He had always been the kind of person who wanted to know – everything. His first words as a baby had been "what" and "why." As a grown man, he had seen the most fascinating places in the world. He had been to the pyramids and the Taj Mahaj. He had walked around Stonehenge and on the Great Wall of China and Mayan temples. Only one other person in the world knew that the crumbling monuments of this world's greatest achievements could not compare to what he had seen as a young boy.
Sometimes he caught glimpses of it. The morning sun would glance through leafy boughs and hit a tender sapling in just the right way that it looked like it was moving and growing. His heart would leap into his throat until he realized that there was nothing extraordinary about a little tree blowing in the wind. The loud caw of a raven would send him into a fit of laughter and occasionally he would inspect a horse's withers carefully as if he expected something to be sprouting from them.
Only one other person in the world understood why he was so grim on the day the bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. On that day he sat in his wing chair before the fire muttering to himself. The servants only caught bits of it as they brought him his meals and stoked the flames. "Secret as evil as…" he'd say, letting his voice trail off. He would groan softly and rest his head in his hands, "Use it to destroy all living things," he'd say.
The only person whose presence he acknowledged that day was a dear friend who had boarded the first train from London that morning and ridden late into the evening. He met the matronly lady at the door and she threw herself into his arms. "People on the train were celebrating," she said, "and all I could think of is what He said to us as we stood by the pool of - " He cut her off, "I know," and ushered her into the library where they continued their conference in fierce whispers.
But that was then, and now he was selling his beautiful home in the country and going to live in London again. He felt older than he had ever felt before as he sorted through his belongings, marking this to be sent to his new house, running his hands over that for the last time when a collector came to buy it. "But after all," he philosophized, "if we can't dispose of our belongings without it ripping our hearts out, then it is we who are owned by them and not the other way around."
At last, every room was emptied except for one. It had been so far ignored because it was nearly empty to begin with. All it had was a dead fly on the windowsill, two shriveled mothballs on the floor, and a wardrobe in the corner. He entered the room alone, shutting the door firmly behind him. If there was ever a perfect time for him to find himself back there it would be now when he was an old man forced from his ancestral home. His steps were not as sure and confident as they had been in his younger days, but he slowly made his way across the floor until he stood before it.
He caressed the intricate carvings on the face of the wardrobe – the interlocking rings, the golden apples, and the noble face of a lion. No one had noticed the new tree that sprung up overnight in his backyard except for perhaps the housemaid (who thought she had really never had such a day). When he had heard that it had been blown down, he came from the country himself to retrieve it and hand it over to the talented cabinetmaker. The two of them had spent many an hour arguing over the precise design of the wardrobe. The old man laughed now to think of their heated words.
"I wonder," he murmured, leaning against the door and breathing deeply. It still lingered there – that heavy, golden, exciting smell. A voice from long ago echoed in his mind. "What I give you now is endless joy. Pluck an apple from the tree." Even now, the smell made him feel younger and stronger. It was something he had discussed with the little girl. "There's some magic that hangs around his mane. It makes you brave," she said.
The old man lifted his head to stare again at the carved lion and this time he felt sure that the eyes had taken on a compassionate glow. He raised his hand slowly to the doorknob all the while watching the lion. But the soft look on the face faded and was replaced with a sterner look. It was not quite a growl yet, but it definitely bordered on one. The old man dropped his hand and shook his head. He knew exactly what he would find inside that wardrobe. There were eight old fur coats – four less than there had been before the war.
"It's for the best, I suppose," he said. "Come in by the gates or not at all." And he turned and left. He did not glance back at the wardrobe, but if he had, he would have seen that the lion's eyes were twinkling joyously now as though He knew some delicious secret.