The hero and the fool.

The hero came before me, to claim what was his.
The battle was over. I don't know how many were killed - in my eyes, each death an unforgettable crime. Young gods in their multitudes were slaughtered. The sun was high and the hero's armour glinted with violence and satisfaction.

I was having a cheeky bowl as I sat on a tree trunk, at the entrance to the grove, where I had watched and cried. I chewed thoughtfully upon my pipe. Beside me were the implements of my trade; my fork, my goblet, my shears, my mirror. My heart was rending and the pain was outrageous, but I calmed my thoughts: I would need all of my wits.

The hero said to me
"I am victorious.
I have slain all who opposed me,
Without number were my enemies, yet behold!
Here I stand, and there they rot.
Henceforth I will decree that a forest should grow on the blood-soaked soil.
The trees will drink the fallen and there will be peace.
All will know it as a sacred grove, beyond the garden, that stands for sacrifice and honour, as a memory so that this shall never again come to pass. No further battles shall be fought, for none can stand against me."

I stood, and raised my cup to toast him, and, as I beheld him, spoke
"Truly, hero, your victory was godly and your sacrifices terrible. None, now, may deny your might. I drink to those who perished, to the blood that has been spilled. Let it be known that we both are here in the name of peace."
I sipped and wept freely. Then I bowed and poured my cup out onto my feet.

The hero, impassive, measured me, and spoke
"I have heard many tales of you, who are the keeper of the garden. I expected a formidable opponent, yet I see you wield no weapon. You must be a fool to oppose me, yet the legends suggest that you are not. I have been told of you many times, yet only now do I realise that I do not know your name. Who stands before me?"

"You ask which fool do you address?" I bowed again and flashed a sly grin.
"I have many names. Some call me gardener, and I do tend where I can." I indicated my hoe and fork. "Others call me a fool, yes, which tends as close to the truth as any. In my dreams I am often mystic, or shaman, druid or hermit, but maybe that tells you more about my vanity than my abilities. My name is the business of history, but my business is the healing of injuries, and which way I seek to do so is a matter of technique, I suppose."
I scratched my stubble with my pipe for effect. "To speak simply: it depends on which hat I'm wearing." I gestured with my pipe towards my head. "This one is a witches hat, given me by my second true love. So I guess that makes me a witch today."

It was a good hat, pied orange and purple, droopy like a willow. With a bell on.

"Witch or fool, whichever it is makes no difference. You are no match for me, but I am tired of fighting, and a healer can be useful to a warrior. I am scarred from the journey and will rest, having conquered the garden. Surrender and kneel before me, and I will allow you to tend to me."

"Forgive me, hero" I gulped. I did not have to feign my terror. "In seeking to avoid further  conflict you show wisdom, but though I am loathe to contradict you, you have not, yet, conquered the garden. You merely stand before her protector. Whilst I live, I serve, and the garden I serve remains free."

"You think you can deny me?" The hero asked. There was no rage, just surprise. As a warrior he was master of his emotions, I knew, and alert to guile. "Look behind me at the field, study the corpses there, and ask yourself if you would join them."

I looked once more upon the smoke and ruins, the crumbling tower, and the fallen bodies. Souls who would return to the earth and nourish tomorrow, but whose smiles and light had died today. I blew my nose upon my sleeve and gazed up at him. He was beautiful, I saw, divine and terrible. His poise was perfect and he moved like death. "I have made my peace, hero, that I may join them soon enough. That does not trouble me. But I do not intend to die today."

My words were defiant and my voice was not. My hands shook before me. I gave a prayer to Lilith and Pandora and thought longingly of you, my bed and cunnilingus. I had resolved many years ago that when my time came I would go thinking about what was most important to me.

"Are you another fool who would die to protect what is yours? I do not see what that would accomplish. What's yours will still be mine, when all is said is done."

"No, hero," I replied "I am a fool who would die to protect what is not mine. I am a servant of the garden, and not her master, for she has none. And as I said, I do not intend to die today."

The hero studied me a while, my implements, my many pockets, searching for traps and trickery. "I have known masters of the martial arts, who fought without weapons, but your hands are not those of a fighter. Your magical aura does not impress me either. How will you resist me, healer? Are you a conjuror? Do you have hidden skills? Or will you attack me with your gardener's tools?"

I took a deep breath. To hold my courage in the next moment could decide our fate. I studied my weathered hands, and replied:

"You are correct that I am not a fighter, and I do not intend to resist you. I tell you this: when the day is done I will not have raised my hands to you, yet the garden will remain free. You may return from where you came, or with luck you will enter in with me, and that matter is up to you." I paused to refill my bowl.

"I do not need to be an empath to note your skepticism. I do not blame you, but think carefully: you are not the first to come to the garden, and though they have all been stronger, braver and better armed than me, here I and the garden remain." I lit a match, put it to my pipe and puffed. "Seeing as we both agree that you are stronger than me, we are in no rush. If I am right, by the time the sun goes down, either you will enter the garden or leave, and I shall not have to stop you. But if you are right, then today I will die. So if you believe in yourself, humour an old man's last request, and indulge me."

I held his gaze, and hid nothing from my face. My sadness, my resolution, my vulnerability and my love for him, and for those who had been lost along the way. With my will I steadied my hands, and banished pity from my heart. From the depths of my grief I focused on those I loved most in order to summon a knowing, rueful smile, and put into that smile the hopes of everyone who trusted in me. He watched, and I continued:

"I am still a healer, and have been trained in the healing arts since I was young. You are, sincerely and without flattery, the greatest warrior I have ever seen. A hero such as yourself will have sustained and survived many injuries, feats of daring and bravery to eclipse even the deeds of those who came before you. You have defended yourself, and have proven invulnerable." He nodded minutely. "Yet every hero has a weakness."

"That weakness is not a chink in your armour or a lack of skill. It is something which you have carried with you since your earliest memory, and it has driven you. It is a feeling, hard to describe, but which like a curse sits in your heart, and poisons everything. It is with you even now, and even now it undermines you. This curse will turn your greatest achievements to dust and corrupt the sweetest memories, and it has already done so countless times. It has wormed into the core of you with fear, with doubt. You do not know it's name, you have never heard it spoken, and you dare not even examine it. So long has this curse been upon you that you are no longer even aware of what drives you, of what it is that you started running from so long ago in your past where there is no longer even a memory of what it was like to not run. This weakness, or curse, or poison, or doubt can be framed as a question: 'Am I doing the right thing?'"

The hero drew himself up. His hand was tight on his sword, his expression iron, grim. But in his eyes I thought I saw hesitation. I pressed forward.

"You fear to lose what you have gained. Even here, this close to your supposed victory, you fear that you will not be permitted to enter into the garden. At the last moment there stands before you a madman who alone guards what you believe that you have to take by force. And you see that your force is adequate, so you should be relieved. But something is not right, something is amiss, and the seed of doubt within you takes root. The fool cannot hope to defeat you through arms, so he must seek to deceive you some how, to play on your fears, worry at your doubts. But, have you not done everything perfectly? Have you not overcome every obstacle? There is no room for doubt. Yet - if there was any chance that you could have been mistaken, then everything you've been through" I gestured behind him - "everything you have sacrificed, it will have been in vain. And then you will have lost everything, not because someone took it from you, but because you will have proven yourself unworthy."

At this the hero started to laugh. The sound was harsh and devastating, and I felt my courage fading and my bladder weakening.

"You dare to suggest I'm unworthy? You seek to pronounce on my actions? Have you not seen what happened to those who did not recognise my right? By whose authority would you pronounce your judgement, and with what power will you administer your punishment?"

"No-ones!" I said, and picked up the mirror beside me. I looked into it, chose a mask and made my move. "It is your authority which commands now. Catch!" I made as if to throw but did not. He made to catch and there held an identical mirror in his hand. I looked through it and winked, and he saw my face as he looked into his own reflection. He blinked, and then looked back at me.

And saw that I was as he was. I was he.

The silence was total, the moment hung in perfect balance. He whistled with low appreciation.

"Not bad!" he cried, and I could see a light in his eye, as he sensed the nature of the challenge and tensed and relished it. I took out the double of his sword and tested its weight. "If we fight, we will be evenly matched," he noted, "and I suppose I am tired and you are fresh. But I do not doubt that I can still best you, as I know myself best, of course. And despite what you say I know my heart, and I know that it carries no uncertainty."

"I agree that you would still win, eventually." I answered "But there is no need to fight. The only authority you recognise is your own, your deeds have made this clear. The only judgement that can be passed on you, therefore, is your own. Seeing as that is so, the only person you have to convince of your worth is you."

I felt something moving in him. I felt a wisp, a flicker of the fear that I had guessed must be there. "You know your heart, you say, and it holds no uncertainty. Therefore, you must have nothing to lose. But do you have the courage to see for yourself? You have a chance to prove yourself, to yourself, and in doing so prove that you are worthy to enter."

He scoffed then, resolute. He was towering, magnificent, unquestionable. He stared at me, his likeness, and sneered in total defiance.

"And how then am I to prove myself?"

"Simple!" I said, and this time the grin I flashed was evil. "You tell me your story. If, at the end of it, you can forgive yourself for what you've done, then you will have proven yourself."

The dice were cast, the move was made, all was thrown, and you better believe every god going was straining on their tippy-toes to listen in. So I sat down, and I waited for him to begin, and inwardly cursed my soggy feet.