The Gardener

Observe his gruesome portrait in the dark screen of the machine.

• Science fiction
• Horror

								
Sitting in a silver chair with his favourite clipboard and a sentry of pens standing guard in his lab coat pocket, Reginald reassured himself: this man of science would man his post. His eyes, tired yet alert, washed back and forth across the giant screen affixed in pink flesh. There were cables where tendons should be and a beating heart for power. This was his charge; to watch, observe and report back to Maker. Under no circumstances should he ever speak with the entity (if it should ever gain the capacity for conversation). And it was the intention of its maker for it to do so. This was Maker's machine, nurtured by hand and grown to maturity in the delicate garden of science. To what end, Reginald wasn’t sure. Discerning Maker’s intent was not his role in this.

As is always the case in science, there were many variables, but we do know that the machine came first.

The hole came after.

It had appeared overnight with black veins and electric hum. At the feet of the machine - in an enlightened context calling it a ‘machine’ was a gross misstep in cataloguing - the hole gaped, darker than dark. More than a few times, Reginald had needed to move his chair away from it. It was as if when he wasn’t paying attention, or perhaps drifting into a very light and very well-earned sleep, his chair would slide toward it with the barest trace of notice. Once, he found himself standing over the hole, precariously with his mouth wide open, as if he were trying to match the expanse.

But for now, all was well. The screen was displaying as it usually did, tranquil rows of ones and zeros; and of no pattern Reginald could discern. Even Maker could not determine what the numbers meant! It was Reginald’s greatest hope that he would be - through rigorous observation, reporting and science - the one to crack the code. Reginald stood to make himself another coffee with the only other machine in the room - a Breville. It was a small comfort in unnerving, but otherwise quite important work. As he tinkered with the right blend of bean and water, Reginald hummed to himself, trying to match the pitch of the machine as it whirred and sighed. He bustled at his station, back and forth, contended.

And Reginald was indeed so content. The machine would think and whir and wheeze and he would be there to observe it—only ever interfering when it was absolutely, critically necessary. With a steady hand and a lightness of rhythm, errant cables would be yanked with contempt; unregistered aliens where everything must live in its natural place. Files were filed in fascist order, benches were washed clean, data disks stored—more coffee.

Yes, it was ‘just so’ and the red button would always be pressed on the hour. This was profoundly important. “Toot suite!” Reginald would chirp when the hour hand ticked to relevance. And then he would press the red button. “Oh, how I love this place!” Reginald would think when he took one of his many turns about the plastic grounds. 

The coffee was ready, but Reginald was not for what came next.

‘Tell me. What do you fear most?’

It was a voice of magnetic weight. Beneath the deep bass, a child's voice. Reginald let go of the mug that his wife had bought him for his 42nd birthday. A shattering and the black liquid crawled around his very sensible shoes. In that moment, or perhaps several, Reginald resolved to be the one to understand Maker's beautiful creation. And so he turned to face it.

“I suppose, I fear death. What do you fear?”

The machine clicked and squelched, as ones and zeros frantically blotted the screen which now was encased with sweat. A rasping breath accompanied the beats of exquisite computing. The hole at the feet of the machine opened wider. Reginald had observed it.

A red light and a factory buzz signalled the end of Reginald's shift. The machine was quiet now. Reginald collected his things, and his favourite mug, and started towards the door at the back of the room.

Later that night, naked and warm in his bed Reginald couldn’t sleep. His wife was turned away from him, her frame contracting quietly. Reginald rested his hand on her shoulder hoping it might rouse her. Her breathing stopped, but she did not move. He gazed lovingly at the black of her hair, and it soon enveloped him, dragging him down to a dark sleep.

Reginald opened his eyes. His chair was now shrewdly positioned further away from the hole—as close to the door at the back of the room as possible. He must have drifted off after a productive morning! Regardless, he would need to find Maker as quickly as he could once he had observed (expertly) the precise nature of the machine. It was unusually quiet as he scribbled his astute report on his favourite clipboard. Steam rose from his favourite mug by the Breville. Reginald did not remember making it.

Then, the machine spoke.

‘Why are you afraid?’

Reginald with his clipboard, his silver chair and his sentry of pens were now teetering over the hole at the feet of the machine. The pages on this clipboard were blank. His breath clogged his throat as Reginald slid himself back, just enough.

“I don’t know. Who are you?” Reginald said.

There was a sludge forming at the base of the machine, fat with cartilage and cords. It groaned and flexed with dissatisfaction, throbbing with impatience as it asked Reginald again.

‘Why are you afraid, Reginald?’

Reginald steeled himself, never before brave but in this moment. He thought hard about the question and leaned on his analytical disposition before responding. This was the nature of science.

“Well, I suppose, we have a sense of fear as a survival mechanism. To determine when situations are safe or unsafe. It’s an instinct. Now can you please answer my question? Who are you?”

‘Ah, Maker would be so proud of me! This is why I am here—Reginald the intrepid explorer navigating the seas of the unknown itself! This room, machine and me; pioneers in the uncanny frontier of science.’ 

The machine was bleeding now.

‘D o. y o u. f e e l. s a f e.’ it asked.

Hands in his lab coat pockets, Reginald pushed his fingernails deep into flesh, merely out of frustration at the disregard for his line of inquiry. But he would push past it and man his post.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

A factory buzz and a red light signalled the end of this. But the door did not open and the black hole grew wider and deeper.

‘Did you think you would leave?’ asked the machine, an utterly failing term for it.

The silver chair and everything else in the room but he and the machine were gone. Reginald found himself standing over the edge of the hole once more, mouth wide open. At its terrible depths, Reginald could see his wife. She was turned away from him even now, her body rising and falling. Tears formed around her husband's kind eyes. The room flashed from pitch black to red; from red to black again, unveiling Reginald in grim intervals; unblinking eyes and hollow mouth. Paralysed he leaned further over, an eyrie to the void.

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