Part 7

      I can't keep the grin off my face. “Thank you, so much.”
      He smiles back. “Anytime! Feel free to drop by any time you have a question. Anything I don't know about the town, the historical society will know. I go to most of their meetings – if I didn't, they'd hold the meetings here and ransack my maps. So I find it easier to just go and let them ransack my brains.”
      We both laugh, and I thank him again as I make my way back out of the building. It's all I can do to keep from sprinting back out into the spring sunshine, and take off for the woods. A ruined house, a mysterious fire – and fires always leave such interesting looking ruins, everything with charred edges and incredible textures. And the gardens... There must be something left of the gardens. I'm sure weeds and local wild plants have choked it out in places, and maybe some the ornamental trees couldn't make it without attention, but... There's got to be something of them still. And if it's even a scrap of what I saw...

      What I saw. I still haven't come to terms with it, I have no idea what it was. As far as I know, I'm not exactly prone to psychic visions or anything. I'm not even sure how much I believe in them... I've seen flashes of things from the corners of my eyes, maybe a light moving, or a shadow, once or twice I thought there was a person standing there who wasn't... but I don't think it was anything more than my brain filling in the gaps in my vision. And what I saw, I saw so clearly, so sharply, in such detail... it just felt like reality. It didn't feel like a dream, there weren't things I couldn't shift my focus to, nothing shifted or changed its form or person. I saw it as clearly as anything else I saw that day, in as much detail as the fence and its vines, as much clarity as the water darting between stones. If I hadn't been so transfixed by it, so caught off guard, I feel sure I could have taken a picture...
      ...but what if I had taken a picture, and then later found that it wasn't there? I'm almost glad I didn't, just to save myself from risking that situation. Because I feel so strongly that it was real, that if I'd taken a few steps forward, I could have walked into that garden, spoken to the boy – the boy who I'm sure saw me, but, as children do, just took it in stride if he thought it odd, all the world is new to their eyes, so no one thing is stranger to them than any other.
      I don't know what else it could have been... and I'm a little scared to try researching into the possibilities. Chances are, I'll find either I'm crazy, or that all the people I think are crazy are actually sane, which is pretty much the same thing.

      By the time I'm home, the sky has clouded over, and just as I unlock the front door, it starts to rain. So much for tracking down my mystery mansion today... I make myself a mug of hot chocolate, and pull out a sketchbook. I make a rough map of everything I learned about the Mason place today, making general notes on where the house and road seemed to be in relation to the main roads, and sketching in roughly where I walked a few weeks ago. At which point I realize just how little I was paying attention to how the creek bent and twisted through the woods... I had checked the compass a couple of times, but I'm really pretty hazy on the shape of the path I took, and God knows what kind of distance I actually covered. I don't even know how you'd measure distance, out walking like that... and I didn't even think to look at the scale on the maps I saw today! I groan, erasing everything a little to lighten all the lines I've drawn. I have a general idea of the size of the woods, and where the two main roads that border it are, I'll just have to keep going off of that, and my vague notion of where the house was. I glare at the rain, now coming down in the steady way that means it's not going to stop for the rest of the afternoon. My next day off is three days away...

      And on that next day off, the sky is gray and threatening again. But I can't wait any longer, all I've thought of for the last three days is that small square on the old map, “Mason” written in faded ink in the handwriting of someone long gone... My camera is fully charged, the memory card clear, extra batteries in my pocket, a sandwich and bottle of water in my bag alongside my sketchbook and a handful of pencils. I grab the compass from the bookcase where I left it, and consider my rain jacket. It's warm, and rain gear is uncomfortable, and I'll be under the trees anyway – I leave it. I've found my old jackknife though, and bought a pair of heavy-duty gardening gloves. I'm hoping that will be enough to deal with the vines... I have a hunch they can be pretty tough. But I have on a long-sleeved shirt and jeans, despite the heat. They're rolled up for now, but once I'm in the woods, unrolling them will save me from a heck of a lot of scratches.
      I head back toward the creek. I've thought it over for days, and while I really thought about going in from the road, and trying to find the old road to the house... I have a strong suspicion it's totally gone now. If it was anything like a hundred years ago that the house burned, and it was only ever a dirt road to begin with... I'm never going to find it from this end. If I can find the house, I may be able to trace where the road was – the trees will be smaller, and I'm sure there will be some indication of its direction from the carriage house or whatever. But if I can get through the fence by the creek... I wonder just how big the gardens were? Just one family, I wouldn't think all that big, but if they were that wealthy...

      It feels like a much, much longer walk this time. I barely stop at all along the way, so I'm sure it actually takes me way less time than it did before, but every minute I'm straining my eyes against the brush, trying to catch a first glimpse of that elaborate ironwork peeking through vines. It's incredible how much different the woods look, just a few weeks later – everything is green now, the brown remains of last year almost entirely gone. I'm relieved to have the creek to follow, if I stay right on the banks I can dodge most of the underbrush, which I'm pretty sure would have halted my progress within about thirty seconds otherwise. Most of it is low, starved for sunlight under the canopy of the trees, but it's dense as hell.
      After an age and a hundred false hopes, I finally catch sight of an oddly straight mound of greenery. My heart sinks a bit, seeing just how fast the vines have grown – they look a lot more dense than they did before, it's going to be rough trying to cut through them. I wish I'd bought boots tall enough to wade the creek with... but no, I couldn't ever walk this much distance in those things, and carrying them would be absolutely miserable. As uncomfortable as wet socks are, especially on a hike, I could probably survive it, if it gets me to the mansion's ruins.
      A little farther, and the fence starts running parallel to the creek. I study the vines closely as I walk along, keeping an eye out for any spot where the vines look more sparse, or any change in the shapes might hint at a hidden gate. But nothing really gets my hopes up, and eventually I'm at the place where the water passes under the fence. I finally let my body stop moving for a bit, and sit back on the rock, gazing into the vines, half-hoping for another vision of that beautiful garden, the color and light it once held... But all I see are vines and the creek. The water, at least, still flows over broken marble and a few pieces of colored tiles, those weren't a dream, and I know now that the garden I saw is at least a plausible thing – or was, a hundred years ago.
      Setting my bag safely away from the water, I get out my knife and gloves, unrolling my sleeves and jeans to cover as much of my skin as possible. I look again at the creek, but it's definitely still too deep to step into, no helpful rocks big enough to stand on. I close my eyes a minute, trying to recall what edges there were to my vision through the vines... was it just a hazy edging? Or could I see a hole in the fence itself? Or an arch over the water? I close my eyes tighter, forcing my memory to stare at the edges of the vision, trying to see things I wasn't looking at at the time, things I saw without consciously knowing I saw... and I'm not certain, but I think there's an arch over the water, maybe two feet over the water's surface... but it's wider than the water, it passes to either side... the tiles! The tiles still line the creek as it passes under the fence, they must have needed space around the fence to do that, or left space in the fence to keep from disrupting the tiles, whichever order they were built in. So there's an arch of maybe two feet high, extending a few feet to either side of the water before it curves back down to the ground. Opening my eyes slowly, I try to force the vision (which I'm afraid I half-imagined) onto the reality in front of me... and it might be right, aren't the vines a little high over the water there, and there?
      It's pretty much a toss-up as to which side of the creek is less overgrown, but I stick with the side I'm on. I take off my headphones and tuck my iPod in my bag. Much as I'd like the distraction of the music, I'd constantly be getting the headphone wire snagged on things and it would make me crazy. So I hum R.E.M.'s “Shiny Happy People” to myself (it was the last song I listened to, and it'll be stuck in my head for hours), and start forcing my way through the brush. I cling to the water's edge as best I can, since the plant growth isn't quite as high there, but it still feels like a good ten minute battle to cover the short distance to the fence. I stomp down some of the plants between me and the fence, then crouch down, peering intently into the bright green vines. (I need to learn some plants, I have no idea if these are grape vines or Virginia creeper or kudzu or what. I don't think it's kudzu – my parents did enough battle with that beast of a plant in our yard that I think I'd remember what it looks like... but then again, maybe not.)
      I can just make out some of the fence's ironwork... and I'm pretty sure it stops right about there, maybe a foot and a half off the ground... I reach in my gloved hand, and start pushing through the vines, pulling them aside as much as I can. Those that won't budge at all, or I can see are twined right around the iron, I saw through with my knife. I haven't used it since I was a kid, but it's actually not a half-bad knife, still sharp enough anyway. It still takes some sawing to get through any vine more than an eight of an inch thick, but it's manageable. It looks like... I think the fence really does end here, there doesn't seem to be any... no, there's not! That bit curls around there, and this part loops up that way, and that's open space! Once I get the vines out, anyway, and that won't take long if I'm not working around the iron. Grinning as I work, I plug away steadily at the vines. Despite the gloves, they still dig into my hands now and then, who knew plants were this strong? But I keep working at it, and finally, I've cleared a space roughly a foot across and two feet down, from the bottom of the fence to the ground. Not big enough to crawl through yet, but enough to see through!
      I bend down even lower to the ground, and carefully push my head into the hole in the vines. Wish I'd brought a hair tie, I can feel my hair getting caught in the rough edges of the dried old vines, but I can deal with that. It's no sunnier on that side of the fence than this, and I can't see much... the vines have made a wall almost two feet thick over the fence, which itself is only a couple of inches wide. My shoulders scrape against the outside of the hole, and I have to fight to keep my nose out of the somewhat muddy dirt underneath. But I can see a little... I can see the creek, and I can see more of the tiles! Some are covered by mud and debris, but I think they're still mostly lining the waterbed... and there are a lot of plants. They're pretty thoroughly blocking my vision, but little as I know of plants, I can tell they're not all weeds, there's some field grass like stuff, but there are things with prettier leaves, even things starting to bloom, that I don't recognize as local wildflowers. I can see a big burst of pale pink in the distance – some kind of flowering tree, though all I can see is its color. I can't make out any kind of building, but somehow... I can feel in my gut that this is a garden, there's just enough hint of organization and intent about what I can see, despite what's grown up among it over the years.
      It's almost impossible to bring myself to do it, but I take a long breath, and squirm back out of the hole, coming back out on my side of the fence. I pick my knife back up, and set to work with a vengeance, cutting back a wider gap in the vines, determined to make something big enough for me to get my body through...

      Before I let myself go through the fence, I push back through the brush to get my bag. I know once I'm through, I'm not going to want to come back out for anything until I absolutely have to... I seriously hope I can pay attention to the time, it's going to get dark early today if it stays this cloudy, and if I get stuck walking through the woods in the dark I'll be totally doomed. I check my watch, and see that it's already one in the afternoon. I sigh inwardly. I really need to learn to drag myself out of bed earlier on my days off, I miss so much daylight... which didn't used to be a problem, but now I actually have something I want to do doing the day! I didn't realize just how little drive I had in my life before, but now that I have this to compare it to...
      I keep the gloves on, and knife at hand, as I crouch down to wriggle under the fence. My bag snags on a vine halfway through, and my shoulders still scrape the edges, but I manage to get through, and finally...
      I'm standing in the garden.

      It's a little anticlimactic. The tiles in the creek look dull in the pale sunlight, though having cleaned the one I took home, I know just how vivid their colors actually are. Everything looks so wild and overgrown, there are blossoms here and there, but the bushes are all vast and tumbling into each other. I can't see any kind of a path anywhere. It looks like there's a stone fountain off to the right a ways, obviously no water running through it now, but the shape is pretty clear – and it's a large one, easily ten feet tall. There are trees popping up all over the place... I can tell that this was a large clear space at one time, most of these trees are smaller than the ones in the surrounding woods, and they're much more spread out. The fence curves away into the distance to either side of me, and I can tell it encloses a rounded space, at least here. I can't make it out after a hundred feet or so, the vines blur into a large bunch of bushes. I can see something that might be a wall, far off to the left, but I'm not even sure, all I can see are a few patches of white behind more of the endless green plant growth. Vines must be covering that, too... There are a few rounded shapes scattered around the place, maybe trellises or something? But I don't see anything that looks like it might have been a house... did the fire demolish it completely? Someone that rich wouldn't have built their house entirely of wood, there must be something left...
      My enthusiasm a little diminished, I put away my gloves and knife. I dig the camera out of my bag, and take a couple general shots of the area. It does have a nice quietness about it... a little creepy, but also peaceful, the way old cemeteries feel. (My friends all think I'm crazy, but I love sitting in old cemeteries on warm summer days. The memories in the air almost seem tangible, the sense of time falling heavy as the golden summer light.) I take a few steps along the creek bed, and crouch down to take a better look at the tiles.
      All that's visible at first are a few tiny patches of white and blue, but finding a stick nearby, I push some of the leaves and plant debris out of the way. When the current has cleared the mud away, I can see more of the blue, and scraps of coral, and muddied white. I half-close my eyes, and try to meld the memory of vision with the sight before me, trying to see the tiles as they looked beneath the boy's feet, the colors vivid and glowing in the light... There's such a richness to the design of them. I still haven't tracked down their origin, but I'm really leaning toward something Islamic, it looks so much like the tile work in mosques and things, though this is still a much more organic feeling design. There's something exotic and antique feeling about the look of them, lining the creek bed like that. I prod my stick into the bottom of the creek, stirring up the mud and leaves, pushing debris aside until I catch a glimpse of white. I smile – it's crushed marble, all along the bottom.
      Standing up, my eyes follow the creek farther into the garden... and I realize with a start that the plants right beside me are the same as those the boy tripped among. I have an urge to kneel down and look for some trace of him... but what trace would there be, even if he had stood here only the day before? So instead, I look around, trying to decide where to investigate first. The plants seem a little lower up the creek a short distance, maybe there was a path? I press through the plants that have forced their way through the tiles, or leaned over to kiss the water's surface. A few of them have tiny white flowers, scattered among even tinier leaves, spreading a cushy miniature carpet over the tiles.
      The tiles expand a little farther into the area above the waterline, and I see larger ones set between them, though everything's obscured by plants. Kneeling down, I pull away some of the plants, and find a stunning pattern – the same blues and corals of the smaller tiles, but more of the orange and aqua, with yellows and reds, in a design as detailed as old lace. The large tiles are hexagons, maybe eight inches or so across. I can't tell how far they extend... but there are fewer large plants right here, and it looks like there was a path of some kind, leading away from the creek. I take another few steps along the more open area, and pushing the plants clear with my shoe, see more hexagon tiles. I know there are handpainted as well... looking at the space around me, I can't imagine how many tiles there are, and I'm sure they all have the same detailed pattern. Painted by hand... and probably made by hand as well, I'm sure they could have been machine-made at the time, but if the care given to the painting is any indication, I'm getting the feeling the Masons liked to get the utmost in craftsmanship.
      There are more flowers here, low bushes of some delicate flower maybe an inch wide, but in vast quantities on the plant, in a really pretty sky blue. Something with delicate, fern-like leaves... something whose leaves are spotted with bright white... I have no idea what any of these are, I should have picked up a flower identification book. I'm nearing one of the mounds I saw from a distance, and it's definitely looking more like a trellis now. There's a bench beneath it, and the ironwork is just as intricate as the fence... more so, really, since it's on a much smaller scale. The design is different though, a little more geometric and with fewer spirals. It looks so much like lace... making lace of thread is mind-boggling enough to me, I can't even imagine making iron into such delicate shapes. Brushing the leaves off of it, and pulling aside some trailing vine, it looks to be in good shape still, it feels firm enough under my hand. Cautiously, I lower myself onto it, and smile broadly as I find it holds my weight without giving in the least. Sitting back, I find it's surprisingly comfortable, for being made of metal – something in the curves is surprisingly ergonomic.
      I lean back on the bench, and let my eyes drift over the plants around me. I can barely make out the trellis that arches over the bench, its metal frame (which seems similar in design to the bench, from what little I can make out) dripping with green stuff. But there's something small and white blossoming... and when I breathe in, I grin delightedly. Honeysuckle! That one, at least, I know, that smell clings to my childhood, there was a huge honeysuckle bush in the back corner of our yard. I remember my sister and I picking the blossoms, and trying to squeeze honey out of the backs of the flowers – I'd read somewhere that you could do this, though we barely ever got a taste of anything. I reach over and pluck one of the tiny yellow-white flowers, twirling it slowly between my fingertips...

      And the fingers are those of a woman sitting beside me, a slender woman with auburn hair, tied in a knot at the back of her neck, though delicate tendrils of curls fall around her face. Her eyes are on the flower, twirling between her long white fingers, and her eyes are wistful, her smile sad, her long lashes almost covering her rich brown eyes. Her skin is so pale and her complexion so smooth and perfect... There is lace at her throat, a lace that looks soft and lovely, a delicate ruffle against her skin, not at all the scratchy stuff that lined my Christmas dresses as a child. Her long dress is a pale yellow, and I realize it's just the color of the throats of the honeysuckles...

      And the moment I blink, she is gone. There is only the honeysuckle in my own fingertips, the end crushed flat between them, and its heavy sweet scent drenching the air around me. I remain motionless for a long moment, staring blankly at the place she appeared... but there's no trace of her in the leaves still laying on the iron, in the pale gray air of the clouded day.
      One vision, I could shrug off, but now... this was every bit as clear as the other, though it was shorter. She was here, beside me, and if she had looked up from the flower, she would have seen me, and been just as startled as I was to see her. I know she would have seen me, as clearly as I saw her...