Lore

Tia

It was on a warm, sunny Tuesday morning that Harold found himself browsing through hobby shop shelves, in search of new tools and seeds for his garden. A drawback to living in a small town was that items tended to be in limited supply and even then only the most common plants were sold, making the gardens around town almost indistinguishable. On a shelf holding small speckled flowerpots, Harold found a single stringy green plant just beginning its determined ascent from its earthy bed. It was the only plant growing on the shelf and he pointed it out to the shop's owner.

"But I just put up these pots this morning, they're all supposed to be lilies and none of them should be coming up so soon."

"Maybe it's a weed?" Harold suggested, already getting ready to pay for the plant.

"Then why do you want to buy it" she replied, eyeing the plant suspiciously.

"I have no idea, I guess I want to see what it turns out to be." And he was being honest, it wasn't often that he found something new on these shelves.

"Well you can have it for free then," she said, "since you come in here all the time."

Harold could tell she was just eager to get rid of it but thanked her anyway and made his way back to his home.

Sitting in front of the large window in his living room, Harold assessed the plant. Something about its fragile form made him feel sad and he felt as if they were bound by fate in some way. The plant quivered as a tear fell onto one of its budding leaves. Harold wiped his eyes and moved the flower pot to the window where he had a clear view of his cheery little garden. He hoped the little plant would thrive indoors, nurtured by his careful hands and kept company by his conversation. As if hearing his thoughts, it seemed to nod, watery beads dripping off the tiny leaf.

Harold woke, a curious feeling of anticipation running through him. He remembered the events from the previous day clearly: after setting the plant on the window's shelf, he had sprayed it with a fine mist of water, worried that anything more would be too much for the tiny green shoot to handle. He pulled himself from the bed and made his way down the stairs, pausing to listen to the birdsong that bounced through the air. Yes, this morning was going to be fantastic. Harold bounced down the remaining stairs and continued to the living room, where he directed his gaze towards the window. He blinked in surprise, struggling to make sense of what he was seeing, then propelled himself forward to investigate the upturned flower pot, its contents strewn around shelf.

Harold propped the flower pot up and began to delicately scoop the soil back inside. He hoped the plant was just trapped somewhere beneath the dirt and at this he drew back, confused by his thoughts. Of course the plant was somewhere in the dirt, where else would it be? And so, before returning the flowerpot's earthy contents, he spent a careful hour sifting through sections of soil in search of a hint of green. Afterwards he sank back into a living chair, emotionally exhausted and suddenly very hungry. Hobbling to the kitchen he opened the fridge, and was confronted by a molding yellow pudding, a carton of soy milk, an odd assortment of sauces, and last night's lamb and potato stew. He grabbed the soy milk, cheering himself up with the prospect of an afternoon trip to the grocery store and after retrieving a box of cereal from the pantry, sat down to have his breakfast by the window.

Eating, he looked out at his garden, feeling pangs of regret over his lost plant. Then he shivered as he registered the acute feeling of being watched. Maybe mother nature was looking back at him, angry that he had failed one of her charges. But that couldn't be it, the watcher's presence felt somehow alien and quite close. Harold's mind shifted from fancy to cold logic and he began to fear that an intruder had broken into his home.

Harold began getting up, ready to flee if he needed to, but a little voice interrupted him, "Hello," it said, then continued with, "could I possibly have some of that mist from earlier, I think I'm drying out," Harold immediately looked down towards the source of the voice and found himself staring at his little houseplant, bigger now but still quite tiny. He was forcefully reminded of the Thumbelina fairytale, but the plant looked very much like a plant and not a miniature child. Its two leaf buds had unfurled into a pair of tiny leafy arms and balanced on top of its stem was a budding flower with a little green face crowned by a small spiked pink diadem of petals. On the face were two tiny pebble-like objects that seemed to gleam with secret knowledge. He realized that these were its eyes and felt a little uneasy at the thought of the plant being able to see him, much less move around and speak. And it certainly seemed intelligent or at least had a sense of self-preservation as it had had the foresight to pack bits of moist soil around its roots until it balanced on a neat ball of dirt. Harold assumed it had used this ball to become mobile, rolling itself along the windows edge, because he couldn't see any sign of a pair of legs. The plant coughed, an action that was at once unsettling because it was clearly affected and also because the plant didn't seem to have a recognizable mouth. Yet it had coughed.