I walked the ever-sprawling lush fields of… I know not what, but there was little for me to do but wander, so wander I must.
I did not tire—not that I would expect too—and I found myself in a pleasant meander; lost in an empty garden in which the sun remained high in the sky; never setting, never moving, and always still like a hanging pendulum of phosphorus white that simmered down with a content warmth, accompanied by an easy breeze lending itself to an environment rich for rumination.
I looked onwards to the horizon; its picturesque blue skies were painted with an indefectible arrangement of rolling white clouds and, from a distance, one could easily make out a clear and defined boundary which, presumably, the garden would end. But as I continued to walk, that boundary remained ever distant. It seemed that for every step I took forward, the horizon would take a step of equal distance back. It was not as though the path ahead was continuously sprawling either, as in the distance I could see something protruding from the ground; and it quickly became apparent that standing before me was the King’s Foil.
I knew, without a doubt, that it was not the King’s Foil that had moved—instead, it was I who took the steps but the garden which moved me in the direction it so desires. This became a very troubling realization for me, as it would seem that my confines are infinitely small.
I greeted the King’s Foil by running my finger along its serrated edges, “We meet again…not that I am disappointed, of course.”
There was slight tenderness to its waxy leaves. They hung slack, drooping downwards while the browning of death crept along its edges. I knew it to be a lack of water. The King’s Foil may be drought resistant but it has been many weeks—if ever—since its thirst has been quenched and I had hoped to find a source of water along my travels. Perhaps a small spring or a meandering river hidden amongst the grassy beds. But for as much life potential this garden holds, its green pastures remained barren.
I could an ache permeate by being as I lamented on the fact that I would have no choice but to watch the King’s Foil wither and rot. And, once gone, I would then be the only living thing to inhabit this garden. Perhaps I too will pass on someday? I can only hope.
Time passed. My thoughts drifted between notions of unimportance. Eventually, my mind stumbled upon the curiosities of the sound of running water. From what little memories I still hold, I can recall soft trickles through running slopes; falling jewels that glisten under mildew mornings; and, as I sat by the King’s Foil side, that’s exactly what I heard—running water.
I leapt to my feet and lay sight to what was before me. Appearing from seemingly nowhere, yet standing as if it had always been, was a water fountain—with clear streams of water cascading downwards into a marble basin, where it then pooled and caught the light of the ceaseless sun.
I rushed towards it, worried that perhaps it was only a mirage, or delusional foundering brought on by this unnatural body, and in a moments notice, it will just—disappear. But, my fears bore no fruit and I dipped my hands deep into the fountain and scooped a handful of the crisp water.
I watched as it quickly drained through the cracks of my skeletal hands—and oh, what joy came upon me! It coursed through my bones and burst outwards in the form of a hearty laugh. At this moment, I did not care for how or where the fountain became to be; instead, I cared only for delight. And, after taking a moment to bask in this magnificence, I turned to the King’s Foil and softly said,
“You will survive, little one. And, so will I.”