A Fateful Garden

Autumn had fallen peacefully in the year of 1867; leaves faded from bright green, to orange and yellow, to brown, and gently embarked on their final journey to the dew-moistened ground where thousands of their comrades already rested. Once bright flowers withered and wilted, drooping, looking as if they were weeping with the clouds that now leaked rain. The air was crisp with the distinctive bite of the coming cold of late fall and winter, an easy breeze carried the scent of pumpkin spices, fallen apples, and slowly decaying leaves. It was beautiful.1

That day I'd been invited to join John and his wife Sarah for an early supper. I'd known John since I was a young boy, we'd gone to school together, worked together, even trained and served in the military together. After the war, most men who fought side by side might keep in contact with their fellow soldiers by meeting once or twice a year, or writing letters, but John and I still met regularly, as we did so many years ago; it would seem the war couldn't tear us apart, no matter how hard it tried.2

John's house was not a mansion, but it was no cabin. It was fairly good sized, and in wonderful shape, as he had taken the past couple of years to restore it. The house had been passed down from his grandfather, so it wasn't modern, but it was still beautiful. The freshly painted white panels gleamed, even on that darkly grey and overcast afternoon. Walking up the steps, none of them creaked in the least, as mine own did, for I hadn't the talent John had with carpentry. The porch had recently been swept, for no leaves were to be seen upon it as might be expected. The bright blue door stood before me, and before I could knock, Sarah quietly opened it, a smile gracing her plain, but beautiful, face. "Ah, Robert, come in," she said gracefully, extending a hand toward the hall leading into the house. Taking off my hat, I gave a slight bow and a small smile, then stepped inside.3

I hadn't been in John's house for a long while; he'd been renovating the rooms, papering the walls, finishing the wood floors, and arranging the new furniture he'd inherited from a distant relative. The rooms I passed were simple enough, the walls painted white, the furniture the same as I had seen before. John was in a back room, Sarah had told me, so we walked toward the other end of the house. He must have heard us, for he called out to us: "Robert! Come on in!"4

Turning to the left, I stepped into the room where John was sitting with pipe and a cup of coffee. Looking up, expecting to see another room just as the others, my heart skipped a beat and I had to work at drawing a breath. The walls had been papered with a flower pattern, vines twisting hypnotically, a variety of large flowers I didn't know the names of blooming from the ends of the vines. The sofa and chairs bore the same kind of pattern. A small table sat in the center of the room, a vase filled with a bouquet of poppies, cornflower, and wheat. There was a window in the wall opposite the door, with a desk to the left side. John sat, smiling, on the sofa. I stared, in horrified shock, at the flowered walls. My chest pounded, my head floated, and the last thing I remembered before falling was spotting a blood-red rose on the wall that seemed to be dripping.5

***6

During the war, I had signed up on the side of the confederacy, for I was a Virginian, pure and true. I felt a duty to my state more than anything, and so, along with my boyhood friends, I volunteered myself for the Virginian military. We were a proud group of soldiers, proud of our state, proud of the South, proud of ourselves. Entering the military was somewhat expected of a gentleman in the South, it was almost tradition. Men had to show chivalry and prestige, and above all, they must protect their state and their families. So it wasn't surprising how many men signed up with me.7

War was hell, of course. Soon after we began fighting, our clothes became worn and tattered, the soles of our boots wasted away, we shivered in the cold of winter, sweltered in the heat of summer, and starved on the rations we were given, which tasted nothing like mother's home cooked Sunday dinners. But, even though we suffered, we remained proud and orderly soldiers, heeding our commanders and doing whatever we could to help Virginia, and the South, succeed in this struggle.8

There was only one thing I dreaded in that war. No, it wasn't my own demise, for I had considered it before I volunteered, and decided my life was worth giving for the cause of the confederacy. It wasn't that we might lose. It was the fact that my brother had volunteered for the Union army. My own brother betrayed his home state of Virginia, and, even after the many attempts I made to sway him to come home and fight along side me, he refused. I dreaded meeting my brother in battle, facing him with a rifle, and the knowledge that one of us might pull the trigger on the other with a command from an officer. I feared finding my brother dead after a battle. He was the only brother I had, my life-long friend. We were close as children, and though he lived hundreds of miles away in the North, I still felt a part of him in me, something that would remain forever, no matter how many miles were between us. But finding him dead, or worse, having to shoot him, would kill me.9

For the first year I served in the war, I had not seen my brother, nor his outfit, for which I was relieved. It had been difficult, killing other men, watching my fellows fall, hearing the agonizing screams, smelling death all around me. But as long as I did not see that familiar face on the opposite side of the field, I could carry on and fight for Virginia.10

The second year had begun, and spring was upon us. Flowers bloomed, leaves sprouted, and the land turned an illuminating shade of deep green. I was sent to scout around a town that seemed deserted, along with ten or so other men. We walked the dirt roads, muddy from the recent rain, and could find no trace of life. It wasn't until we came to the town center that we came across the remnants of a bloody encounter. Bodies were strewn across the town square, both men of the North, and our own. Lifeless forms lay contorted and disfigured in the muddy streets, some face down, others staring at the heavens above. My heart raced as I realized these Northern men were from Pennsylvania: my brother's home.11

Frantically, I scoured the square, in search of my brother's body, praying to God that I would not find him there. The battle had not occurred long before we arrived, some of the men still twitched and moaned. It had only been hours. Finding nothing in the square, I went to a nearby house with a white picket fence around the yard. I opened the gate and stepped inside, walked slowly to the back, where my breath caught in my throat. A beautiful garden, neatly planned and planted, appeared in the small yard. Flowers of all kinds were in bloom, the colors vibrant, shining and sparkling with the morning dew. In awe of the sight before me, I almost forgot what I was looking for, and started forward to get a closer look at these wondrous flowers. A small dirt path ran between beds and bushes; yellow, red, blue, orange, pink flowers dotted luscious greenery. Bending slightly, I reached for a rose bud, deep red and glimmering, when I heard a low moan coming from behind the bush where I stood. Standing on my toes, I carefully gazed over the bushes to see a pair of legs on the ground, still, covered in viscous red blood. Following the path, I walked around the corner to see the soldier laying beneath a flourish of blood-red roses and buds. Then I felt I was going to be sick.12

There lay my brother. The sight I had so feared, the nightmares I had dreamt came true before my eyes in more horrifying reality than I ever could have imagined. He lay in two pieces, blown in half by a cannon ball, I assumed. His legs lay motionless, severed at the torso, and it seemed a wonder to me that he could still be alive. As I stared in disbelief, his eyes opened, and he muttered "Brother..." gurgling blood, spittle and red dripping down his face, along with a look of pain and agony. I rushed to his side, took his hand, and cupped his face with my other hand. He looked at me, deep into my eyes, sadness and fear mixed in his gaze, and to my surprise, a hint of relief. Hot tears ran from my own eyes, down my chin to drip onto his blood soaked uniform. His breathing was ragged, he shook, his skin was cold and clammy, and I knew he didn't have much time left. Choking, he tried to speak, working his tongue and neck, trying to formulate just one word. I shook my head and covered his mouth with a single finger, then leaned forward to touch my forehead to his and sob with unbridled despair. My whole body shook violently as I cried like I had never done before. Racking sobs stuck in my throat when I tried to breathe in, and in my state of utter distress, I hadn't noticed when my brother breathed his last, chocking breath, and gone cold and lifeless. When I finally was able to control my tears, I steadied my breathing and came up on my knees. There lay my brother, torn in half, his skin pale white, clammy, cold, and his eyes staring into nothing, already filming over in death. With two shaking fingers, I closed his eyes for him, said a short prayer, stood on wobbling legs, and somehow managed to walk back to the square where the rest of the scouts waited.13

***14

I woke with a start, jumping from the floor where Sarah hovered over me, pressing a wet cloth to my forehead. "Dear, Robert, be still, you fainted," she whispered. John stood over us, sucking on his pipe methodically. Searching the room, I found the flowers and vines again, closing in, surrounding me as they surrounded my brother when he lay dying. The red roses sporadically placed on the walls loomed over me, just as the others had just years ago. John had not been with me, he didn't know the painful memories flashing before me. "Please," I muttered, "can we go into another room?" Sarah nodded, clearly confused, but willing to do anything to help me regain my strength.15

And so it was that every time I visited John's home, I avoided the flowery back room, avoided the memories, the painful nightmares I suffered. Every time I looked upon a bed of deep red roses, a sharp pain stabbed my heart, and I had to look away before I broke down. For the rest of my life, I could never see flowers in the same way again, real or fake, in a garden or on the walls of a friend's home, without also looking upon the cold, dead face of my dear brother.16