With that he strode away, his laurel crown still in place. The crowd broke up. The bones of Jadas crumbled to dust and blew away on the breeze.
‘He is a good man,’ said Shevan.
‘Yes,’ answered Anu absently. He was already planning for an increase in the absorption rate of wooden pegs.
The gardener was kneeling on an old cushion in the sunshine, carefully weeding the rockery. A straw hat, wide-brimmed and frayed, protected his neck from the harsh noon sun. Brightly coloured flowers were growing all around the rockery, pale pink rock jasmine, golden bloomed alyssum, white and yellow bellflowers, with their delicate, drooping blooms. The gardener’s fingers gently tugged at the weed stems while he probed the roots with his copper fork. Placing the weeds in a canvas basket by his side he climbed over the higher rocks to continue his work among the scented thyme that grew against the garden’s rear wall. He worked with the endless patience of a man in tune with the earth, never tearing at the weeds, never disturbing the roots of the plants he sought to protect. There was no tension in him, and his mind was perfectly at peace.
An older man moved along the paved path beneath the rockery. He was a big man, heavy-boned and broad in the shoulder. His close-cropped hair was peppered with silver, and his skin was deeply tanned and leathered by a lifetime of work in the open. The gardener saw him, smiled and climbed back down to the path.
‘It is looking fine, Kale,’ he said. ‘You have done well. But I am concerned with the violets.’
Together the two men strolled across the rock garden to a deep pocket of royal blue speedwell growing alongside a crimson wild thyme. At the border of the rocks was a stand of yellow wood violet. The leaves were dull and speckled.
‘The soil is not holding enough moisture, lord,’ said Kale, kneeling down and pushing his fingers into the earth. ‘It could do with some peat or rotted straw. I will fetch some this afternoon.’ He glanced over his shoulder at the rising sun. ‘And they are getting too much sun.’
The gardener nodded. ‘It had enough shade until the juniper died. We need to build a screen to the west, with a fast-climbing flower, to give time for the weeping birch to take hold. A jasmine, do you think?’
‘A screen is a good idea, lord. Though I prefer the yellow clematis as a climber. But I think you put too much faith in the birch. Such trees do not like this soil. It is too thin.’
‘A garden needs trees. They lift the eye, and the spirit, and they add depth and shadow. Anyway the cypresses are doing well here.’
‘Indeed they are, lord, but you spent a fortune for the irrigation work. Without it they would die within a month.’
The gardener laughed. ‘What else is money for? It is there to be spent. A garden is a thing of beauty, and pleasing to the Source.’
‘Speaking of money, lord, the marsh marigolds will be here tomorrow. It appears that most survived the journey.’
‘Excellent. That is what the far pond needs, Kale. A touch of gold. Now remember they should be planted just above the water’s edge, the soil kept continually moist.’
‘I have never seen a marsh marigold, lord,’ said Kale. ‘I will not know how to nurture it.’
The gardener smiled and clapped the man on the shoulder. ‘You will learn, Kale. And if they die I’ll buy more. Eventually we will get it right.’
A newcomer moved along the path. Kale bowed and backed away as the Avatar approached. ‘Your gardens are a constant delight, Viruk,’ said the Questor General. ‘So many colours and scents.’
Tension returned and the gardener faded back. Viruk the warrior brushed the dry dirt from his hands and led the General to a rest area where comfortable chairs had been set under a canopy of vine leaves. It was cool in the shade. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, cousin?’ he asked, removing his straw hat and dropping it to the ground.