A folk tale about a mystical garden... Secret Garden inspired
We all know the story of the Secret Garden, the one where a prudish little girl and her spoiled rotten cousin find that there is more to life than their own selfish needs by learning to love and take care of a garden that belonged to the boy's mother. It's a childhood favorite and almost everyone has seen it be it the movie form or the cartoon, or the book it's self. I have always wanted to find a place like that, a place where I can hide away from prying eyes. I don't mean a magic garden where butterflies and pixies live, just a place to stay, to be by myself. Magic doesn't happen, its impossible to think that all of your problems can be solved by closing your eyes and wishing on dandelion fluff.
That was how I thought a couple of months ago. I never thought it possible for one to become a better person through magic, nor did I believe that somehow a place like the Secret Garden could exist. I didn't believe that there was magic in any form, I didn't believe in anything but myself. That was how I grew up, and that's how I lived. I had no one and I didn't need anyone.
I'm Gabriella O'Neal, more commonly called Ella by the few friends I had when I was in grade school. I'm a literature major in a small university in Southern Ireland, but I'm originally from America. I grew up listening to the stories, to the fables and myths about the mystical place called Ireland, where Banshees and Leprechauns are abundant. I would visit during the summer; my grandparents owned a farm in the back woods of Rosegreen where they raised sheep for wool. There wasn't much around there to do other than herd sheep so I spent most of my time reading, writing, and listening.
The old me of the town would love to tell me stories of the ancient heroes of Ireland, the ancient fables and myths. I learned all I ever needed to know about the little folk and the Banshees from simply listening to my grandfather and his friends.
I first heard about the story of the Secret Garden on night when I couldn't sleep and my grandma told me the story. It interested me, so when I got back to the states I went straight to the library and borrowed the book. I loved it, read it hundreds of times, or at least feel like I have, and know the story by heart.
I use to believe I could find a place like that. Then my father died. I never knew my mother, my father had been the one to take care of me and he's the one that taught me everything I ever needed to know. When he died, so did my will to believe in anything other than straight fact. How stupid I was back then to believe that. I had forgotten that in Ireland, magic was in the air, the ground, and in every stone and blade of grass.