The Weeping Garden

In the autumn of 1962, on the island of Rodrigues, my family gathered in the old plantation house of Tante Lucie. She had passed quietly in her sleep, and as was the custom, we held a wake that stretched from dusk till dawn. The house, a sprawling manor with peeling white paint and a sagging veranda, sat atop a gentle hill, overlooking a long, winding driveway lined with banyan trees. From the veranda, one could see the iron gate at the bottom, a tiny speck that slowly grew as visitors approached.

The wake was a lively affair, as was tradition. Lanterns flickered in the warm breeze, casting dancing shapes on the walls. Neighbors and relatives filled the rooms, their voices a low hum of chatter and laughter. In the center of the main hall, Tante Lucie lay in her open casket, dressed in her favorite blue floral dress, her hands folded over a rosary. Children ran between the legs of adults, and the smell of curry and rice wafted from the kitchen. But the heart of the wake was the card game.

In the far corner of the veranda, under the dim glow of a kerosene lamp, sat old Uncle Henri and his cronies: Papa René, Cousin Jules, and Ti-Marie, a wiry woman with sharp eyes. They played a game called ‘piquet’, their fingers moving with practiced ease over the worn cards. The tradition was that after a wake, the deck used for the night would be thrown into the garden, never to be touched again. No one ever explained why, but we all accepted it as a quirky custom. That night, however, something felt different.

As the night deepened, the air grew still. The usual clinking of glasses and murmur of conversation began to fade. A cold draft snaked through the veranda, making the lantern flames bend as if in deference. Uncle Henri paused, staring at the cards in his hand. His face, usually ruddy with drink, had gone pale. ‘Does anyone else feel that?’ he whispered. Ti-Marie scoffed, but her hands trembled slightly. Papa René shook his head, but he too looked uneasy.

I was sixteen, helping to serve tea, and I noticed that the garden beyond the veranda was darker than it should have been. The moon had been full, but now clouds seemed to have swallowed it whole. In the shadows between the banyan trees, I thought I saw a figure—a slim, still shape that wasn’t there before. I blinked, and it was gone. I told myself it was just the sway of a low branch.

Around midnight, the laughter died out completely. Even the babies in their mothers’ arms fell silent, their wide eyes fixed on the ceiling. A low, rhythmic sound began to emanate from the garden, like the slow creak of a swing. Uncle Henri dropped his cards, and they scattered on the wooden floor. ‘That’s it. We’re done for the night,’ he said, his voice hoarse. He stood abruptly, knocking over his chair. The other players rose, but as they went to toss the cards into the garden as tradition dictated, Uncle Henri halted them. ‘No. Not tonight. We keep these. We burn them at dawn.’

The next morning, we buried Tante Lucie in the family plot behind the house. The day was bright, but the memory of the wake hung over us like a shroud. After the burial, I found the discarded deck from the old wakes in a pile behind the shed. There were dozens of them, all mildewed and damp. I curiosity got the better of me, and I picked one up. The backing was a strange pattern I hadn’t noticed before: interlocking circles with a tiny figure in the center. I turned it over—the face was a normal card, the nine of hearts. But the pip seemed to have a tiny dark spot on it, like a dried teardrop.

That evening, as the family took down the decorations and prepared to leave, I heard a faint sobbing from the garden. I followed the sound, weaving between the banyan trees, until I reached the old well, half-covered with moss. The sobbing grew louder, and I saw a form at the edge of the well—a woman in a blue floral dress, exactly like Tante Lucie’s burial dress. She was hunched, her face hidden in her hands. When she looked up, her eyes were deep black pools, and her lips moved but no sound came out. Then she pointed at me, and a scream tore through the air—but it wasn’t from her. It was from inside my own head.

I stumbled back, and the figure vanished. I ran to the house, shaking. My grandmother caught me at the door, her face grim. ‘You saw her, didn’t you?’ she said. ‘The one in the garden. It’s the cards. They hold the spirits of the dead. That’s why we throw them away. But Tante Lucie, she always loved to play, and she never wanted to leave. Now she lingers, waiting for someone to play with her.’

I didn’t stay for the rest of the night. I left with my parents, but from the car window, I saw the light in the veranda flicker, and through the glass, I thought I saw a hand—pale, thin—reach out for a card on the table. The next morning, my father told me that Uncle Henri had died in his sleep, clutching a single card to his chest: the queen of spades, its face worn smooth.

We never returned to that house. But sometimes, in the quiet of my own garden, I hear a faint shuffle of cards, and I see the banyan trees sway though there is no wind. And I remember the rule we broke that night: we kept the deck, and now the dead have a seat at the table forever.