Death’s Garden

Isabelle walked through the garden of death.

It was an unusual experience, to say the least. She could remember how she died, but only distantly. The memories flickering across her head reminded her of watching a movie. She felt pity for the character on the screen, and sorrow at its demise, but there was no sense of real connection. The young woman stepping into the street, head too full of the music singing from her headphones to notice the bus, gone in an instant as it rounded the corner – that wasn’t her.

Perhaps it had used to be. But the fact of the matter was that the woman she used to be was dead and left behind far away on the cold, hard London pavement. Now she was here.

The gardens were, in a word, perfect. Manicured grass swept up to the base of stately oak trees ringed by circles of bright tulips and tiny brick walls. Pots and planters clustered here and there at turns in the path, stacked so their contents spilled out in a cascade of leaves and color. She had been to the Royal Botanical Gardens once, on a school trip, and had thought it quite impressive. This was even more grand, but in a different way. It was more haphazard, neatly maintained yet piecemeal in its design, like the architect had gotten distracted every five minutes with a new idea and not known when to stop.

Isabelle reached a stone bridge that arched across a narrow stream and paused to lean on the stone railing. Her skirts rustled in the gentle breeze. She glanced down at them again and still couldn’t help smiling. When she died, she had been wearing the garb of every youngster heading out to grab a bite of breakfast in the morning – loose jeans and an old hoodie. She had come to in the gardens in a ballgown.

It was not just any ballgown either. As a child, she had seen it in a shop window once. Since then it had been her dream dress. Of course it was already sold by the time she was old enough to wear it – as if she had any occasion appropriately fancy for it. Even if she had, it probably had cost more than she made in a year. Still, it had stuck in her mind, and every princess she had imagined growing up had worn it.

Strange to be dead and yet thinking of such things. She leaned back to peer along the path. He was still sitting on the iron bench where she had left him, surrounded by a veritable cloud of butterflies. They perched on every available inch of his tuxedo. Those who couldn’t find a place to settle flapped through the air in swooping paths that somehow just barely avoided colliding with each other. The flower beds looked dull compared to the riot of color concentrated on him.

He was strange. She had always expected death to be a tall skeleton in a dark robe. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. She had expected death to be… nothingness. You just died and then that was it. Some worms ate you, if you were nice in life maybe you got to be a dandelion and if not perhaps a thistle? Instead, there was him.

He was strange, but mostly because he was almost normal as well. He was dressed in a tux to match her gown, but his face was plain. Middle-aged, short black hair, grey eyes, a few smile lines framing his mouth, nothing that would make you cross the street to get a better look. When she arrived confused and a bit afraid, he had been comforting and friendly. At first they had walked together as he gently helped her sort her memories and come to the understanding that she was, in fact, dead. When she wanted time on her own, he just nodded and sat, letting her continue on her own. He was a gentleman.

Her gaze shifted to look along the stream and she nodded to herself. It did sort of make sense. This was a gentleman’s garden, after all. Everything here seemed to fit. She was a princess in tulle, he was a gentleman dressed in black, the flowers were perfect and the swan floating atop the water’s surface too. Part of her felt like it should unsettle her. In real life, things were never perfect. But then, this wasn’t real life was it? Why shouldn’t it be beautiful and gorgeous and all the things one would wish?

She left the stream behind and kept going. The woods thinned until she walked instead through a field of gently rolling hills. Tall grass surrounded her, reaching up to her chest. She ran her hand through it as she followed the trail up a hill. At the top she paused to get her bearings. Behind her was the forest, in front of her more fields. To the right the land dropped off suddenly to meet a vast sea, reminding her of the island they had vacationed on as children.

She watched the waves a moment before looking the last direction. Left was what looked like a graveyard, stretching off into the distance. A frown creased her lips. What was the use of a graveyard if the dead could just walk about as they pleased? The sea called to her, but curiosity was stronger and she turned her back on it. It seemed she had all the time in the world; she could always walk the shore later.

As she grew closer, it became clear that they were indeed graves. She paused just outside the low stone wall surrounding their plot of land. Each stone was a bit different from the next. Some had angels weeping over them, others were smooth marble monoliths, some were even just traditional slabs. They were all perfectly clean, and the names etched into them were easily legible. She read a few then wondered out loud, “Who are they?”

“Those who decided to stay.”

She jumped at the sound of his voice and spun to face him. He bowed and apologized, “Sorry for startling you, Isabelle.”

She waved away his apology and asked, “What do you mean by decided? Do you mean that you can decide to leave?”

He nodded and sat on the stone wall. “Yes.”

“And… what then? I would wake up in the hospital?”

“No. They only place you cannot go is back. That life has finished. It’s story is over. But you can start a new one, if you like.”

For a moment she just stared at him before hopping up to sit next to him and asking quietly, “Where… where else can I go?”

“Many places. You can pick a new life – as a person, or an animal, or perhaps even a tree. If you’d rather, I can send you to the afterlife of your choice. You could wander the woods and live here for a while, or you could become a child’s imaginary friend. Really anything you can imagine well enough to ask for it. Or, if you are done and ready to rest…” His voice drifted off and he swept an arm to gesture at the stones behind him.

It was a lot to consider. She hadn’t expected to have any choices at all after she died – or even the ability to make choices – and yet here were so many. Hesitantly she asked, “Will I remember?”

He shook his head. “No. You will only remember when you come to visit me next.”

“Does that mean this is my first time? Since I don’t remember you?”

“Yes, it does.”

She raised her gaze to stare up at the sky. Small white clouds drifted slowly across the brilliant blue. Had they chosen to be clouds? Or were they just puffs of vapor, or an illusion cast by this strange land? Did it make a difference? It felt like it should. If they had once been alive like her, they deserved… what? To be treated with respect? How did you even respect a cloud?

She shook her head loose of that train of thought and looked back to the fields, focusing in on the real question she needed to ponder instead. What would she be? The knowledge that she would one day return here and get to pick again took a bit of the weight off her decision. If it didn’t work out, she would get another try at it.

He was still sitting there, eyes fixed on the horizon. His gaze was patient, calm, maybe the tiniest bit sad. What did he think of all this? Somehow she couldn’t bring herself to ask. Instead she said, “If I became an imaginary friend… could you make sure I was a nice one? I wouldn’t want to be mean. I’d want to be one of the ones that a kid plays with, and relies on, and feels better because they have an ear to talk to.”

A smile crossed his face and he nodded.

She took a deep breath, looking around once more before offering him a hand. He shook it. “In that case, that’s what I’d like to try next. Until next time?”

“Until next time.”