Beyond the Garden

By Leah Cutter

There are a lot of gardens, as well as green growing things in the stories in this collection. However, the most important tales take place beyond the garden, outside the fence, when you stray from the path and walk under the trees, into the wilderness and beyond.

Tales included: "Gulkhanam," "The Other Story," "The Doom of Alokai Temple," "One Fall Day," and "Walking Gods."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Knotted Road Press
• Release date: Nov 23, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301331109

Leah Cutter

Leah Cutter--a Crawford Award Finalist--writes page-turning fiction in exotic locations, such as New Orleans, ancient China, the Oregon coast, ancient Japan, rual Kentucky, Seattle, Minneapolis, Budapest, etc.  Find more fiction by Leah Cutter at www.KnottedRoadPress.com. Follow her blog at www.LeahCutter.com.

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Beyond The Garden

Leah Cutter

Copyright 2012 by Leah Cutter

This version published by Knotted Road Press

Gilkhanam: Originally published by Talebones Magazine #16

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Table of Contents

Gulkhanam

The Other Story

The Doom of Alokai Temple

One Fall Day

Prologue (Walking Gods)

Walking Gods

About the Author

Author Notes

I grew up in Minneapolis. We had a flower garden in the front that I always watched for the first white and purple crocuses in the spring, that later filled with red tulips. In the back was a vegetable garden, where my parents grew rhubarb, green and yellow beans, cucumbers, and tomatoes.

When I was a teenager, though I never had much of a green thumb, I asked my parents for a bit of earth to call my own. They let me put in a small garden out in the boulevard, next to the street. I only put in flowers, because I loved the riot of colors.

But these were never enough. They were all tame places, places to visit, not to live in or dream about.

There are a lot of gardens, as well as green growing things in the stories in this collection. However, the most important tales take place beyond the garden, outside the fence, when you stray from the path and walk under the trees, into the wilderness and beyond.

I hope you enjoy taking these journeys with me.

Leah Cutter

December 2012

Gulkhanam

Once upon a time, in a far away kingdom, there lived a fierce king named Dhumraksha.

Every year, at the end of the rainy season, Raja Dhumraksha took his archers, his war elephants, and his sharpest sword, and raided the Northern barbarians.

Every year, he brought back one hundred prisoners to his marble palace set in the foothills of the Himalayas.

Every fall, he sacrificed these prisoners outside the Northeast tower of his palace, dismembering their bodies, watering the hungry earth with their blood.

Every year, the splattered gore would get entangled in his beard and creep from his hands, past his wrists to his elbows.

And Dhumraksha would laugh.

One year, the prince of the barbarians was captured. He didn’t tremble like a rabbit before a snake, but stood as still as a carved Buddha. Though in chains, he calmly asked Raja Dhumraksha to consider the consequences of his actions.

The king didn’t reply.

The prince entreated him a second and a third time.

Still, Dhumraksha didn’t reply.

Finally, the prince cursed the king, saying, When this earth tastes the blood of your son, we will be avenged.

Dhumraksha answered by splitting the head of the barbarian prince in two, cleaving one side of his face from the other, cutting through his belly, and spilling his entrails onto the ground. The king didn't put any importance on the curse, even though it had been spoken by a prince; instead he went happily to kill his next victim.

But the earth heard, and its blood lust grew.

Raja Dhumraksha had three wives. Though they provided the king with many beautiful daughters, fair and doe-eyed, none had produced a son.

Then one year, during the rainy season, the youngest made a special sacrifice to the god of fire. She fetched water from the purest spring in the mountains. She laid many lotus blossoms and sweet wild blue bells at the base of his statue. After fasting and purifying herself for days, she circumambulated the sacred fire sun-wise three times, asking for a son.

Suddenly, the flames shot up, almost touching the ceiling.

She took it as a sign that her next child would be male. Within a week, she was pregnant.

The birth was hard and long, and there were many ill omens: The butter went rancid, snakes were in the milk, and the wild geese stopped flying directly over the palace.

After three tortuous days, the youngest wife died, but not before giving birth to a healthy boy.

Dhumraksha named the boy Variya, which means 'excellent one.'

The prince had radiant almond eyes, a wise forehead, and a long chin. His nose lifted at the end, his lips were soft and full, and wise words soon came from his mouth.

Variya was such a delight to Dhumraksha that he stopped raiding the Northern barbarians so he could spend more time with his son. He loaned his war elephants to farmers to clear more forest, hung his sharpest sword above the archway of his counsel room, and stopped consulting with his old generals.

The king believed Variya was perfect. He didn't deny his son anything, but rather indulged the boy’s every wish, including sending his three fastest runners to the Himalayas during the hot season to bring back ice.

Maybe Raja Dhumraksha spoiled the boy, but the king was lucky, and the prince grew more accomplished every day. All sang his praises.

When Variya turned marrying age, Dhumraksha couldn't find the perfect princess. This one had beautiful graces, but also a blemish on her right cheek, just a tiny flaw, but it was enough for the king to send her away. That one had a stately manner and danced well, but she had a great uncle Dhumraksha didn't like. In every girl, he found some fault.

None were good enough for his son.

After a year of rejecting every possible bride, Variya asked for a meeting with Dhumraksha, all his counselors, as well as the neighboring kings and princes. Variya passed through the assembly like a moon in the clear, starry, autumn sky. He bent low to touch his father’s feet, then rose and said, I dreamed where to find my wife.

Dhumraksha was excited, but worried as well, for his son looked pale, and a hint of dark circles lay under his perfect eyes.

Father, you must take your sharpest sword, the one hung over the archway, and cut me in two, down the length of my body. Bury my right half in the dirt, outside the Southeast tower of the palace. Bury my left half in flowers in front of the sacred figs. Do this on the full moon in two days hence. On the rise of the next full moon, both my halves shall rise, one female, one male, and I shall have my bride.

Dhumraksha stared, too horrified to speak. How could he cut his only son in two? He refused, wiping the sweat from his upper lip with a trembling hand.

The next day, Variya asked again. He couldn't walk without leaning on the shoulder of a friend, though he stood in front of the king on his own. The prince's eyes had sunk more into his face, his lips had paled, and his cheeks looked hollow.

Again, the king refused.

The third day, the prince made his request again, but this time he didn't come to the king: He politely begged the king to come to his bed chamber because he was too weak to stand. Variya pleaded with Dhumraksha, saying, I am like a smoking lamp that burns low when there is little oil remaining. You must do as I ask, father, and cleave one half of my body from the other. When I arise at the next full moon, both halves shall cleave unto you.

What could Dhumraksha do? Variya was as weak as a vine raised in the shade and obviously dying. The king called together his counselors, and though many argued against this course, none could aid him.

Dhumraksha spent the afternoon raging through his palace, pacing like a caged tiger. He blamed mistakes from a former life for his predicament, not any deeds from his current lifetime. The fingers of sunlight touching the earth elongated, grew faint, then disappeared.

What could Dhumraksha do? He'd never denied Variya anything. He couldn’t deny him this, now.

When full night wrapped around the palace, and the moon peeked over the tops of the sacred figs, the king gave his son a strong sleeping potion. Then, he positioned himself above the prince’s head.

Without trembling, the king lifted his sharpest sword. Without looking, he came down harshly. The curved blade cut through Variya’s bones as if cutting through dry reeds, severing the upturned nose, the full lips, and the broad chest into two equal pieces. Blood and gore fell from the sword as Dhumraksha raised it. His arms started to shake.

Dhumraksha shouted for the servants to take the ravaged halves away. As he wiped his sword clean, he vowed never to raise it again. Then he went to oversee the burials.

The servants dug outside the Southeast tower until their shovels hit something hard. Dhumraksha shuddered as they pulled out a broken sword and shield. He ordered them to stop, for he knew many spoils from the Northern barbarians were buried there.

Because Dhumraksha couldn’t bear to see his son resting amongst his enemy's ruins, he directed his servants to dig a hole outside the Northeast tower instead.

One of the servants carrying the prince's golden litter stumbled as he lay the prince on the ground next to the Northeast tower. A single drop of blood spilled from the body onto the earth.

And the earth remembered. Its blood thirst awoke.

When the servants started digging the new hole, the earth helped, opening wide. The hole almost dug itself. The servants, frightened, wanted to stop.

Raja Dhumraksha reassured them, saying it was a sign they were following the will of the gods. The king didn't remember the barbarian prince or the threats others had given him with their dying breaths. He merely remembered vanquishing his enemy there, and so thought it a fitting place for his son.

The other half of the prince was laid to rest on the ground in front of the sacred figs. Flowers were heaped upon it: Lotus blossoms as sweet as the Buddha’s breath, irises still full of morning splendor, and snow drops from the foot of the Himalayas.

Every day, Dhumraksha visited the two grave sites, sprinkling fresh water and flowers. At the site under the dirt there was no change. But the second site grew sweeter than the blossoms piled there. A light, delicate scent ensued from the riot of colored petals. It filled the grove, eased the hearts of all who came, and followed Dhumraksha into his dreams.

The night of the next full moon, Dhumraksha walked alone outside his palace. Though his gut tightened with unaccustomed nervousness, he marched straight to the grave outside the Northeast tower.

A big hole greeted him there.

The sight caught at Dhumraksha's chest, making it hard for him to breathe. Terrified, he rushed to the second grave.

Two people stood holding hands in the moonlight. The first was obviously his son, still