The Emperor and His Garden - Flash Fiction


 

It seemed so strange that the British hired spies to watch him. Where could he go? The island, as someone once told me, was 10 miles by 5 miles. No one could leave undetected, least of all him. The spies were especially diligent when it came to how many times they found him in his garden. They called him the General, but I knew him as Emperor. Funny how an enslaved woman of colour knew more about Napoleon Bonaparte than the British who held him at St. Helena. Although I had my neverending list of duties to perform every day, I always made sure to take a small break of sorts to watch him in his garden. He loved that garden, as far as I could tell. The history books would later record that he enjoyed being in his garden - a place of escapism and relief from the horror of his final place of residence. One day, I made sure to walk by his garden when I knew he would be outside. I gripped my basket that hung on my arm and walked to my destination as though he was the farthest thing from my mind. Except on this particular morning, I felt his eyes upon me. I almost stumbled yet managed to calmly walk by him, yet I could feel his power emanating from him. Even now, he was still a vessel of grand power. And the British knew and were afraid of it. I walked on. Hours later, as I returned to my little space of solitude, I managed to see him still in his garden. A scent of freshly turned earth seemed to come from him and he appeared to be smiling to himself. He called out to me; I froze in midstep, then slowly turned to face him. His face was both kind and showed hints of the illness that would later claim his life. I curtseyed before him, only to stand up when he said that I didn't need to do that. You are a slave here, he said as more of a statement than a question. Oui, Monsieur, I replied, causing him to arch an eyebrow. You are French, he asked me, quickly switching to French. Oui Monsieur. He leaned against his shovel. Tell me, he said as he beckoned me to come closer, do you like it here? I . . .am a slave, Monsieur, I replied, not knowing what else to say. As am I, he replied with a chuckle. He glanced around and noticed the spies watching his every move. They think I don't know, he said with a sigh. They wish to record everything I do! He closed his eyes and at that moment, I wanted to take the end of my dress and wipe the sweat from his brow. Instead, I quietly waited. This garden is my paradise, he said as he opened his eyes once more. This is mine, no matter what the British tell me. Where do you live? I told him and he shook his head with pity. I curtseyed again and walked off, only to stop once more when he asked me my name. Marie, I replied with a hint of a smile. Marie, he repeated. I like that name. Thank you. He returned to his garden and I returned to the fact that I was a slave. 



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