It’s a woodland story—you know that right away—but the rest is a mystery. Do you hear water? Music? Mozart perhaps? Some laughing far away? You are beginning chapter one of the story of a garden, on a lake, in Alabama. I consider my garden just that—a story—as opposed to gardens that are paintings. The painting garden is a single set piece; you see it all at once. It may be examined for its design elements and composition, but it there is no page two. By contrast, the first moments in a story garden should immediately cause the visitor to begin wondering what happens next, or, in garden terms, What’s down this path? The garden then, like any good story, draws the visitor through to its final resolution.

Whether a garden should be a painting or a story depends on the garden’s purpose. Most front yards, designed to be seen from the street, are, by their nature, pictures. Many backyards, built to be seen from inside the house or to complement a patio, are to be looked at as well, not explored. If a garden goes beyond this and beckons you to actively explore its secrets, it’s a story. Whether the story is an anecdote or a novel, the gardener, like the author, must use certain devices to ensure interest and excitement as the garden story unfolds.

The entrance creates anticipation

A story that begins something like this immediately has your attention: The duchess saw Petr, the man she thought was a priest, looking at the dead girl’s teeth…. You want to know more. Not only has anticipation been created, but a tone has also been set. The same should be done with a story garden.

Your gate or entrance should draw people in by being dramatic in a way that will let them know something interesting is just beyond. An arch or pergola seen at an angle with the beginning of a path bending out of sight excites any visitor worth inviting. An obstructed view of a distant summer house or waterfall with no clear way to get there always creates anticipation. But just as you should not be able to guess the ending of the book after the first chapter, ideally, your visitor should not be able to see his final destination fully from the entrance. A foreshadowing, yes, but don’t give away the plot.

Tension builds as you move along

Ever read a book you couldn’t put down? Then that book had tension, suspense, and mystery; you were pulled along and couldn’t stop. Finally at 2 a.m., something was resolved, you sighed, marked your page, and went to sleep. Even a joke creates suspense until the punch line is delivered.

In my garden, a twisting path sunk in a narrow, fern-lined ravine overplanted with dense foliage is pretty, but it also creates a sense of foreboding. A momentary hint—and only a hint—of an unexpected faraway green sward or the smell of unseen roses offers mystery. A steep flight of steps, a pool with small irregular stepping stones equals danger.

I use these paths as an author would his narrative. They create tension and a desire for the resolution or release of a soothing destination. Each of the tensions should accentuate that release. The narrower a path is, the more open the subsequent area seems; the longer the flight of steps, the more blessed the patio at the bottom. Intersecting paths are great tension tools. When a path splits in two, both alternatives can twist out of sight. A choice must be made. A flight of stairs or another turn in the path is another way to add tension. Perhaps my love of intersections comes from a childhood of Oz stories. Dorothy is always faced with a choice of one path or another, and her choice always leads to a remarkable place or a surprising adventure.

A destination provides a sense of release