither did I. When I was dirty, he bathed me. When I was hungry, he fed me. I lacked nothing, and he asked for nothing. If he were from where I’m from, he would’ve been dead by now. I don’t know why he gave so much to me. I just accepted it, convincing myself it was the universe’s way of repaying me for my journey. I deserved it, I told myself over and over again.

The safety of the garden felt unnatural, and its calmness intimidated me. At least now I know the plan of nature—to move on, to push forward, to provide, to sustain. But it seemed his body had other plans. As the days went on, I saw him grow weaker and weaker. I wondered how he had survived here all this time without me. And yet he still gave. He led me along the stony paths, he fetched my water from the well. He prepared all kinds of soups and teas and meats to my liking. He never stopped giving. And he always refused my help (not that I offered it sufficiently). He would only look at me in disgust at the very thought.

On his final day, he could barely lift the rock I had given him as a test. When he passed, the animals of the garden gathered around him, standing witness to his last breath. With my head on his chest, I listened as he took one final sip of air. He never let it out. I believe that air is still in his lungs. It rests there until he is ready to let go. Let go of the responsibility he shared with the garden—to move on, to push forward, to provide, to sustain.

See, the garden never worked to sustain itself, but to sustain the life kept in it—that is, the garden itself. He did the same. As time passed after his death, I realized I was not meant for such a place. For such selflessness. For such beauty. What the garden and the man gave me was not love. It was service. It was simply inherent to them—to serve.

I come from wolves. From eat or be eaten. I knew not the delicacies of the garden’s nature. Though I tried, I only ever did what benefited my own body. I walked the paths to strengthen my own legs. I harvested the bees’ honey to sweeten my own tea. I watched the butterflies flutter for my own entertainment. I stepped on the snakes out of my own fear and misjudgment. I even buried his body not out of reverence, but to rid the garden of the smell. A fitting rationale for a girl who had once been sustained by another.

I knew the garden tried its hardest to stay alive—maybe not for me, but maybe for his memory or maybe for the fauna and flora. It did try, but soon, I think I was too much or not enough. The deer flinched at my passing. The butterflies hid in the shadows. The hum of the bees grew faint, then faded into silence. The delphinium sagged, and the well dried up. The misery was apparent. And I was to blame.

The garden knew it and so did I. On my last day there, only two weeks after his death, I simply took a jar of whatever honey I could harvest, plucked the prettiest, healthiest delphinium, and went on my way. I do not know if the garden ever recovered from my presence of body and absence of care, or if the leech had sucked it dry. All I know is that when I returned home, my people were dead. And I was in search of another garden like the one I had destroyed.