Gleaming

An old man and the fireside

The October sky crisped around those leafless beeches at the eastern edge of the garden. A dark mat of night soaked into the lawn under the shadow of Cantor's yew hedge. He paused and wondered at the ingenuity of that enthusiastic gardener who, at some point some two centuries previously, had garnered the presence of mind to plant that hedge. An investment, thought Cantor, that would clearly not pay off in full during the entrepreneurial horticulturist's own lifetime, but instead, had been preserved for him to receive in this present moment. A sudden flush of inadequacy torrented over him as he felt the realisation of this fact. He had put in comparatively little effort and yet found himself to be the beneficiary of the full value of the hedge. If only he could appreciate it more, he considered, then that would mean the gardener's efforts would be justified. Just as quickly, the flood of feeling gave way to a languid gratefulness. That was, he mused, exactly what the gardener had had in mind; gratefulness. Everything was as it was meant to be. Moonlight luxuriated in the folds of terraced rockeries, coating them with incidental charm. Boulders which were grey in the daytime all of a sudden shone white like powdered swans riding the intimate valleys and hilltops of his private landscape.
    Cantor enjoyed the night. Even so, he pulled the heavy curtains together at each of the windows. He left a gap in just one set so that if he wanted, he could see the stars from his chair beside the fire. He liked to leave a hole like this, so that the night could come and go as it pleased. Occasionally, as the embers of the fire glowed deep in the grate, the night would come in through the gap in the curtains and spread itself elegantly on the rug. Always the accommodating host, Cantor would put another elm log or two onto the tinkling red hearth for his guest. The night simply rolled over to the far side of the room where it enjoyed the cool expanse of air behind the sofa.
    This was Cantor's favourite time of the year. The summer's ebullient activity passed, now was a time for some quiet reflection. He sat in his leather chair, worn by time into an honest handshake. From this chair, he could pilot the undulating vistas of his life, attending to the forgotten minutiae of ideas, emotions and concerns that deposited themselves in his consciousness like the myriad worm-castes that arrive daily on his lawns. It was a task that he used to fear. He would run away, afraid of the impending wealth of issues that had been growing and seeding like weeds in the destitute pastures of his avoidance. "What if I don't solve them all? They will grow, serpent-like down inside the dark well of my heart and consume me. When cut into pieces, they will grow back together, reform into a stronger whole and feed me with venom and grief for ever". And each time he had this thought, he created another serpent which did just that. After he had run all that he could, his exhausted mind had collapsed and given up. He had surrendered. He could simply run no more. The serpents did indeed, slide out from the depths of his heart.
    The sun had raised and lowered the cover on many seasons since that time. Now, ensconced in the warmth-flickered interior of this home, he was perfectly at ease. Reaching over to the small oak table by his side, Cantor lifted a brandy glass to his nose. The scent of distant ripeness filled his head, a sensual, overpowering vapour of surfeit and excess. He replaced the glass and exhaled deep curling trails of spirit into the fire. He no longer even needed to drink. Looking around himself, Cantor thought that this was as close to perfection as he could grasp. Then, stopping to examine that thought, he further surmised that even his days of panic and running were an aspect of that same perfection. After all, night follows day and neither one is better off. They're just serving different functions.
    His gaze was locked lazily on a clock at the far side of the room. Its dark stained wood and expressionless face appeared formally attired for the evening, like a butler who sees all but never tells. On spring mornings its chime would herald the arrival of Daffodils, Crocuses and the early buds on the Hawthorns. During summer, it reminded Cantor to take a break from the sun and sit in the silky breeze on the porch. This evening, it was announcing the passing hours as though they were guests arriving at a party. Cantor liked this notion and smiled at the clock. The clock face was stoic, but Cantor could see a wry humour behind its shifting hands. Time itself was the irony that kept the clock so perpetually amused. Little slices of eternity, processed for us to digest. Yet even the clock must stop. When it becomes old and tired and there is no one left to depend on its little slices, it too will stop running and submit to the inevitable relief of timelessness. But not this evening. Those guests kept arriving with admirable punctuality and were welcomed into Cantor's private region of perfection.
    The call of an owl pierced this sumptuous reverie, and Cantor lifted himself out of his chair and padded softly to the gap in the curtains to see if he could catch a glimpse of it. He wasn't able to see the bird, but marvelled at the idea of flying silently, smoothly through the cold autumn air over the house, the pond, the lawns and trees, all bathed in silver, shining an echo of daylight. In the distance, the Redway Hills lurched up to take a good look at the valley. They were latticed with hedgerows and capped in places with brackets of trees, looking as though they had climbed to the top in order to brush against the stars. A noble ambition, thought Cantor.
    He scanned the beeches looking for an oblong representative of night, perhaps perched on a branch or swooping in low to the ground, but he could see none. Wrapping his dressing gown around him tightly, he turned up his collar and lifted the latch of the double French doors that led out into the garden. He knew it would be cold, but promised himself that he would only stay long enough to absorb the wonder of the moonlight.
    Stepping outside, he felt the chill autumnal air venturing a conspicuous greeting around his ankles. He made his way briskly along the path that ran close to the yews, down three stone steps, and was in the sunken rectangle of the pond alcove. Surrounded by scented cedars, blue-white and vibrant in the glow of the moon, Cantor stopped and listened only to the sound of his own breathing. Glancing upwards, he observed the stars, opened his mouth and felt very small. The water in the pond was black and still. A few pale stems of bulrush stuck out with abandon. Wood smoke from his fireplace spilled out from the chimney and blended seamlessly with the lush waves of atmosphere that surrounded him. An ancient smell, a deep and fulfilling, exciting smell. Tomorrow, he decided, would be a fine day for a person to go for a walk in the woods. The chill of the night was now leeching heat from his face, his knees and hands. It was time to return to his nest. Exquisite though it was to see his cherished plants  drenched in this chromatic loveliness, he knew he must go.
    Cantor had listened to plants all his life. He could feel when a plant needed water, a bigger pot, a smaller pot, a change of soil, more or less sunlight, or even if it would just rather be in a different room. The plants outside were more hardy than the inside ones and had different requests. Under the spell of moonlight, however, they all seemed to sing a different song. As though they were dreaming, and yet wide awake. A lucid harmony of voices which referred to a distant place inside, a drift of impeccable beauty and reverence. Cantor wanted to go with them of course. But instead, turned back towards the French doors. He shook off the sharpness of the cold outside, and fastened the latch again. Standing in front of the fire, he poked the logs about in order to expose the untouched fragments to the grateful bite of the hot coals. The clock on the wall chimed again, a gentle reminder that the last guests had left and the evening was complete. Cantor placed the guard in front of the fireplace, and breathed the satisfied breath of a days work done well.
    Wood panelled walls fringed the margin of his journey upstairs. Creaking steps and a sphere of dried flowers accompanied him. The spicy green-brown aroma patterned the air with intrigue. Cantor pulled the cord that closed the plush drapes over the leaded glass panes at the turn of the stairs, winking a goodnight to the moon gazing from above. Blackness embraced him, and carried him noiselessly to bed, where he slept the sleep of a child.

    Cantor never awoke from that sleep. Nurse Blackwood, who came the next day called for the doctor who confirmed his passing in due course. Cantor wasn't dead, though. He had just been born.    

Reviews

[Narnie]

Oh my. A masterful display of colour, smell and sound. All of those senses captured in a man's private ramblings. You have more eloquently achieved the senses that I constantly aspire to in my pieces.. I particularly appreciated the many references to wood that leant the natural texture to his life and allowed us (me) to feel as though his love for his surroundings not only extended to the garden but also to his life and the outlook he gave to it.

Very pleased to have you here.. I look forward to reading more. :)

[skacsimm]

I really can't say enough. I was looking through the lists, trying to find people to critique my book, and you know what caught my attention with you? You're from London, and its always been a dream of mine to visit there.
I'm glad I came across you, and I plan to read everything you have. You have a gift of eloquence, a gentle touch that flows and weaves these stories of yours together. I would not be surprised to find that you are a succesful writer, no not at all.
Keep posting.

[Typhaen]

WOW! This is a very good piece of writing... I am not surprised mainly by the topic but by the intricacy of the details...The way you built the phrases leaves the reader completely mesmerized and entangled into these images... You have a way to describe a thing through its multiple facets and that is top-class... Well done! Very beautifully written!

Typh :)

[An Ordinary Woman]

the ending really surprised me ...

... as with all your work, I have nothing but praise.
I don't quite know if I can say this without sounding tacky, but I really didn't think this one was going to hold my attention very well. I was wrong.

I feel like I know Cantor somehow. Amazing.

just a few of my favorite lines ...

Moonlight luxuriated in the folds of terraced rockeries, coating them with incidental charm. Boulders which were grey in the daytime all of a sudden shone white like powdered swans riding the intimate valleys and hilltops of his private landscape.

He sat in his leather chair, worn by time into an honest handshake.

Glancing upwards, he observed the stars, opened his mouth and felt very small.

truly you are a marvel.
... smiles ...

[Nicole (Carpe Diem)]

sorry this is going to be short and sweet (my battery is about to die) - i do enjoy the writing and am glad i finally got around to reading some of your work. And honestly cant wait to read more of it.

I like the vivid details - and example... "Stepping outside, he felt the chill autumnal air venturing a conspicuous greeting around his ankles. He made his way briskly along the path that ran close to the yews, down three stone steps, and was in the sunken rectangle of the pond alcove" i can picture this actually happening -

Ok I have mere seconds left... so i will close with that and write more on the next one!