It felt like Stonehenge or the haunting hilltop shards of Bryn Cader Faner in Wales. Their meaning obscured, but their power unmistakable.
Why? Clara asked herself. Why had someone created this garden? And why had Peter gone there?
* * *
“Never met the owner,” said the elderly man, whose name turned out, unexpectedly, to be Alphonse.
“Should I call you Al?” Constable Stuart asked.
“No.”
“Did he create the garden?” Stuart asked.
“With his late wife, aye. Nice people from what I hear. Did it just for themselves, but when word got out, they decided to open it to the public.”
Stuart nodded. He knew that much. And he also knew it was open for only one day a year.
“Not a day,” Alphonse corrected. “Five hours. Once a year. The first Sunday in May.”
“Is that when you saw it?” Stuart asked, knowing the answer.
“Not exactly. I went there in the evening.”
“Why?”
This was clearly not the line of questioning Alphonse had expected. Should he say he’d gone there to poach hares? Not for food, they had plenty of that. But for fun. As he’d done since he was a boy. Shooting squirrels and rabbits. Moles and voles.
Should he tell this policeman about the last time he’d gone shooting in the garden? It had been dusk. He’d seen movement and had raised his rifle.
He had the hare in the crosshairs. It was sitting on one of the strange sculptures, a bone-white stairway that cascaded down a hill, cut into the grass from a great height.
It was a magnificent hare. Huge. Old. Gray. As Alphonse watched through the sight of his rifle, the hare stood up slowly on its hind legs. Tall. Alert. Sensing something.
Alphonse stared at him down the barrel of his gun. And pulled the trigger.
But nothing happened. The gun had jammed.
Swearing, Alphonse had broken open the chamber, replaced the shell and snapped it shut, expecting the hare to be long gone.
But it remained where it was. Like a sculpture. Like a part of the garden. An old gray stone. Both alive and inanimate.
Alphonse raised his gun, knowing he had the power to decide which one the hare would be.
* * *
“The first Sunday in May?” Reine-Marie read out loud from the website. “But Peter had come back to Canada by then. He must’ve done the painting sometime in the early winter.”
“That means he must’ve trespassed,” said Clara. She tried to make it sound nonchalant. A simple statement of fact. But it was much more than that. For her.
The man she knew followed rules. He followed recipes, for God’s sake. He read instructions, paid his bills on time and had his teeth cleaned twice a year. He did as he was told and taught. It was not in his nature to trespass.
But Peter had changed. He was no longer the man she knew.
She’d sent him away, hoping he’d change. But now faced with more evidence that he had, she found herself suddenly afraid. That he’d not only changed, but changed course. Away from her.
To hide her upset, she went back to studying the website. At first she just stared, hoping no one would notice her distress, but after a few moments the images sunk in. They were like nothing she’d ever seen before.
The creators of the garden wanted to explore the laws of nature, the mysteries of the universe, and what happened when the two intersected.
Collided.
Was it like a nuclear bomb, wiping out all life? Or was it like the double helix. Creating life?
There were no answers in the garden, only questions. Speculation.
The Peter Clara knew was about certainties. But he’d gone halfway around the world to a place where questions were planted. And grew. Where uncertainty flourished.
And Clara began to feel a small seed of relief. It was the sort of place she would love to visit. The old Peter would have scoffed. He might have accompanied her, but grudgingly, and with snide asides.
But this Peter had gone to the Garden of Cosmic Speculation on his own.
Perhaps, perhaps, he was changing course, but not away from her. He was moving closer. If not physically, then in every other way.
“Huh,” Reine-Marie grunted, reading. “It’s a garden but not in the conventional sense. It’s a mix of physics and nature,” she said, looking up from the screen. “A sort of crossroads.”
Peter had placed his easel at that crossroads, and created.
Clara longed to speak to him. To find out what he found. To hear how he felt. He’d finally turned the corner. Moved toward her. And then fallen off the face of the earth.
