“Show you the garden,” he whispered, his gaze above our heads, as if he were not looking at us. “Old garden. Beautiful garden. Big. Tend it – lots of work ...” his lips continued to move, but nothing comprehensible emerged.
He led the way and we followed automatically, in silence.
The tour took us through gaps in the masonry and between ramparts, with an occasional stop at flowerbeds or groups of trees. The old man rambled on, telling us when he planted the trees or laid out the beautifully tended beds that suddenly appeared in the middle of rubble and crumbling masonry where glossy lizards were basking in the sun. Without batting an eyelid, he told us he planted some centuries-old yews as tiny seedlings one hard winter; he brought them from “the other side” – he waved his hand vaguely at the distant horizon – for the grave.
I gave a start: “What grave?”
He shook his head and I had to repeat the question often before he understood. He gestured to us. We went up to the dull red trunks: in the middle of the massive yew trees was a small mound, such as you might find in an old park with a moss-grown column or temple on top. There was nothing of the kind on this mound, but it was covered with rose bushes afire with deep red blooms. Behind it was the grey gleam of the outer wall, and a gap in the stonework gave a broad vista to the valley and the silver river.
I had seen the view before; but where?
It is a not uncommon experience. The scene around me suddenly seemed to become familiar; I had seen all this before: the trees, the roses, the gap in the wall, the view of the silver river. It was as if I were returning to where I belonged. At first I thought it was a memory of the images on a coat of arms; then I felt it was the place I saw in John Dee’s glass as the ruin of Mortlake Castle. Perhaps that wasn’t Mortlake at all, I said to myself, perhaps it was this castle that in my vision I took for the home of my ancestors?
The old gardener parted some of the rose bushes and pointed out a hollow covered in moss and ferns. He gave a foolish grin and muttered:
“The grave. Yes, yes, the grave. Down there rests the quiet face with open eyes and outstretched arms. I took the dagger from his hand. Only the dagger, Sir! You must believe me! Only the dagger. – You see, I knew that I had to give it to the beautiful woman, to the kind young woman who is keeping a look-out with me for the Lady.”
I had to hold on to one of the yew trees. I tried to call out to Lipotin, but my tongue would not obey. All I could do was stammer:
“The dagger? – Here? – A grave?”
Suddenly the old man understood me perfectly. He nodded encouragingly and a smile lit up his haggard features. Following a sudden thought, I asked him:
“Tell us, old man: to whom does the castle belong?”
The old man hesitated: “Elsbethstein? Who it belongs to?” He sank back into his old listlessness; his lips moved, but no sound came from them. With a confused nodding of the head, he motioned us to follow him.
A few steps took us to a small gate in the wall concealed behind elderberry bushes and overhung with wild roses. Above the arch of the gate I could see evidence of some crude carving. The ancient gardener pointed at it eagerly. With a half decayed stick I pushed aside the tangle of branches and flowers and saw a moss-covered coat of arms carved above the lintel. It was clearly sixteenth century work and showed a sloping cross; from one of the arms a rose branch grew with three flowers: one in bud, the second half opened, the third in full bloom with one petal about to fall.
For a long time I mused over the mysterious symbols on the coat of arms. The weathered stone, the grey-green tufts of moss, the aura of melancholy which pervaded the carving of the rose with the blooms in three stages of flowering: it all entrapped me in a state between memory and premonition, so that I did not notice that my companions had left me by myself. A dream vision gradually focused in my mind: the burial of my ancestor, John Dee in the magic garden of the adept, Gardner. More and more the outlines of the vision from the past merged with my present surroundings.
As I stood there, full of strange doubts and rubbing my eyes and forehead to clear them of the enchantment, I was startled by an unexpected appearance in the darkness of the entrance: it was Jane, of that there could be no doubt. But her approach was noiseless, hovering and – what could it mean? – she was dripping wet, her light summer dress clung to her body. The expression on her face was fixed and serious, almost frightening, so penetrating was the mute warning her features radiated.
A dead woman projecting her image by telekinesis? – Then I heard the words that seemed to come from her mouth:
“Finished. – Free. – Help yourself! – Be strong!”
“Jane!” I called. For a moment I was overtaken by dizziness and when my senses cleared it was no longer Jane before me but a majestic woman of otherworldly appearance, a crown on her head; her piercing gaze seemed to come from distant centuries and pass through me and go on to some future time of my fulfilment.
“So it is you, Queen and Lady of the Garden ...;” more I could not say.
I stood facing the miraculous woman, eye to eye, indissolubly bound – and a maelstrom of thoughts, insights and furious decisions ricocheted off my external being
