In a clearing beside a stand of birch trees, Ivan the Terrible surveyed a bubbling cauldron of rabbits and waited for his son, Fyodor the Not So Bad, to stop talking. When would he shut up?
“You see, Father, a man in your position needs a pastime. Enough burning and destruction! The people yearn to play. Let bells ring throughout the kingdom to proclaim a new dispensation!”
What was he supposed to say to that?
A moment later, his grandson, Jerry Who Was Rather Fond of Gardening, trotted into the clearing. He approached them with a yellowing fern and tossed it into the cauldron.
“What’s that?” Ivan asked.
“Nilsfoot. It tenderizes and adds sweetness.”
Jerry seemed a smart lad, but he was more interested in herbs and spices when he should be paying attention to poisons. He was quick and well-built—subtle, too, unlike his father, whose brain was a cow-pat—but for all his assets, the boy took too much for granted. Did he really think he could become Prince of Livonia at no cost? There were enemies everywhere. Didn’t he know that you had to sniff out treason, and sweep it away? Maybe he’d fallen under the influence of his mother, Sonia Who Was a Woman.
“Father, the people would love you,” Fyodor continued. “You could be a saint.”
Ivan lifted his eyes to the trees, their trembling leaves. His son was unbearable when he tried to flatter.
Once, many years ago, when Ivan was his grandson’s age, he’d driven a sharp-pointed stake into the chest of a boyar. The man had been insolent. The stake had entered as though penetrating a honeycomb, and the twitching of limbs had been surprisingly brief, but the man’s face, his expression, had changed slowly, very slowly. From disbelief to unhappiness to entreaty to resignation—and then, with a bubble of blood in the corner of his mouth, acceptance. Even a sort of relief. The man had learned. The bubble popped and the light faded from his eyes. Ivan had waited, clutching the stake, maintaining leverage, observing each stage. It was not without interest.
But now he couldn’t bear to look at Fyodor who, Ivan sensed, was incapable of such transitions towards knowledge.
I am growing old, Ivan thought. I no longer have such patience.
“Father?” Fyodor asked.
Ivan ignored him and turned to his grandson. “Show me your garden.”
It wasn’t far. Leaving Fyodor the Not So Bad to tend the fire, they left the clearing and made their way along a stream until they came to a place where stones protruded and the current flowed swiftly. Jerry Who Was Rather Fond of Gardening stepped nimbly over the stones and continued up the opposite bank without once looking over his shoulder at his grandfather.
Ivan followed.
Sonia Who Was a Woman had told him of her son’s latest project. “He spends hours working on it. I’ve never seen him so excited! He’s enlisted the help of sheep.” It sounded like foolish talk. Gibberish.
But when they came over a rise, he saw it: a luminous green sward, closely cropped, stretching all the way to an ancient apple orchard, now in blossom. He stopped, turning his head to take it in.
“Here we are!” Jerry called. “Come and see!”
The plot contained a large square, beyond which was a semicircle. In the center of the square was a mound of dirt.
Was someone buried there? Ivan wondered.
Strangest of all was the grass. For, with the exception of dirt tracks defining the square, it was all grass. Nothing a person could eat. Could you even call this place a garden?
“This way, Grandfather.”
Jerry climbed onto the pile of dirt.
“This place is for you.”
Warily, Ivan stepped onto the mound.
“Wait a minute. I’ll be right back.”
Ivan stood under the open sky, wondering why he was wasting a glorious spring day with his daft family instead of enjoying a comfortable meal at home by himself. Eventually Jerry Who Was Rather Fond of Gardening returned, wielding a thick stake in one hand, while in the other he carried a bucket.
“Boy, what is this?”
Jerry put down the bucket, which was full of stones.
“Now we can start.”
“What?” Ivan snapped. “Is that what you plant in your square? Stones?”
“No. Face that way.” He pointed to the corner. “See, it’s a diamond.”
Jerry ran to the corner, taking his stake. “The stones are for you,” he called. “I’ll stand here. Now grab a stone and throw it at me.”
Ridiculous! But it was so irritating that Ivan obliged him. He hurled a stone, and his grandson dodged it. He hurled another, and to his astonishment, the boy swung the stake and hit it squarely. Crack! The stone shot straight back at Ivan who ducked to let it pass. Enraged, he reached into the bucket and seized another stone, taking aim.
This time, the boy smacked it and sent it soaring over the entire garden, beyond the bordering semicircle, and into the apple trees. Jerry threw back his head and laughed as he ran around his grandfather, touching each corner of the diamond, before returning to where he’d started.
Ivan reached into the bucket for another stone.
“What is the point of this?” he demanded.
Picking up his stake, his grandson called, “People will have a lot of fun with it in the future.”
“The future?”
Now Fyodor and Sonia appeared from the stream behind the garden. They carried baskets. She threw a blanket on the ground and took out some plates. Fyodor reached into his basket and extracted a long rabbit. He tore off a leg and dropped the rest on a plate. He waved and then took a bite.
Outrageous! Ivan thought.
But he picked out another stone, licked his fingers, and flung it with all his might.
Charles Holdefer is an American writer based in Brussels. His fiction has appeared in the New England Review, North American Review, Chicago Quarterly Review and in the 2017 Pushcart Prize anthology. His recent books include George Saunders’ Pastoralia: Bookmarked (literary criticism) and Agitprop for Bedtime (stories).
Stephen Ground is a graduate of York University. Ground’s photographs have appeared in Memoir Magazine, Reservoir Road Literary Review, Minute Magazine, and elsewhere. Find more at stephenground.com.