The Gate

Thomas sat in his kitchen, surrounded by the produce of his labour. From the table to the plate which sat upon it, and the bread, the butter and the cheese which sat on that - all these things he’d planted, grown, pulled, sawn, formed, hewn, moulded and crafted from the garden which surrounded his house. 

In his hand Thomas held an apple with just one bite removed. He’d finished chewing some time ago and now he just stared through the window, out through the garden over the lawn, past the vegetable patch and potting shed, through the trees to a gate which sat in the middle of the perimeter fence. The fence was high and from the kitchen all Thomas could see was garden, fence and sky. He’d hardly known the gate was even there until earlier that morning when he’d been painting the fence and had heard it rattling in its hinges.  The gate intensely held his gaze and even from this distance he felt it rattling now.

Absently, the moment passed and he found himself standing up from the table - there was work to be done and he’d rested enough already. He took another bite out of the apple, picked up his sandwich and stepped out of the kitchen, and into the garden. The warm blades of grass jumped busily between his toes and he felt the warmth of the sun bearing down on his chest. The sun was at its highest now. He put the rest of his sandwich into his mouth and lifted his hand to protect his eyes from the sun. Once more the gate caught his eye as he looked out and down through the garden, but he put it out of mind and returned to the task of painting the fence - fortunately he was painting in the sun’s shadow this afternoon and so he would get respite from its heavy glare.

It was early evening by the time he was finished. He brought the ladder up straight and stood back to inspect his work, commenting favourably to the chickens as he did so. There was pride for sure in this life. And a comfort in the steady repetition of chore and season. He put away his pot and brush and went back into the kitchen to prepare his supper.

Thomas had always been a diligent man. Creative, but not artistic, contemplative but lacking in self-awareness, logical but often unaware of the contingency of things. Single minded, resolute and somewhat lacking in charm.  But he did have imagination and could certainly conceive of things beyond his direct experience. And so, as he cleared the pots from his evening meal he once more looked out toward the gate and thought about the world beyond the fence which surrounded his house and his garden.

He dried the last dish, mindful of the setting sun and hurried up the stairs to his bedroom. From here he could look out over the garden and over the fence to the land which surrounded it. The fence line marked a hard border within which the garden burst with all variations and vibrances of green, splashes of red, yellow and blue. It rose forth to all sides, alive with the tension arising from the clash of randomness and intentionality. The fixed hardened lines of the fence literally boxed in the garden’s energy. But on the other side of the fence the world was an open space, untouched, empty, void, a whirl of formless absence. It was moorland, heather, wild grasses and bog - unloved, unknown, untouched, unowned. 

Thomas’ gaze went further still though, as far as he could see. Where amidst the moor and bog, he could see what looked like might be small clusters of buildings, potentially like his own, with their own gardens.

As the day came to its end and the sun withdrew its light, Thomas lay on his bed with a restless mind. Sleep finally arrived, but as a new day began Thomas woke with the recall of a dream in which he’d been fixing a crack in the bedroom walls when he started to feel the walls enclose on him. As the house folded in on itself he managed to squeeze out of a small window, but on escaping he realised that he was now on the outside of the fence, outside the garden. He became aware of his nakedness as cold winds harried him. As he turned to find a way back to the house he saw to his disgust that the house was now just resting in the palm of his hand, no bigger than a child’s toy.

Today was supposed to be a day for irrigation, pest control and sorting grain for next year's harvest, but instead, as soon as he was breakfasted Thomas found himself walking directly along the length of the garden with intentions fixed toward the gate. The sun had not yet dried the dew from the grass and the air was alive with bird song, but none of this pleased Thomas as it might normally have done. The gate grew near as he walked past the apple trees, the pear, and the plum, the sycamore, the chestnut, the tall birch, each of them casting a myriad of overlapping shadow on the ground. 

Thomas came to a halt, facing the gate, the entirety of the garden now at his back. His entire visual field was an expanse of fencework. Thomas did not feel the cool dew on his feet, or the warmth of the sun on his back, he didn’t sense the stillness of the air or hear the songs of the birds in the trees. With no apparent hesitation Thomas held out his hand and pushed the gate open. His visual field filled with the open moorland which surrounded the garden. He stepped through the gate and as it closed behind him, he felt the cold air whip into a biting wind. The sun was muted, shadows not as deep and he felt no warmth on his skin from its rays. He took another step. He was surrounded by the moorland, the bullrushes and bog which he’d see from his bedroom window. Thomas scanned the horizon for sight of buildings, but he’d lost the benefit of height which the bedroom view provided and with the uneven form of the terrain he couldn’t see far at all. If he wanted to know this place he knew he would have to go much deeper into it.

He started to walk further from the gate, his feet slipping on mud and into bog. At first he continued unperturbed, but he soon became frustrated and realised that he would need to be more prepared if he was going to make any progress.

He returned to the gate and stepped back into the garden. Instantly the wind which had filled his ears was replaced by bird song. Thomas looked down at the mud on his legs as the sun glared judgingly in his face. The beauty of the garden was rarely more apparent to Thomas, but still undeterred he proceeded to the shed, where he kept a pair of boots. 

The boots felt rough on his feet, but upon returning to the moor beyond the gate the increase in traction meant that he was able make slow but steady progress through the moor. Thomas opted to try and keep a straight line directly from the gate (he was aware that he was currently oblivious as to which direction other buildings may lie in, but a straight line was the most efficient way to cover as much ground as possible), but when he rested to catch his breath he looked back to see that the undulation of bog and heather had pushed him wide off course and in truth his intended straight line was a meandering mess - no more formed than the chaos that surrounded him. What's more, as he looked back, the visibility of the gate was obstructed by both bad weather and the undulating land. He realised he had to return home and take a more calculated and rigorous approach.

Upon his re-entry to the garden he now felt the warm touch of the sun on his skin, the trees threw their branches open wide and the birds sang just for him. He took off his boots and brushed his feet over the warm grass as he walked down the long garden. A sense of doubt and shame crept through him, he pushed thoughts of the moor and the distant buildings from his mind and by the time he fed the chickens he’d successfully managed to forget this wasted day.

But once more that night he lay on his bed, fighting himself to sleep. When sleep finally overtook him, he dreamt that he was collecting water from the stream so that he could wash his feet (which were filthy up to his knees). All at once he realised that he wasn’t in his garden at all, he was somewhere quite different. The chickens would not come to their names. The fence was in a terrible state of repair. There was a pig pen where the vegetable patch should be. He ran to the fence in search of the gate, but it couldn’t be found. His search was painfully slowed by the filth on his legs and his feet started to sink further and further into the ground. 

He woke with a tortured, but determined mind. He grabbed a few items of food from the kitchen and put them into a bag - no time for breakfast. He walked at pace to the shed at the end of the garden, put on the boots and then took hold of a chainsaw which sat in the corner of the shed.

Were the birds quietened as he walked to the chestnut tree? Did they fall silent as the teeth of the chainsaw bit through the trunk? Or was their song simply drowned out by the noise of its engine? Either way, Thomas didn’t notice.

The tree crushed several fence panels as it fell. He cut the tree into neat planks. When he was done he looked around him and surveyed the results of his labour. A feeling of renewed confidence welled within him.

Thomas picked up the first plank of wood and stepped out through the fenceline. At the point where the ground became uneven he carefully positioned the wood in order to form a track. He pushed it into place with his boot, precisely at first but then securely with a firm stamp. He walked across the wooden plank. It felt secure and stable in its place. He walked back to the remnants of the tree and took another plank, then retraced his steps, continuing along the line of his envisioned track until he reached another point just several steps further where the ground was once again uneven. Again he positioned the plank in order to continue his path through the moor. As the ground undulated significantly he used pieces of fence as markers so that he could ensure a straight line and avoid the meanderings of the previous day.

He continued on this basis for the remainder of the day, hardly noticing the wind and rain. It was only when he placed the last plank of wood that he noticed that the light was fading. He stood at the furthest point along his track and he looked back to the house. He’d now ventured and laid a trail which was at least 3 times the full length of his garden. The sunlight and blue sky around the house created a halo through the mist, and at its centre sat the whitewashed house. Thomas reflected that it was humbling to see the house so small, alone and unique amidst the barren moor. To have come so far felt like a great achievement. With each step further out of the garden he felt he knew the world more. And maybe soon he would reach the buildings he’d seen from his bedroom.

Thomas was silent and largely absent from his surroundings that evening. Heavy in the distraction of his aspirations. He did not share his musings with the chickens or the goats. He did not taste the creamy bitter pinch of his cheese. And the sweetness of last year’s lavender wine didn’t amuse him.

The sun descended into the horizon as Thomas looked out across the moor from his bedroom. He saw the track he’d created and he saw that he had hardly scratched the surface of the depths of the world beyond the gate. The buildings he could see were still far far away. He was at once both daunted and undeterred. He looked at the stump where the chestnut tree had stood - a necessary sacrifice. And as the fence lay open he felt rewarded that the arbitrary division between garden and moor had fallen.

As Thomas felled the Birch tree the following morning he was filled with the conviction to go further. As the Sycamore tree fell he was steadfast in the need for sacrifice in order to achieve great things. And as he placed the trunks from the trees of the apple, plum and pear orchard into the moor his sense of purpose and belief in the obligation to continue was at its strongest.

The last plank from the last tree took its place in the bog and Thomas stood at the end of his track. He looked back along the markers but the house and the garden were no longer visible. As he turned all he saw before him was further stretches of moorland, bog and heather. The buildings which he thought he’d seen from his bedroom were still out of his reach. But having come this far Thomas knew above all else that he needed to go further.

When he returned to the house it was the shed which he dismantled first, then the chicken coop and pig pen. Each would take their new role in the track he created across the moor. And then it was the turn of the kitchen table and cupboards, the roof joists, the floorboards and everything in between.

Thomas returned to the garden at dusk, retracing his steps along the track, the earliest sections of which were starting to sink slowly into the bog. He walked through the now silent garden, the sun retreating. He returned to the house and sat in the kitchen, surrounded by the produce of his labour.

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