Down the Path

Well, there we were – back at the start of the oak plank path. The start though; that’s the annoying part – the start of the oak plank path is also the end of the oak plank path; and the middle. Suffice to say the oak plank path is an irritating place to be; and we were stuck in it.

We, “who’s we?” as he would say – “we” was me and Peter, otherwise known as “Dale.” Why did we – the other two with me and “Dale” – call Peter “Dale”? Because, to Henriette and Divine, Peter looked like a “Dale”. So “Dale” he was. And that was who was stuck on that oak plank path; just me and “Dale”.

We were stuck and “Dale” was ignoring me – he does that quite often; I don’t like it. An expert in

nothing at all related to Fae craft; “Dale” was still quite certain he could get us off of this path. I wasn’t

so sure, I really wished he would stop ignoring me.

The Garden? Let me describe to you the garden then –

The oak plank path was of course not there of its own accord; it ran through a garden – a special

garden – and that was half the problem. The garden was big; strangely haunting; and I’m still not even

quite sure what the general design theme was – The first thing one would initially think with the garden is

sculpture, and sure, it could be called a sculpture garden. But most the sculptures are crumbling, and the

ones that aren’t crumbling are so overgrown with bushes that you can’t tell what actual figures lie behind

the creeping ivy and ferns. So next you think that the garden could be called neglected. But I promise

you, it is not – the grass is perfectly trimmed; it’s a lush, soft, dark green. The flowerbeds are stocked

with life; tulips, petunias, lilies, pansies, rosebushes – all neatly pruned and watered, the flowerbeds

regularly weeded. The delicate scent of the blossoms hangs in the air; it makes you smile to yourself.

While smiling at that scent you recollect these observations into a new thought and wonder if the

contrast between the gardens and broken sculptures are meant instead to be some kind of a memento

mori. Mayhap the garden’s designer was a philosopher; you enjoy the garden’s philosophy – up until the

point that you remember this to be a city park; and no city park designer was ever encouraged to be

philosophical while designing a park for the general public. So; you end up scratching the nostalgic

sentiments of the dear, sweet, mementos from your mind. And it leaves you still confused – while

confused you find your feet stepping onto the oak plank path; it’s such a nice path.

Clunk-clunk-clunk-clunk. Every footstep echoes on the path, the relaxing evening wafting aromas

of the flowers pull you in – and seven years later your still somewhere on the oak plank path. And that’s

when the real answer strikes you as you enjoy your angelically hellish stroll; it’s a Fae garden.

Of course, I knew this before we ever arrived at the park; we all even tried to warn “Dale”. But –

no. He wanted to get a photoshoot in; someone had posted on one of the socials that a small garden

hidden in a city park was the spot for golden hour photos. GOLDEN HOUR... do you know what time

that is??? Literally peak old magic time. But no, he was insistent. On a Tuesday evening after work we

pulled up to the Dale Penter-Haus Memorial Park. The clock on the dash read 8:53 –

The ceiling/ the tiles/ speak to me.

And there we were – back at the start of the oak plank path; which is the oak plank path. And

nothing here really makes sense unless we backtrack forward even farther.

“Dale” – well – ummmmmm. Hard to put it; he looks like a Dale, I call him “Dale”, but alas, he is

only “Dale”. His name is Peter. I suppose you if I don’t tell you about Peter you won’t feel any sympathy

at for him. Ok, here it goes...

Peter is a rationally minded person.

I know, and sadly; it’s also uncurable.

He did the path to success thing – the good grades, the decent scholarships, the dropping out of

college stage, the two-year travel gap year, the finishing of the college degree, the getting of the job. He

did it all. He drives a hybrid – he recycles. Peter is a great guy. I know all this about Peter because Peter

loves to say so any chance he gets – Peter falls along the lines of what people love to deem and term

narcissism. Though, honestly, that might be an insult to the original Narcissus – no one would ever drown

over a face as plain as “Dale” ’s.

Peter heavily disagreed with this line of thought, he absolutely loved posting pictures of himself

everywhere; and so – because he found a new spot; we were off to a park where every photo (that I saw at

least) just looked wrong. Besides I’d heard of the Penter-Haus who’s memory the park was for.

The man had built his money on timber; he’d never been fond of replanting afterward either.

Rather he developed. Goodbye, midnight forest, farewell, twilight glen; goodnight, morning dove cry. He

developed, houses first, then ugly brick buildings that spat smoke into the sky. All of wartime industry

and despoiling of the land at its finest. Machinery, coal burning, smelting. The waterways were given the

gift of pollution and death; pavement replaced grass. Penter-Haus developed so much.

And, in his later years, saying he wanted to protect the dearest nature that he had loved so much

and had helped him become everything he was; Penter-Haus gifted fifteen acres of forest from his own

private estate to the city to be used as a public park. Thirteen acres the city converted to field space;

complete with artificial turf. The remaining two acres were left as a forest for pedestrian walking; and in

that walking pedestrian space there was the oak plank path.

Apparently the city had designed the garden that the path ran through – the story was that the city

had also made the oak plank path itself – although that part just wasn’t quite true.

Divine was the one who’d first mentioned it to “Dale” when he’d brought up the whole subject

matter of needing to take a trip for selfies at the garden. They’d been quite direct about it as I told

everything to Dale. The planks of the oak plank path were all solid English oak, all cut from the same

tree, and that tree? Well according to folklore that tree had been old. Old, growing right up until the point

where Penter-Haus, while taking a trip through the old country, decided it needed to be cut down and

made into planks for his nice oak plank path; apparently that had annoyed some of the local Fae. Divine

made it all very clear; Henriette seconded it. “Dale” did not listen.

Now, we’re back to where we began – say it with me out loud.

There we were, back at the start of the oak plank path. I keep reminding “Dale” that there are

always ways out of these kinds of things; and better ways to ignore them; like not walking so carelessly

on Fae wood planks during the times when worlds touch.. Still, “Dale” keeps ignoring me, ignoring we

actually. Henriette and Divine are here with me as well; though then again – Henriette and Divine are me

as well.

“Dale” finally makes up his mind though. He is a rational man – he knows what to do. He knows

he is simply suffering deja-vu and that there is no actual way that any of this is real or actually

happening. I watch him take a left. The irony is that there are no lefts on the oak plank path; he takes one

anyways -

There we are; back in the cozy familiar little room.

There he was, back at the start of the oak plank path. It’s funny really – and sad; here we are

trapped; here he is refusing to accept the fact that none of this is natural; blissfully unaware of his fifteen

year time bubble Incredibly frustrated that he can’t leave. Peter really is so much like a Dale – to the

point they even have the same last name. I liked my tree; I wasn’t happy when Dale cut it down for a foot

path of all things...

Walk down the halls of the old state hospital, in the mental ward, room B09, you’ll find a man.

Twenty years now he has sat, staring at the walls, stacking oak tiles in intricate designs. He sings strange

songs to himself, mutters in gibberish... follow me down, up the old plank path.