There were few witches with a better green thumb than Juniper. Her garden rivaled all else and was filled with the biggest, bloomiest flowers to use in her potions, to the meekest herb to spice up her simple meals. It sprawled like a ruffled, slept-in blanket across her yard, into her shed, even over her house; and though it was uncontained and unfettered by fence or post, all was where it should be–at least, according to Juniper.
Meanwhile, Juniper herself mimicked her garden. One might even say that she modeled her garden after herself . . . or vice versa. Juniper’s dark hair curled like the purple wisteria climbing playfully over her windowsills and her eyes were the color of pale moss in the mornings. She stood about as tall as a particularly big okra plant, and her skin, often speckled with bits of mulch and leaf trimmings, was as tanned as the ombre sunrise. And it was the sunrise that she loved most, besides, of course, her garden.
Facing away from her house, she stood, steaming tea in hand, absorbing the first few rays of light with her plants. Just inches away from her toes was a fatal drop, a cliff, and below she heard the crashing of waves. A rustle then a tickle on her ankle made her turn. The strawberries had crept up again.
“Good morning,” she said, goodnaturedly, “do you need a drink?”
Slowly, the strawberry vine pulled closer towards her, winding up to Juniper’s knee. While she heard no voice in response, a sense greater than words heard the plant speaking back. In her head, a small voice, like that of a weak child’s, said, “I feel near death. Quickly, or my children will shrivel and die.”
Juniper let the vines uncurl from her leg before checking the swiftly maturing strawberries. “Your children will be fine a few more minutes–they were watered last night, as well.”
She began to stroll back through her garden, brushing past hundreds of other plants, most with the same plea: water. Meanwhile, her most hardy plants, the orchids, the moss roses, and sage, greeted her more personally, all three wishing her fair weather. On her way up the steps to the house, however, the side of her left foot just barely touched one dandelion growing from a crack in the wooden planks. Juniper recognized her mistake and braced herself for the dandelion’s response.
A cackling voice, abrasive and loud, entered her mind. “Oh, did you forget to water me last night? Well, fortunately for everyone, I’m hardy as the damn rocks my roots are growing in. These other delicate flowers have to have their special soils and be watered every damn day–why not grow more of me? I’m a fucking survivor!”
Juniper frowned down at the bright yellow flower next to her foot, giving it her most severe glare.
“Aw, now,” the dandelion said, “I didn’t mean to upset you Juniper–but those other plants over there? Tell them I wish them poorer soil and harsher weather.”
With a roll of her eyes, Juniper went inside. Her house was filled with other potted plants, most of which either needed breaks from the sunlight or were in poor health. Every free space was covered with either plants, gardening tools, or general grime and messiness. Juniper paused at her sink to set her half-drank mug of tea in it, then glanced out the window. Her wisteria seemed to be drooping lower than usual, so she opened the window to check on them.
The moment her hand touched them, they perked up, saying in a musical voice, “Good morning beautiful Juniper–your curls are looking almost as beautiful as us! So strange that we should have such beauty all our lives, and yet you humans must tend to yours.”
Juniper put a hand self-consciously to her hair, wrapping one curl around her finger to look at it. She began to ask what was wrong with her curls, then thought better of engaging with the self-centered wisteria–so many of the flowering plants were painfully egocentric. She turned away from the kitchen window, running her hand past a row of sick or potted plants, all with the same plea as those outside–water. Juniper took the hint, grabbed the bucket hanging next to her back door, then headed for the well. As she dropped it down into the dark, chilly well, hearing the resounding splash below, a meek, timid voice began to pervade on her mind.
“Fair weather, Juniper . . . but please, ask for consent before standing on us . . .”
With a start, Juniper looked down, seeing that her right foot was not on the pebble path she had so carefully laid, and instead pressing on a layer of soft moss. She swiftly moved her foot to the path, then bent over. “I’m so sorry. I’ll be more careful in the future.”
The wispy voice started to recede, as if sleepily, and she barely caught the moss’s whispered thanks. As she pulled up the bucket from the well, a little bluebird sat on the edge opposite her. Juniper paused for a moment, peering at the brightly singing animal. She reached out a hand, brows furrowed, and as the bluebird willingly hopped into her palm and searched for seed, she willed herself to hear its voice.
Mental static. Juniper could not hear or understand the mind of the bird. Her heart sank.
A vine from the weeping willow tree a yard or two away brushed by her, as though it had been blown over. “It will be alright Juniper. You still have everyone in the garden to speak to.”
Juniper finished pulling up the first bucket of many with a grunt. She shook a curl out of her face decisively, though her voice betrayed her. “I know–it’s a miracle I can talk to any wildlife at all–I just thought my powers would encompass a little more than plantlife.”
The meek voice of the moss returned, and she noticed her hand touching it on the side of the well. “But aren’t we enough, Juniper?”
She smiled falteringly down at the moss, happy for a moment the plants could not see. “Of course you are!”
Word Technician 