HIERONYMOUS BOSCH'S GARDEN

As the clock chimed eight, the room suddenly darkened. I felt my pulse race, my palms dampen, and the knot in the pit of my stomach tighten another notch. The distant odor of scented smoke made me uneasy - I was no longer alone.

I was here because of an invitation extended through a friend who knew of my keen interest in exotic plants. The famed gardens were opened rarely, and only then by invitation. The surprise of the invitation added and heightened my anticipation of the evening. The invitations are issued solely to individuals and the gardens must be viewed at night. It was about seven thirty when I had pulled my car to the gates of the estate. Already I felt ill at ease and anxious. The admitting guard in his somber, well-tailored uniform, was pleasant, but very formal. I drove up the curving paved road that lead to the old estate. Around me the thick shrubs and towering trees were taking on their showy autumnal colors. Had I not felt and been so totally isolated, I would have enjoyed it more. The evening light was beginning to fade as I pulled up to the main house, so I could only begin to guess the immense size of the estate. It was vaguely Mediterranean in style and heavily shuttered at all the windows. As I climbed the finely dressed stone steps leading to the main door, I was already holding the ornate bronze key to it in my hand. With the key-delivered by a young man in uniform-came handwritten instructions. I was to proceed down the central hallway to the second door on the right, open it and go in and sit down. Further instruction would then follow. I opened the heavily carved oaken door and, as instructed, walked to the second door, opened it and went into the salon. It was a large, but not overpowering room, done in muted tones. Over its parquet floors were thick Oriental carpets. The furniture was an eclectic selection of heavily carved Spanish pieces punctuated by some fine contemporary selections. Heavy drapes covered the windows; I presumed that they were also shuttered form the exterior. In front of a comfortable plush grey sofa a low brass and rosewood table held a sterling tray with a glass of brandy and a silver pot filled with hot coffee. An elegantly written note on the tray bade me to refresh myself with drink. I sat down and poured some of the headily aromatic coffee into the demitasse cup. I sipped some-it was both very hot and very strong. Gradually I began to feel less anxious and settled myself with enjoyable sips of brandy and coffee. It must have been twenty minutes, although it did not seem that long, when the clock on the mantle struck eight and then suddenly the lights went out. The illumination in the salon had been subtle and reassuring, but the sudden, unexpected, darkness pitched me into a state of anxiety. The odor of incense became stronger as the door from the central hallway opened. No incense burner was visible from the illumination cast by the candelabra held by the elderly gentleman, but its pervasive odor permeated the room. A woman with him, and dressed in an elegantly cut black gown, asked that I follow them to the garden. I went with them further down the central corridor to a door on the left, the only illumination was that given off by the handheld candelabra. They apologized for startling me, but explained that the gardens must be viewed in low illumination, and I would need time for my eyes to accommodate. The door led us out onto a patio and from there we walked silently down a set of stone stairs and followed a pathway to a low building. It was with a great deal of ceremony that my host and hostess opened the massive metal door that led to the collection and motioned me inside. It was hot and arid-the result of a highly controlled climate, but still dark. They positioned me then the elderly gentleman left us. A few moments later, I could begin to discern shapes as the illumination in the building slowly increased. I was awestruck as the succulents came into view. The legendary gardens were all they were rumored. They were all mutants; the finest and most spectacular of them was in front of me and towered far above my head. Its oddly shaped leaves were delicate and shimmered a metallic copper. In the lightly felt breeze, the moving leaves had an opalescent quality to them.

My hostess indicated that if I wished to do so we could walk along the paths that wound through the garden. Slowly we walked among the very fantastic plants. Each was a color mutant. The most spectacular were those of metallic hues, especially the copper and reddish bronze. These hues seemed to singularly compliment the pointed, baroque shapes of the succulents. The cacti, already fantastic in shape, took on surreal colors of whites and blues; their thorns like long opal spikes.

A Crown of Thorns with its cobalt blue structure startled me. Its normally red flowers had mutated to flashing deep red gemstones. My head began to reel from the effects of the plants-they were all too unusual for me to comprehend, although I knew the normal version of each quite well. I began to feel lightheaded; I remember that my hostess took my arm to support me, then all of us left the gardens. I was almost delirious, but I vaguely recalled the jolt of cool air as we left the building.

I looked at my watch-it was just after midnight. I had no idea how long I had been sitting in my car along the ocean bluffs. I rolled down the window and let the cool air play across my face. Suddenly I felt angry with myself; I had missed the garden tour. Slowly fragments of the memory of the evening flitted through my memory. Had I been there? It seemed so real, yet also not real at all. Had I imagined the entire thing? Could this be the reason that no one ever described the gardens? I decided to return home. There in comfort, I could try to sort through confused, fragmented images. As I started the engine, I felt something scratch my leg. I reached down, annoyed at the sliver I felt and rather savagely pulled it out.

Astonished, I starred at the long blue opalescent thorn I held in my fingers.