The Cinnamon Garden’s Last Keeper

In the heart of the hill country, where the mist clung to the tea bushes like a mourning veil, stood the old cinnamon estate. It had been in our family for generations, but after my grandmother’s passing, the once-vibrant plantation had become a place of sorrow and silence. I hadn’t set foot on that land for months, too weighed down by the memory of her warm smile and the way she used to call me ‘Mali’ whenever I visited.

My grandmother, Nana, was a woman of quiet strength and peculiar gifts. She had a way with animals, and the children of the nearby village adored her. Every Saturday, she would host a small gathering under the great banyan tree at the edge of the estate, where she taught the children songs and stories, and gave them warm meals and clothes. Her laughter echoed through the valleys, and the birds seemed to sing in harmony with her voice. But when she passed, that laughter fell silent, and the garden seemed to wither with her.

I had not dreamed of her since her funeral. I begged for a sign, a whisper from the beyond, but sleep brought only darkness. Then, one night, after a particularly heavy rain, I dreamt of the estate. In the dream, the banyan tree was bare, its branches like skeletal fingers reaching for a grey sky. The path to the old estate house was overgrown with thorny vines, and the air was thick with the smell of rotting cinnamon. And there, at the doorstep, stood Nana, but she was not as I remembered. Her form was translucent, and her eyes were hollow. She didn’t speak, only pointed towards the old storehouse where we used to dry the cinnamon bark.

I woke with a start, my heart pounding. The dream felt too real, too urgent. For the first time since her passing, I felt a pull to return to the estate. Despite the dread coiling in my stomach, I packed a small bag and drove through the winding roads, the hills looming like ancient guardians. When I reached the estate, I found it exactly as in my dream: overgrown, silent, and eerily cold, even though the sun was high.

As I approached the storehouse, I noticed a faint, rhythmic sound, like a heartbeat. The door was ajar, and a sickly-sweet scent wafted out, mixing with the smell of damp earth. I pushed the door open and gasped. The room was filled with jars of honey, but they were all tinted with a dark, reddish hue. In the center of the room, on a stone table, lay a large, ancient book bound in what looked like leather. It was open to a page covered in handwritten script, not in any language I recognized. Beside the book was a small, tarnished bell.

I reached out to touch the bell, and as my fingers grazed its cold surface, the room spun. I found myself in a vision: Nana, younger, kneeling in this very room, her hands covered in red dust, chanting in that same unknown language. Behind her, shadows writhed on the walls, not cast by any candle. Then, the vision shifted to a night in August, the night she died. I saw her lying in bed, her eyes wide with terror, as a figure made of pure darkness hovered above her, reaching out with tendrils of smoke. Nana’s lips moved, and I knew she was calling my name, but no sound escaped.

I snapped back to reality, drenched in cold sweat. The bell felt heavier in my hand. I knew then that Nana’s death was not natural. Something had come for her, and she had tried to protect something. The book, the bell, the red honey – they were all part of a ritual she had been performing to keep something at bay. And now, I had triggered it. The shadows in the room began to move, stretching towards me.

I fled, clutching the book and the bell. The garden outside, which had seemed so still, now hummed with a low, menacing vibration. I could see shapes moving between the cinnamon trees, too fast to be human. As I ran, I heard her voice, not from the grave, but from within my mind: ‘Mali, finish what I started. The bell must ring at midnight when the moon is full, to guide me to the light. But beware, the shadow knows your name now.’

I stumbled into the estate house, barricading the door. The book on the stone table was now in my lap. I flipped through the pages, and they were filled with recipes for different honeys and powders, but also with warnings about a being called ‘The Hollow King’. Nana had been its keeper for years, using the estate as a boundary. The red honey was her offering, mixed with her own blood, to keep the King asleep. But he had grown strong, and on that August night, he had broken through.

I waited until the moon was high, and the clock struck twelve. I rang the bell, its sound echoing through the empty estate. The air shimmered, and I saw her again, this time clearer. She smiled, and it was a relief, not terror, that washed over me. ‘Thank you, Mali,’ she whispered. ‘Now I can pass. But you must leave this place and never come back. The garden will die, but the King will sleep again, for a century.’

As she spoke, the shadows receded. The trees seemed to sigh, and the world settled into a profound quiet. I knew I could never return, but I also knew that her last wish was granted. I left the estate, and as I drove away, I saw in the rearview mirror a brief glimmer of light where the banyan tree stood, and then nothing. I have not dreamed of her since, but sometimes, when the wind rustles through the cinnamon bushes, I think I hear her humming a lullaby she used to sing to the children. And I wonder if she is finally at peace.