Part 12

      Straightening up again, I check to make sure I didn't smash my camera into the stone as I flailed... and it's fine, but when I look up, I see a couple seated on one of the other benches built into the fountain. The woman is indeed young, not far from my age, and she's very beautiful. Long flowing hair, a reddish tint to the chestnut waves that fall over her shoulders and down her back, a loose crown of small white flowers set as a halo around her head. Her skin is a perfect ivory cream – and to keep it that way, she holds a lacy parasol over her, keeping the sun at bay. Her dress is a loose, flowing thing, in a very pale green that accents the red in her hair.
      The man is... rather young in appearance, maybe in his thirties, there are few lines on his face, and the structure of his face and body have the trimness of youth. But something in his movements, in the way he carries himself, make him seem much, much older. A chronic illness might cause something like that, or a deep emotional issue. Still, despite the weariness that I can see even from this distance, he is tender toward her, holding her parasol as she leans over the edge of the fountain, trailing her white fingertips in the sparkling water, laughing as a bright red-orange fish darts quickly toward and then away from her fingers. He smiles at her, and his features lose a few years in that smile... His features are romantic perfection, skin smooth and clear, a well-defined jawline and slim nose, deep, dark eyes... His hair is longer than I would expect from the time I think they belong to, falling just over his shoulders. It's very dark, nearly black, and mostly straight, though there is a hint of a worn-out wave to it in places. He wears a dress jacket of some sort, dark gray in color, a maroon shirt underneath it... My knowledge of menswear is pretty limited, but I get the impression his clothing is immaculately tailored. There is a small boutonnière on the jacket, some mix of white and maybe something dark red? I can't make out the flowers from here, not that I'd know the names anyway.
      His frame is long and slim, and... not all that different from the young men sculpted in the fountain itself. There's something similar in their frame, in the grace of the way they hold themselves... I can't see his face well enough to study any resemblance there, but something... something in his manner, in the feel of the air around him, is distant, aloof, melancholy, like someone whose thoughts are on some moment other than the one they are in. Even as he gazes – clearly with much love – at the woman, there is something in his being that remains elsewhere.
      She, meanwhile, lives in the beauty of each passing moment. Her gaze is constantly drawn to the thousand small things in the garden around her, and there is such energy and vivacity in her every motion, that joy seems to flow from her every breath. Her face seems constantly upturned, even when looking down, like a child in the middle of a happy dream...
      She stands up, and her dress is caught in a breeze that floats by. It swirls around her legs, twining around her slim frame, and I brush aside the hair that has blown into my eyes. She does a pirouette, laughing, and holds out both hands to the man. He takes her hands, rising slowly, and twirls her about in a graceful dancing motion. Her laugh is light as spring rain, and when her foot catches on a vine creeping onto the brick path, he catches her up as though she weighed no more than the billowing cloud of pale fabric. She twines her arms around his neck and lays her head against his chest, and he cradles her tenderly for a long moment, burying his face in her hair, which shimmers in the late afternoon sun, the parasol laying neglected on the ground. When he looks up...
      He looks at me.
      My heart absolutely stops. It was one thing when the boy looked at me, it was with complete and casual acceptance, it was no more than an innocent dream-vision to him. But this... His gaze is deep and piercing, absolutely arresting. Yet he, too, doesn't seem to be surprised at all by the sight, though for different reasons, I think, than the boy. This is a man who knows there is more to the world than basic scientific or common experience explanations. He studies me for a long moment, saying nothing to the woman, who still rests peacefully against his chest. The same breeze that brushes his hair brushes mine, and I can smell a sweet, heavy, spice-laden scent... from the flowers he wears, maybe? He has no fear of me – but I get the feeling he is a man who fears nothing. Nothing tangible, anyway. And I'm a little afraid of him, his gaze is so incredibly intense, I don't feel like I can pull away from it. But he breaks contact first, and smiles, almost ruefully. Holding the woman a little closer to him, he speaks, his voice low and sonorous, but crossing the space between us quite clearly.
      “This... is the woman I have abandoned all else for. This is our garden, and we wish no-one to ever intrude upon our peace here.”
      At this, the woman looks up at him, undoubtedly in confusion.
      “Do not trouble yourself, my darling... I only spoke the thoughts in my heart, as a sort of invocation I suppose...”
      “Casting a good spell on our home?” she inquires lightly, not taking him entirely seriously – which is how he intended her to take it, though it is clear to me that it was no light jest.
      “Something of the kind...” he murmurs, kissing the top of her head tenderly. He looks over at me again, and, seeing my smile, almost smiles in return. He nods his understanding of my good-will toward them, then turns, the woman still in his arms, toward the mansion...
      The mansion! It's---

      It's gone. The breeze still blows, but it carries only the stale scent of the muck now lying at the base of the dry fountain. I caught nothing more than a glimpse of a turreted tower at one corner of the house...
      I turn the scene over and over in my mind for a long time, pulling out my sketchbook and feverishly scribbling notes on every detail I can remember. I try to sketch the man and the woman... somehow, I know they were not Mr. and Mrs. Mason, not the ones who moved here with their children and saw the house burn down. This was the man who built the estate out of love for this woman...
      “This is the woman I have abandoned all else for...”
      What did he leave behind for her? Something far more than a career in a big city, something far beyond the ordinary experience, that much is obvious. If only I could have been closer, and seen his face clearly...
      When I've exhausted my memory, I close my sketchbook with a sigh, trying to set the subtleties of the scene into my memory for good, trying to cement the sound of their voices, the spice-rich floral scent, the color of her hair, the directness of his gaze. Flip open the sketchbook, jot down a few more notes, then close it, more slowly, letting my gaze wander at last back to the fountain. The dry, tired fountain, with the tarnish of long years and old memories... Looking down into the basin, I shudder as I realize there are probably dead fish bodies in there. Shaking my head to clear it, I stand up, looking at the sky to check how low the sun is. It's definitely close to supper time by now... checking my watch, I see that it's nearly six. I'm a little surprised so much time has gone by, but not really, I have no idea how long I was lost in looking at the fountain, before the... the vision? It wasn't a dream, nor a hallucination. Each one I see, I feel more and more sure that what I'm seeing is reality, somehow, reality displaced by time, or a memory brought before my eyes... But no, not a memory, how could there be interaction like that? The man saw me, responded to the expressions he saw on my face...
      “This is our garden, and we wish no-one to ever intrude upon our peace here...”
      I wonder, would they have been buried here, somewhere on the grounds? I can't imagine that they would have moved away from this place, something more final must have happened to them here... Yet the man's brother moved in with his family, so whatever happened, didn't happen long after this, they couldn't have been old at all... Their story must be in the town history somewhere, someone before me must have been caught by the romance of the young man building such a lovely place for the woman he adored so completely.
      There was no mention of their having had children... but I wonder who the boy I saw was? I strain at my memory, trying to recall the vague sound of the voice I heard in the distance, calling the boy... but I can't remember it clearly enough to decide if it matches the man I saw today or not. It could have been one of the Mason boys.
      It's so sad to think that only two families ever lived in such a beautiful place... what little I've seen of the gardens, I can hardly imagine how luxurious the house must have been. So much beauty, and so little enjoyed... Well, at least someone else is enjoying it now, I'll have gained more than just a single drawing from this place.
      Smiling, I take a last look at the fountain, half-seeing the version of it from my vision in place of the present. Then I turn slowly, and walk in the direction opposite the man and his young wife went, heading back to my own, much less grand, home.