The Garden of Crystals

The Garden of Crystals

 

In my father's house, there is a garden. And in this garden are crystals of all shapes and sizes, hanging from the ceiling.

They are actually glass baubles, expertly blown into whimsical shapes of swans, robins, ducks and sunbirds by my father's good friend.

They are cool to the touch, a sensation of coldbeautyflowerlight when my fingers caress the surface. I listen to them sing in the breeze, sweet skyblue voices. I revel. I laugh.

 I am blind.

 ~*~

My mother died after she gave life to me. It was a chilly winter's night, near the Solstice, as told by Mrs Pott, my nanny. I was born in the middle of the Industrial Revolution, to a "collector" (as my father would like to call himself). I was almost called Nike but soon, my name became Alethia.

Collectors gather antiques, large or small, esoteric or mundane. I could tell my father have brought in new items by their sounds. They either rumble, groan or chitter – in my mind, they become color bursts, like flowers.

 My father is one of the more lesser-known collectors. He is - by their standards - only a tinkler, not an inventor. He collects things, dismantles them and rebuilds them into artifices, as he calls them good-humoredly. I have heard the sharp yellow yelps of tiny tin-men bouncing across his worktable, the comical pink splotches of the larger and more cumbersome steel puppies and occasionally the clear lightgreen of a sun-flier.

I know that there are larger things in the sky, other than our little sun-fliers whizzing like green stars in the house. My father's friends have built other marvels like leo-fins, large flying ships shaped like lion fishes. Mrs Potts says that they look magnificent in the London skies, the sun on their iridescent wings and tail fin. I know they are beautiful because I can hear them sing like whales with long rainbow songs that swirl endlessly. There are also the gyro-scopes, powered by leg energy. But they are only occasionally seen as flying them takes a lot of energy on the part of the flier.

The leo-fins stay afloat like puffer fish, explained my father once when I asked him over a fine dinner of clam chowder and freshly baked rye bread. My father believes in growing and making our own food. They have helium inside their bellies.

At the moment, the leo-fins transport light cargo and their pilots, under the employ of my  father's friends, are paid well for their service. They are good for short distance flights and are known to even ferry people once a while.

The ones who transport heavy cargo are the trains. Huge, metallic smelling and murkily-colored like dark clouds, they rumble across England. I hear them rattle down the tracks and sometimes, they make the garden of crystals shake frantically. I do not like them. They are a necessary evil.

 ~*~

Instead of hurtling down the tracks, we can fly, my father says excitedly. I listen with amusement. My fingers touch the glass baubles. I do not know what colors they come in – only that they are cool beneath my fingertips and their voices are calming skyblue.

Why, father? I ask quietly. I am only nine. Mrs Pott complains in her amber-brown voice that I am too serious for a girl of my age.

Why? Why, we can fly over seas, oceans, lands. Imagine going to the Oriental in a large sun-flier! My father is clearly excited. He loves inventing. I can hear his blue prints move hurriedly on the table; they crackle like popping seeds.

You will need a lot of sun, I say laughing. My fingers glide over a smooth swan.

Our sun is an inexhaustible source of energy, there is almost a pout in my father's reply. Truly, he can be quite a charming child sometimes.

We pause as one of the trains roar past, rattling our ceiling lamps. Something in our house fizzles like an angry slash of red.

Wiring, my father mutters and I listen to his footsteps fading away as he trots away to deal with the wiring problem.

I continue walking in my garden of crystals, thinking – suddenly – of flying birds.

~*~

Imagine an artifice that can flap its wings, my father tells me in the morning when I wake up. Mornings bring in a mute whisper of colors as the sounds of morning ripple around me.

Your sun-flier can do that, I say, a little peevishly. Mrs Pott brings me my breakfast. I smell eggs.

No, no, no, my father's voice is exasperated. Imagine your consciousness in that artifice.

Mrs Pott mutters "crazy inventor" before stepping away.

Imagine that you can soar with the artifice, leaving your body on earth, my father continues.

 Now, this sends a shiver down my spine. It is unheard-of. It is almost ... sorcery. Then again, for the men, the inventors, Science and Reason are the new gods. My father would become an outcast for his ideas.

 Yet...

 I bite into my egg, feeling the yoke run down my throat. My utensils are a silver tink on the porcelain.

 My father goes back into his workshop to think about his new artifice. I walk slowly to my garden of crystals.

 I feel a rush of adrenaline. My hands brush against the glass crystals in a moment of fury. They crash in a multitude of bright colors.

 ~*~

 If I were a bird, I say to my father as we retire for the evening. He has his sniffer of port in his hand. He is tired. His breathing is slow. He has spent the day in conference with his collector friends. If I were a bird, I would be a sunbird.

A sunbird? His words are a gentle smile. My father is slow to anger and quick with humor to smooth things over.

So that I can see the sun, I find myself standing next to the window. Outside, London steams and breathes. I can hear voices, different voices interweaving with each other. Horse-drawn carriages clatter on cobblestones. Very soon, steam-cars would replace them and the horses would either put to pastures or killed for gruel. A long swirl of rainbow colors passes overhead as a leo-fin, doing night-duty, floats in the sky.

 Alethia, my father's voice is husky brown, as if he is trying to contain his emotions.

But I know my own limitations, father, I say and goes over to him. I rest my head against his chest and I feel his hand pat my head softly.

 If I could soar like a bird in my mind, I am content. I see the world in colors and if I could do that in my mind, I am pleased. I am a sunbird, in my own garden.

 Saying that, I walk away, back to my garden of crystals.

 There, I weep.