2024 School Magazine

Thorns of Time

Frankie Austin (10R)

Creaking tiredly, the aged patio door lurched open, too ambitious for its rusty hinges. Out hobbled Arthur, in a similar state. The three small steps to the patio seemed, to the elderly man, a more challenging quest every day. As the crisp morning breeze flicked his few strands of frosty hair, Arthur took a slow breath so deep it seemed to rattle his brittle bones. Gazing out upon his crumbling kingdom, he nodded his head, greeting its faithful citizens. To his right stood the kingdom’s mighty protector: a towering gum tree illuminated by the winter rays. Arthur’s territory—his oasis, his kingdom—was marked by a wooden fence patterned with vines; they danced up every inch of the wood, taking on a life of their own and providing inexplicable comfort for the old man. They were like a protective curtain, keeping out any unwelcome guests. Unwelcome thoughts. An array of flowers sat in their bed, recently awoken from their slumber by the morning light. From a distance, the flowers blended together to form a sea of colour. However, to Arthur’s dismay, they didn’t seem quite as cheery, as upright, as he remembered; then again, his memory wasn’t too reliable these days. Realising it was time to get moving, the old man continued his steady—mostly steady—march towards the garden. After a couple of wobbly footsteps, his knees began to play up, his own body attempting to sabotage him. Each step was taken with a wince and accompanied by a grunt. Leaning heavily on a nearby chair—was that dust he felt?—for support, Arthur eventually managed to steady himself. However, by the time he raised his head to once more gaze upon what was his, the sun had recoiled behind a grey cloud, and darkness had fallen over the kingdom. To Arthur, more was illuminated in the darkness than the light: without the morning glow, the once mighty gum tree appeared a shadow of its former self, contaminated by dead branches and leaves and displaying a sickly yellow hue. The fence vines no longer danced, but engulfed; only a few patches of the leaning fence could be seen. The faded flowers hung their heads as if embarrassed by their dull shades and dry brown edges. Arthur’s heart sank. It had indeed been a while since he last tended to the garden, but it was an effort to even heave himself out of bed nowadays. Naivety had clouded his judgment; the kingdom wouldn’t always be so full of life. The voice of his concerned son echoed in his mind: “Dad, I’m just a phone call away. Call me if you need help.” Arthur pushed the thought aside. He had never needed help before, and he didn’t now; like the old gum tree, he could stand alone. He could do this alone. Resolving to conquer his self-pity, Arthur brandished his trusty shears and got to work. He attacked the overgrown shrubs, each snip of the shears a small victory against the encroaching wilderness. But before long, the relentless exertion began to take its toll. The elderly man’s chest tightened, and he found himself gasping for air, his heartbeat thudding loudly in his ears. Winded, Arthur leaned against the nearest tree. Sweat dripped down his forehead as he attempted to catch his breath, the shrubbery mocking his efforts with its relentless sprawl. Arthur had saved his most cherished flower till last: a crimson chantress, guarded by her crown of thorns. If nothing else, surely this precious rose would give him the strength to salvage his barren backyard. Compared to the others, she still looked somewhat healthy, possessing the same enchanting elixir and deep crimson shade. With a gentle touch, he carefully pruned her delicate petals, beginning to believe all hope was not lost. Pain. A sudden, involuntary yelp escaped his lips and he jerked his hand away; a thorn had pierced his wrinkled skin. Lifting his hand to inspect the wound, Arthur struggled to grasp the nasty needle of nature, which seemed to bury itself deeper with every pinch. With each failed attempt, his frustration grew. His own people had now turned against him; his kingdom was protesting its neglect. The thorn had pricked not just skin, but pride. The first needle was the last straw. He was tired, bleeding, and alone. Well, not alone. The garden that was once beautiful now needed help to stay strong. Accepting his son’s offer wouldn’t diminish his power but would give the land a chance to flourish once more. He picked up his phone and dialled a familiar number. “Hello, Son,” he said, his voice softened by the weight of the decision. “Do you have a moment?”

118 | BRISBANE GIRLS GRAMMAR SCHOOL 2024