The Bottom of the Garden

Everyone who knows the Devil knows that He’s as red as a poppy, but of a certainty he was not born that way. You see, living down-so-dark-and-deep-and-all, the Devil doesn’t see much sunlight, so when He stands outside, He gets burnt as red a broiled lobster; though, truth to tell, those who live in the up-and-up-and-up are too far above the sun to see much either, which is why, after He left his lodgings there, the Devil didn’t think of looking for a place by the seaside. But that is neither here nor there, but somewhere in between.

Our story begins here: there was a man who, in his youth, won a fortune in a dice game from a fairy, but being a simple lad, and pure of heart (which, naturally, is why he won at the beginning of all), he was daunted by so much wealth. Thus, he buried it at the bottom of his father’s garden and only took, sometimes, a single coin when needed; so it happened that his widow (for he moved his wife into his home, when it became his), knew not of the fortune, and when leaving upon his death to live with her sister, left the gold where it had long lain.

And there was a couple, though they loved each other faithfully, who had very little in the way of money; and they bought the homestead – though, sadly to tell, it had begun to slip into disarray – and the hidden gold with it. The woman and her husband who had bought the little lot dreamt of one day owning a farm of their own; but for now, the husband had must hire himself out at the farms of others, while the woman tended to their home and their own small garden. It came to pass that at the bottom of the garden she planted fearless wildflowers, and though when she was bending over herb and vegetable, they were a delight to behold, they needed no tending, and it seemed greatly unlikely that she should ever find the gold.

The fortune had not been much reduced, and the Devil wanted it, though, truth to tell, what could he use it for?

Now, you may be asking: why wouldn’t the Devil just burrow up to the bottom of garden, being so deep-down-and-all, and take the gold that way? My answer is this, and you may take it or leave it where it lies: when a person comes by a piece of land by pure and honest means, and that person’s living blood has fallen upon it, then that land belongs to her, from the bones of the earth to the soil between the bones, down to the Earth’s heart.

The woman had cleared the thornbushes until her arms and legs bled, and she weeded her garden until the weeds cut her fingers like thin ropes; the earth swallowed her blood like rain – the land was hers, by God or the Devil, and it would be until fire thrived on water.

Now, the Devil cannot go where He is not invited, or leastwise he cannot stay, and he was not invited to the bottom of her garden where the gold coins lay. Plans he wrote, and finally put into motion, and he did so on a Wednesday.

It so happened that the woman knew the craft of throwing bones and reading what they told, as her mother had passed it on to her; and it harmed no-one, and she always said “Thankee” quite prettily, and Lord, everyone knew that it bothered God not a bent pin. And so, every Wednesday, full moon, and new moon, the woman cast the bones, and if what she learned could help another, she was quick to pass it on.

So that morning, after her husband had gone to his work and the breakfast things were all cleared away, the woman cast the bones, and they told her: The next being who would have you let him into your house carries trouble upon his back.

The woman did not like to think of her husband or of her friends bringing trouble in upon their backs, so she set to thinking. Not twice-times-ten minutes into doing so, a knock fell upon her door. She did not stand to answer and invite her guest for tea, but, instead, called, “Who is it?” A male voice answered:

“It is your pastor,” for such is the effrontery of the Devil.

It was not the voice of the pastor, nor of the pastor from the neighboring town, nor the pastor’s eldest son; so the woman knew it must be Trouble. She called, “Lordy, you must let yourself in; I cannot.”

And the Devil answered: “Nor I; my arms are all full of parcels.”

“La, I am doing the washing, and am up to my elbows in suds,” the woman replied. “And you may lay your parcels down.”

Here his voice turned wheedling, and the Devil said; “That I would, but I fear they would become dusty – and they are filled with pretty things; things for you upon your birthday.”

The woman laughed aloud. “Thankee, pastor,” she said. “But ’tis not my birthday for many moons yet, and I have all the pretty things I need growing at the bottom of the garden.”

The Devil saw that she would not be mastered by greed, and, besides, the yellow sun was growing hot upon his sore skin; so he departed. And this was good, for had the woman had brought him across her threshold, he would have had leave under the old laws to come by night and take what he would, but, for now, she stayed protected.

The woman’s husband came home at sundown, and they talked long of the pasture they would buy to feed the cows they dreamt of having.

The next morning, though it was neither Wednesday nor the full moon nor the new, the woman again cast her bones. They told her: The next coin another would have you place in his hand will buy trouble. And, thinking of this, she put on her bonnet and walked to market.

She had need of flour, but did not see the miller; she had need of mutton, but did not speak to the butcher. Rather, she wandered, bidding good-day to her friends, until she came upon a small stall in the shade, all-a-dusty with traveling, with red-painted wheels. Speaking to the old man tending his goods, she said, “Grandfather, what is it that you sell?” Of-course she recognized Old Man Trouble; but she would have done with Him, for He was putting off her shopping.

“Ribbons,” the Devil answered, singing-out-all-kindly. “Ribbons and bows, bonnets and bells – and seeds for flowers, though I hear tell you have a proud crop already.”

Mysterious parcels and blue silk ribbons the woman could resist with ease; but flowers, rare flowers from far-off places, the woman could see no harm in. She chose a small bag filled with small hard seeds like beans, that the old man said was but a single coin. She fetched the coin from her pocket; but rather than tipping it into His outstretched hand, it fell from her fingers into the roadside dust.

The old man laughed. “Come, young lady; would you lift that to my hand, for my old bones are stiff?”

And the woman said, “Nay; I shall give you back your seeds, for it has rolled quite out of sight.”

But the Devil told her she may keep the bag, with perhaps more disdain for living seeds than generosity, and she bowed prettily and thanked Him; and when she left His stall, He was beginning to work Himself into a rage.

It was good that she had not passed a coin across the Devil’s palm in exchange for His goods, for, had she done so, He would have had the right to make any trade He wished, even dust for gold.

The Devil has no dominion over good green things; so when the woman returned home, she planted the seeds she had lawfully bought. Then, over their mutton, she and her husband talked of how sweet the milk from the cow they would one day buy would taste, when it fed from the grass of the pasture they would one day own.

The next day was Friday, and still the woman cast the bones. It is well that she did so, for they offered another warning, thus: Give no-one a flower from your garden; the next being who desires one would take your very dreams.

The woman went to her garden, and tended to the dark furrows where she had planted her new-bought seeds; she neglected not her herbs and her vegetables, but when her garden chores were done, she simply sat and waited. She rested against a rock in the spine of her land for three-times-ten minutes, before the Devil sprung up, direct from His deep-down-places.

She faced him unafraid, for though the Devil had cast off all disguises and trickery, his true form could not daunt her. “What are you doing on my land?” she asked, “For we are a God-loving family, and even the fairies respect that.”

The Devil hissed at her in His ill will. “I crave a single boon,” He said, though his ungracious tone would not have prompted a fire to give him warmth. “And, in granting it, you could be rid of me forever.”

The woman smiled, safe in the bosom of her soil that had been fed by her own blood. “I have never had you, sir; and what boon could the Devil ask of me?” she replied.

“Merely a flower,” the Devil coaxed. “Surely you can spare a single flower?” And, it must be said, that he thought a great deal more of his own skill in such things than he truly had; and no-one, certainly not you, was fooled.

The bones, the woman saw, would never lead her astray, but outwardly she made a face as if to say she though very little of a flower indeed, and would be glad to grant one to every passerby, be he man or Devil; and she said. “Well – la, I suppose I can. But I would not have you pick it yourself, for this is my garden.”

“That is quite fair – you may pick it, if I am allowed to choose it?”

“Yes; choose, then, and be done with it.”

The Devil gloated, and would have capered, but He feared to arouse her suspicions. “The yellow flower,” He said, at once. “I would have it be mine.” He knew, of course, that He meant to own the flower in its entirety, and within its roots were twined the fairly won riches of a once-living man –and that, should the woman agree to give Him the flower, He could return to collect His full favor at His own fancy.

The woman agreed; but then, to His dismay, she fetched a spade from her apron and knelt at the bottom of the garden. “I shall dig it out for you, that it might not die,” she explained; for, as she hoped, the Devil had led her to a prize, and she was eager to find what it was. And, to his ever-increasing-red-black horror, the Devil watched, as her spade struck first one coin and then another; and she tucked each calmly away into her apron and skirts. He watched till the last coin joined the first, though the sun grew as hot as blood against His thin skin. Finally, the woman bound the living wildflower with roots dangling in a rough bag filled with rich healthy soil, and placed it before His stricken self.

Within herself, the woman exalted, for Trouble had come with his promised burden, and born it away again, its weight increased; but she did not let the Devil see her victory, rather telling Him sweetly the ways of a flower. “A wildflower does not need to be coddled, but it needs the cool soft rain and the warm bright sun,” she explained. “God knows, the rain cannot wash you so deep-deep-down, and the sun cannot shine; so every day you must put your flower in a pot packed with good rich soil, and take it above, and sit with it. God himself will see to the rest,” she concluded, all-sprightly-and-gay, which of course stung the Devil like a handful of sand. And so he, with a shriek of pain and frustration, vanished in a cloud of sulfur and brimstone; but the clean wind soon blew that away.

And this is best of all, from the Devil had grown spiteful, and would have taken the gold from their garden, the water from their well and the love from their hearts; but she gave him no pass-key into her land, and the sun above and the fire from the heart of the earth together cast him out, into the gloom of his own land, which, you will remember, is not by the seaside; and the Devil never takes a holiday.

That evening, when her husband returned home, weary from his work in the earth of another’s farm, the woman showed him the gold. And they rejoiced, knowing how happy their children would be, drinking the milk of the cow fed of the sweet pasture grass that they would tomorrow own; and, for the Devil’s part, anyhow, that is where the story ends – though for the wife and her husband, it would be a long story to tell, and a delightful one; so I suggest you ask them, have you the time and the fancy.