Poppy's Garden

Poppy’s Garden

         As Rosemary walked up the worn stone path she took in the mossy cottage with its shutters closed against the warm afternoon sun.  As she turned her face toward the cloudless summer sky, she noticed smoke emanating from the chimney. This struck Rosemary as odd, but then she noticed that it looked more like a vapor than smoke. When she looked at the substance straight on it was opaque and white. When she looked at it slyly out of the corner of her eye it turned purplish.

         Rosemary gently turned the handle of the thick wooden door. As she entered the cottage, she called, “Poppy, I’m here!” Poppy was standing over the fireplace, stirring a hot bubbly something.

“At last! My heir has returned!” exclaimed Poppy happily.

         Rosemary grinned and scurried over to embrace her aunt.  It had been a funny habit of Poppy’s, to call Rosemary her heir. Poppy was childless. Rosemary was the first born daughter of Poppy’s younger sister.

         “What are you making, Poppy?” asked Rosemary as they entered the cottage.          

         “Plant food, dear,” smiled Poppy.

         They spent the next several hours mixing the steamy-silvery mixture with dried herbs, composted vegetables, and even finely chopped raw meat. Poppy let Rosemary do most of the work, carefully explaining each step. After they spread the food over the rich soil of the garden they had a picnic dinner. Rosemary gazed at the garden as she munched her fennel salad. It was a thick mass of tangled vines: knotty tomatoes with a mass of melons and squash at their bases and leafy herbs jumbled with lettuce.

         “Aunty,” began Rosemary, “why don’t you have a fence around the garden?”

         Poppy laughed, “Oh dear, my garden is strong.”

         The air was cooling as they retreated to the cottage. As Rosemary’s gaze swept the yard, she thought she saw the lilac bush trembling as if someone had just pulled it back and let it go. She stared at it for a moment.

“What is it, dear?” asked Poppy.

“I thought I saw someone, but it was nothing,” replied Rosemary. Poppy’s eyes narrowed, but she went inside.

         Once inside, Rosemary asked, “Do you think someone was sneaking around out there?”

         Poppy responded, “Well, it’s odd. That Jane Goodwin has been asking me a lot of questions about my garden. She’s become positively pesky.”

         “What has she done?”

         “She comes up behind me sometimes when I’m working in the garden. Last week I was mixing up some special food for my herbs; when I looked up she was lurking in the doorway. I have no idea how long she was there.”

         Rosemary shifted uncomfortably in her chair. Her palms itched. She was worried because she knew what Rosemary did for her plants wasn’t found in the average home and garden magazine. It was special and secret. --A family secret. It had been passed down from oldest daughter to oldest daughter for as long as anyone could remember. Poppy believed it was around colonial times when the secrets became secrets and not just stuff Nurse women had a knack for.

         The next morning Rosemary awoke to the sweet smell of something baking. She looked around her cozy room—at the yellow gingham curtains, the ancient patch worked quilt, the small table with a pitcher and wash basin. She snuggled deeper into the feathery bed for a few luxurious moments, savoring the safety and ease of life at the cottage. She could hear Poppy chatting on the phone with a client. Poppy made good living dispensing the remedies she made from the plants in the garden. She was known in the area for her amazing healing abilities, as Nurse women have been for centuries.

         Rosemary made her way down the worn hardwood stairs, Poppy was seated at the kitchen table with a mug of coffee and a fresh cinnamon roll. She smiled at Rosemary and asked, “Did you sleep well?”

Rosemary replied, “I always do when I’m here.”

         After breakfast they set out to work in the garden, Rosemary in jeans and a t-shirt and Poppy and a long cotton dress and floppy straw hat. They had been quietly puttering and pruning for several minutes when Rosemary felt someone watching her. She turned and saw Jane Goodwin. Jane smiled, wearing her signature, frosty pink lipstick. She cleared her throat loudly and peered over the basil at Poppy. Poppy sighed and said, “What’ll it be, Jane?”

Jane simpered, “Oh hello there ladies. I came to invite you to tea this afternoon.”

         “Tea?” responded Rosemary blankly.

         Poppy looked at her with disapproval. She didn’t like rudeness.

         “Well, that sounds quite lovely, doesn’t it Rose?” said Poppy pointedly.

         Rosemary forced a polite smile and said to Jane, “Of course. What time would you like us?”

         “How about two o’clock?” Jane grinned.

         When Poppy and Rosemary reluctantly arrived at Jane’s, Jane was positively quivering with excitement. Her table was laid out as if the queen herself was coming to tea. Rosemary wondered if Jane had tea every afternoon. Did she pretend she lived in the English countryside?

They sat down for their dainty meal and Rosemary’s palms itched. She looked around the table and her gaze lingered on the tiny milk jug. Her palms itched more urgently.  Rosemary hadn’t poured herself tea, but Poppy had. Poppy was about to add milk to her tea when Rosemary stepped firmly down on her foot. Poppy looked up in surprise. Rosemary shook her head almost imperceptibly. Poppy replaced the little jug to its original station next to the sugar bowl. Jane’s eyebrows rose at their exchange.

“Rosemary is kindly reminding me that I shouldn’t drink milk,” explained Poppy feebly as she patted her tummy.

They visited Jane for an obligatory 20 minutes before hurrying away with excuses about Rosemary needing to call her mother. As they walked back at the cottage Poppy bursted out, “What was that about?”

“Well,” Rosemary said hesitantly, “I think it was the milk. Hemlock, maybe?”

“Oh dear,” exhaled Poppy, “I knew Jane was curious and perhaps envious of the garden, but I had no idea she knew of the inheritance.”

“Inheritance?”

“Why, yes, your inheritance dear. Your birthright as a Nurse woman,” said Poppy almost indignantly, “You’re about to turn 21 on the eve of the summer solstice, tomorrow, as fate would have it.”

“But what does it mean?”

“Dear, the garden will truly be yours at that time. It seems Jane has figured out some of the garden’s secrets and is trying to usurp control.”

Rosemary was flabbergasted. “But aunty, why now? Why at 21? What about you?”

“I will be here to tend it until you are ready, but the garden will be yours and it will obey you.”

“Obey me?” Rosemary knew the garden was special, but she didn’t know if she could believe it had an actual will of its own.

“Yes. And I think it’s safe to say that Jane has somehow figured out as much. I’m not sure how much she knows, but obviously she thinks getting rid of me will allow her to control the garden. We’ll just have to keep our guard up.”

The next night was a full moon. Poppy and Rosemary were picking herbs under the silvery glow. Poppy was humming to herself. Rosemary had leaned her shovel against the white picket fence that lined the yard and had stretched out in the soft grass. Poppy looked up and smiled warmly at Rosemary.

“Well dear, the garden is officially yours tonight. It is time you understood its full power.”

“Yes, aunty, I would like to know all about it,” Rosemary rolled onto her stomach toward her aunt and gave her fullest attention.

“The garden is not a thinking entity, but it is very powerful. This garden has been under the control of our family since we came to this country, more than two hundred years ago. It is now your turn to be its steward. Never forget that as you tend to the garden and treat it well, it will obey you, but the garden will also take on your most prominent characteristics. This will affect the quality of your crops and the effectiveness of their healing properties.”

Rosemary’s mind was whirling as she tried to take in all of this information.

Poppy continued, “If a regular person were to take over tending this garden, the plants would slowly lose their special properties, but there is also a chance the garden may turn on an unqualified steward.”

“What do you mean, “Turn?” asked Rosemary suspiciously. She studied Poppy with interest, her palms began itching terribly.

“This garden requires…” Poppy stopped talking and turned sharply toward the edge of the yard.

“What…” began Rosemary.

“Ssshhh,” whispered Poppy.

Poppy slowly started to get up, but as she did a dark figure leapt from the shadows, wielding Rosemary’s shovel. Before either of them could react, the person had struck Poppy with the shovel.

Rosemary felt a surge of warmth in her arms and legs, which she initially associated with rage, but then she noticed the garden seemed to shimmer. What seemed to Rosemary to take several minutes actually happened in a matter of seconds.

Rosemary closed her eyes and stretched out her arms. As she did, vines from the garden struck out toward the dark figure and grasped it firmly around the ankles. The figure was knocked off balance and fell to the ground. More vines slithered around the figure, grasping it firmly like an anaconda around its prey. Rosemary could hear the person grunting frantically; he or she seemed unable to scream.

Rosemary bounded over to Poppy, who was lying near the would-be murderer. Poppy was lying peacefully in a patch of moonflowers. As Rosemary gazed fearfully down at her Poppy slowly opened her eyes and said, “You’re it my girl, you’re it.”

Rosemary smiled and then turned to look at the dark figure’s face. She was able to glimpse a shade of frosty pink lipstick as the vines covered the body and face while retracting into the depths of the garden.