The
Colonel listened to their footsteps as Nils escorted the young man away from
the arbor in the garden and back to the mansion. He had not paid attention to their
approach, but as he listened to their departure he detected a stiffness to Johnny
Holiday’s gait, an unsteadiness that made the Colonel wonder if he was slightly
drunk or merely hungover.
It also occurred
to him that the boy was simply nervous.
He
followed their progress with his ear while standing at his work bench, still as
a statue.
The
Colonel’s hearing was sensitive enough to discern the difference between their
footsteps even as they made their way through the grass. He listened as Nils
led Johnny across the drive, then following the walk around the side of the mansion,
and he listened as Nils opened the external door to the guest suite for him, standing
aside so Johnny could enter the rooms ahead of him.
He could
hear the woosh of Nils’ sleeve and was able to visualized the expansive gesture
that was customary to the old butler as he invited Johnny to step inside.
Johnny
Holiday, the Colonel thought,
an absurd name. It was a name that lacked gravitas. People would be
inclined to take him lightly, he surmised, but that was Johnny’s problem,
not the Colonel’s.
He would
be curious to see how the boy overcame that difficulty in the days to come, if
he was able to overcome it all. He wondered if Johnny was even aware of the
impediment it represented for his advancement…it did not matter, the
Colonel concluded as he listened to Nils enter the mansion after Johnny and shut
the door behind them.
The
Colonel turned to his work bench, and with a few concise movements he neatly
cleared the detritus of leaves and stems and soil from its surface, he was as
efficient as a waiter decrumbing a table.
As he
cleaned his tools he allowed his mind to dwell further on Johnny Holiday. If he
was correct about who Johnny actually was, he would have a new name, a name appropriate
to his birthright…his anonymous and ignominious past would become a footnote to
a greater story.
The
Colonel returned everything to its place, except a pair of pruning shears, and
he resumed tending to his flowers, occasionally stopping to examine the
contents of the liquid boiling in the garden-cauldron and stir the aromatic
brew with a long-handled wooden spoon.
This was meditative
work and it pleased him to do it, even in the heat.
The
Colonel was in his element, he had carefully cultivated this space here in the
city, where he cared for the good things that come from the earth. He was surrounded
by ancient trees, shrubs and flowers, all carefully cultivated for the energy
they contained and the memories they stored, as well as their medicinal properties
and alchemical powers.
He took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of herbs with undertones of wafting that came
wafting from the cauldron in steaming waves, adding to the day’s humidity.
The
Colonel had enjoyed his conversation with Johnny Holiday, though he kept it to
himself, and was not likely to admit it. He found the young man to be honest
and insightful, and though nervous, as most men were in his presence, he had
not wilted under pressure.
There is
promise in him, the
Colonel thought, as a stream of hot air-laced with cool-currents blew across
his face, carrying the flinty scent of electricity with it from the approaching
storm.
He turned
his face to the dark clouds gathering in the western sky and considered the day
ahead. It would soon be raining; he would be driving into the storm on his way
to the Chalet at Lake Roland, in Kensington…and though there was promise in the
young man, there was much to be discerned in the days ahead; there was much to
do and only seven days until the new moon.
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