Chapter Two

Stew fell face-first into the hot sand as the crack closed behind them. He whirled around the world as his senses struggled to right themselves. He pushed his two chubby arms beneath him, toppled over, then stood, wavered slightly, and fell over again. Then he stood, just like his Da always said. “It’s always easier getting it up the second-time round, if you know what you’re doing.”

Stew took in his surroundings. They stuck to his tongue, filled his trousers with their grains, and burned with the heat of the sun that hung unmoving in the midday sky. Stew didn’t know much, but he was sure that it was dark out when he had left. Horribly thin fingers gripped him by the shoulder, placing Stew on his feet.

The Warden now stood in front of him in all his magnificent and terrible glory. The rags that cloaked him fluttered loose about his skeletal frame. The skin that was visible was taught and grey. Within the light of the sun the Warden seemed almost human. Or mortal, at least. Not the Soul-Taking, Death-Dealing, God-of-the-hereafter he was.

“Am I dead?” Stew asked the Warden. The Warden turned away, walking. No, gliding? Stew couldn’t figure out the motion that they were making, even if the Warden was making any. A black building appeared on the horizon and was rapidly drawing closer. Not that that would make much sense to the casual viewer, but Stew had learnt a good lesson earlier in life from his Da.

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“Don’t question the Gods, boy. You see one, run. They aren’t like you and me. They don’t make sense, you see?” Da bent down, digging a small hole in the dirt between his feet. He pushed a grape pip into the earth. “I plant a seed, it grows into a plant. They plant a seed, and a storm brews, or a country falls. Just ask Grandda. He talked to one once, and look at how he ended up, the useless old bastard.”

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And now not only had Stew talked to one, or at one, but he had been taken by it.

Stew blinked. The black building stood in front of him now. Black stone greedily drank the light of the sun, towering stones stacked into the air, growing smaller at the top. 'A Mausoleum'. Stew’s head pounded at the word. He hated them, the way that the words slunk into his head and filled it with thoughts he had not… thunk.

A black hole extended into the Mausoleum, the Warden already making his way down the long corridor. Feeling his skin begin to blister in the sun, the hallway looked surprisingly welcoming, despite having a God of the Dead waiting there for him. The Warden beckoned, and Stew followed.

The darkness was long, Stew felt. Very long and very straight. So long that by the time he reached the light at the end of the tunnel, he had almost forgotten what sunlight was. Though that may have been an exaggeration.

On the other side was a garden. Or had been a garden. Encased between four black stone walls and beneath a ceiling of glass, a field lay. Stakes lined the field, with vines long dead hanging from them. A sudden burst of homesickness hit Stew as he realised what vines they were. Grape vines. His eyes burned, and a gentle hand laid itself on his shoulder. It felt strange. It tried to be a comforting gesture but remained a mere shadow of it, as though the act of trying drained any meaning or solace that could be drawn.

Then his mind cleared, or maybe fogged. Something disappeared, and a smooth nothingness replaced it in his mind. A new set of footsteps strode out onto the sand. An ancient man who appeared to be approaching his early sixties walked towards them. His robes were a patchwork of bright colours that fought with their surroundings. It was as though he were trying to make a statement of some kind, but there was no one there to notice.

“Alright, who’s this then?” The man asked, looking down at Stew. His face scrunched, emphasising his already sunken eyes and almost missing eyebrows.

“I’m – “ Stew began.

“Wasn’t talking to you,” The man said, “Ward, what the hell have you brought me this time? He looks like he’d eat through our larder by the time the day’s through.” He reeled back in a cackle of laughter that brought him to a coughing fit. Stew thought over the sentence but didn’t find it that funny. Even for an insult. It wasn’t even the cleverest he’d heard.

The Warden looked at the man.

“Alright, alright, I’ll stop for now. So, my boy, what’s your name?” The old man said, extending a hand.

“I’m Stew.” Stew replied, taking it. He shook it once, twice, thrice, just like his Da told him.

“Ward here’s been telling me that you’re our new Gardener.” The old man said.

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“Am I? He hasn’t really said to much.” Stew said, looking back at the Warden, who floated there almost motionless. The Warden stretched out his glaive, pointing it towards the field.

“That’s your cue.” The old man said. “He’s been wanting to fix this place for a while now. And that’s a while in our terms, not yours. Now while horticulture and agriculture are not my speciality, quite the opposite really, I suppose I can lend you a hand, just for today. But you will be owing me a favour mind you.”

“That’d be great.” Stew said, relief flooding him. At least one of them would know what they were doing. “See, thing is, I don’t know anything about gardening, or growing, or anything of the like.”

Before Stew had said this, it had been a quiet day. The sound of wind whipping across sand dunes, the cascading of thousands of grains on their tumble down the hills, and the occasional breath from the old man could be heard. After Stew had said this, total silence reigned. He couldn’t even hear his own heartbeat.

The old man’s face passed underwent a rapid change in emotions. Confusion, then shock, morphing into a questioning glare, anger, and finishing with relief. A joke must be being played on him. The old man looked to the Warden, who gave an uncharacteristically non-committal shrug. The old man’s jaw fell open.

“You brought this useless bastard here to fix your garden? Where in your name did you find him?” The old man almost shouted at the Warden. The Warden did not move, only maintaining its painted stare. Deflating, the old man relented. “Fine. Have it your way. If that’s what happened, that’s what happened. Ok, boy, he says he found you on a farm.”

“A winery. And I’m Stew.” Stew said.

“You grew up on a winery and you don’t know how to plant, grow, or cultivate? What were you doing in, what, seven years of life? Eating?” The old man asked.

“I’m eight.” Was all Stew thought to say in reply. “And you’re being mighty rude to me Mr, cause you haven’t even told me your name yet.”

Malice glinted in the old man’s eyes. “If I were to tell you my real name, my true name, then that would be giving deadly power over me into a child’s hands.”

“I’m a man,” Stew said, pumping himself up, “If you won’t tell me your name, how am I supposed to help you?”

The old man paused for a moment, upon realising that he was not, in fact, talking to someone like himself, but rather a chubby, rotund, small boy. Names had power, it is true. But just by looking at Stew, the old man knew the boy was no mage.

“You may call me Kell. Yes, Kell will do nicely. Be warned, boy, there are many who you should not ask the names of.” Kell warned. “Now. You have lived on a farm for eight years. While you may not actively know anything, you may have absorbed something through Osmosis. Do you know what osmosis means?”

Stew shook his head.

“Good. Now, think back. When it came to planting season, what did you need?” Kell asked.

Stew thought back. Planting season. There was no planting season for vines, not old family vines anyway. Although, his mother did plant potatoes and pumpkins in the winter. Winter. Autumn. Jericho. Pain nudged his heart.

“Shit.” Stew said out loud.

“What?” Kell replied, stunned.

Stew realised what he said, moving to correct his error. “Manure. Fertiliser. A ton of it.”

“Right.” Kell said, as though he knew anything about planting. How hard could it be? “What kind of manure?”

To this Stew had no answer, so he guessed. “All kinds?”

“Is that a question or what you want?” Kell replied cautiously.

“All kinds.” Stew said firmer.

Kell laughed and looked to the Warden. The Warden didn’t say anything, merely watching on. A sheen of sweat shined on Kell’s withered head. “You really want… all kinds?” Kell said, stressing the words.

“Uh-huh.” Stew said.

Kell looked between the Warden and Stew with a sense of helplessness. Kell raised his hands and began to mutter to himself. Stew tried to listen in, and believed that he heard words that would even make his father blush. A crack opened above the field, it was similar to the one the Warden had made, although this one was far larger. It formed a circle, an almost infinite number of cracks overlayed on one another. And through those cracks, a terrible smell came.

It was not the smell of sewerage, it was not the atypical stench of faeces and waste. It was terrible through its sheer might of nothingness. It was so powerful, that the senses could not detect it, lest the overload. And then for the first time in the desert,

It rained.

An effluent deluge of multicoloured hue fell from the sky. One tonne of effluent deluge to be exact, a perfect mixture of every single kind of shit known and unknown to mankind. Kell looked as though he may pass out, or die, from the sheer strain of the spell. Stew looked into the old man’s eyes and saw nothing but fear. And just before it happened, Stew knew that something was terribly, terribly, wrong.

The shit burned with a ferocity unseen, it spontaneously combusted, blossoming into a star which immediately began collapsing upon itself. This was all counteracted by the exact opposite antimatter that Kell had summoned. The entire mass screamed, and if Stew hadn’t covered his eyes from the blinding light, he probably would have gone insane from the birth of the extra-dimensional horror he had created.

Then the instant passed, leaving nothing behind except for a sweating and deathly pale Kell. The Warden watched on in fascination, waiting for something to happen to his now partially missing and still dead garden. Shaking his head, although it may have just been his entire body, Kell walked back inside without a word.

Stew looked back at the Warden. The painted face did not change, but the God seemed to emanate something different. Anger? Disappointment? It was amazing what you know to look for when those are the only emotions pointed at you for most of your life, Stew reasoned.

The Warden turned its head to look at Stew. Stew felt his blubber quiver as he tried to think of anything else that plants need, to try and convince the Warden that he should not strike him down on the spot. Trying to cough out an excuse from his desert-parched throat, he failed.

‘Water,’ Stew thought, ‘I need water. That’s it! I’m a genius.’

“Water.” Stew said aloud. “The Garden needs water.”