There was a small girl, homeless and wandering, who after many footsore days of travel, and much hunger and loneliness and sadness, came to the high wall of a strange garden. Over the top of that wall she could see the branches of the oddest trees, each leaf shining and polished like metal, and bearing among them round and golden fruit of the most uncommon kind. Birds sat among the leaves, motionless and dreaming, plumaged in yellow and red and blue and purple. The
little girl longed for the fruit, and looked about her for a gate. She found it, sunken in the stones, and with fear, pushed it open. It made no sound. She entered the garden. There was no sound in it at all, and here the sunlight had a faint and gauzy light, as in a dream. Not a leaf fluttered.
There was no breeze. The birds sat in the trees and slept. There were many flowers here, drooping in the dim but mysteriously clear radiance, which was like that hour just before dusk. The little girl saw roses, with rich hanging heads, and rosemary, and phlox and forget-me-nots and pansies, and great lilies with open striped yellow throats, and hanging leaves. Paths wound among the flowers, paths of scattered stones, between which the thick green moss was growing.
The air, drowsy and dreaming, was filled with the most entrancing odours of flowers and shrubs, so heavy that the little girl could hardly breathe. There was the old and bewitched perfume of elderberry blossoms too, sweeter and more swooning than all the others. The little girl wandered down the paths, and looked at the sundials, and was vaguely surprised that, though the light was both soft and trans- parent, the sundials did not show the time. There was no shadow on them. Indeed, there were no shadows at all in this garden.
Everything stood, soundless and breathless, in this garden without time. Every- thing slept. There was no wind, but the elderberry scent came and went in long sweet puffs as if disturbed. Not a bird uttered a cry, or broke the silence with the rustle of a wing.
The little girl came to a pond, sunken in the thick green moss. It was like a round shield of glimmering pewter, and nothing disturbed it, not a ripple or the shadow of fish or the flight of an insect. Two swans, white and still, slept on its surface, which reflected the pale blue sky. Beyond the pond, the trees were thick and dark and ancient, bending their heads and showing their golden fruit, which shone like little yellow suns in the half-light.
And then the little girl was very frightened. She knew that she must leave this spellbound garden at once, and find her way back to the sunken gate and the highway. Perhaps her guardian angel had whispered to her urgent. And then she cried out that she was very tired and thirsty and hungry, and must eat of that golden fruit and rest a little. After that, she would resume her journey, and look for a home*
She climbed the branches of the nearest tree and plucked the fruit, and sank her little white teeth into it. She sat there in the branches, while the strange and beautifully-hued birds slept motionless near her, like fruit, themselves. The fruit was very sweet and juicy and delicious. It tasted like honey and wine, and its flesh was as satisfying as bread.
And below the little girl lay the wide garden of flowers and pond and swans and trees, drifting in a faint and luminous mist like pearl and last sunlight, with the odour of elderberry sweet and swooning on the warm air.
The little girl, satisfied and rested, climbed down the tree and stood beneath it. “ I must go , she said, aloud. She hardly heard her voice, which seemed to drown on the air. And then she became very sleepy, as if overpowered. She sank down on the warm thick moss and slept.
She must not have slept long, or another day had come, for when she awoke, the garden was just the same as she remembered. She arose. She looked about her, dreamily. But she had forgotten who she was, and from whence she had come, and where she was going. She remembered nothing but the garden, enchanted and timeless, full of sleep.
The little girl lived in the garden for a long time, but she never remembered the days, and there were no nights, except for the pearly mist which drifted through the trees. She was very happy, this child in a dream. She ate of the fruit, and slept, and talked to the flowers and the silent swans, and smelled the elderberry. She looked down the tawny throats of the lilies, and stroked the roses, which had no thorns and never faded. She walked over the winding paths, and gazed up at the birds.
And then one day, she found the old sunken gate again. She was very surprised to see it. She did not remember it. She pushed on it and it opened soundlessly. She stepped out on to the rutted road. She looked behind her. The garden was hardly to be seen, now. The pearly mist had fallen over it like a translucent cloud. And from some- where the little girl heard the wind of Heaven, for the first time in endless ages. It was a loud and thundering sound, and it frightened her.
She wanted to run back into the warm and silent garden, but the gate gently pulled itself from her hand and closed. She put her hands on it and tore frantically at it, but it would not open. She tried to climb it, but it seemed to grow higher and higher, and to be filled with wounding sharp edges.
Finally, she fell down upon the ground, tired out, and memory came back to her, and she wept long and deeply, until she was exhausted.
And then she discovered that she was no longer a child, but a
woman, full-grown.
She got to her feet, and walked away down the highway. And it was winter now, cold and raw, with snow flying and the trees blasted and black, and not a bird to be seen.She never did find any one who really loved her. Not as she wanted to be loved, I am afraid. Worst of all, after the garden the world seemed very ugly and noisy and cruel and fierce to the girl. She could never get used to it. And one day she tried to find her way back to the garden and the elderberry scent and the golden fruit of dreams.
She never did. And so she died of a broken heart, in the snow .

NP: Bound 2 -Kanye West.

Extracted from a novel written by Taylor Caldwell, titled The Wide House.