Puddle: A Tale for the Curious Read online

  Home.

  The modest greenhouse, more of a glassed up patio, attached to the south end of our home was my favorite part of where I lived, besides my garden. This tiny greenhouse, the transition between outside and inside, held green growing things all year. I walked the perimeter, deadheading a few salmon-pink geranium flowers. I picked a ripe spicy pepper and some basil in anticipation for dinner. Leaving my backpack next to a worn deck of cards on the table in the greenhouse, I went in to see who was home.

  “Hellooooo,” I called as I bumbled into my humble abode. Crayon drawings of horses and rather lumpy looking kitties greeted me from the walls of the common room: the timeline of my siblings’ and my artistic expenditures. These days, however, I doodled too much in my notebooks to hang anything that wasn’t garbled with equations and flow charts on our walls. My greatest inspiration came while my mind drifted about as my body sat in class. Wolves howled from the margins of grammar exercises. Penguins played with sea lions among Bohr’s models. Goblins crept up on timelines of very important dates of wars and massacres, and wondered what sorts of interesting bits happened between all the death and conflict. They were always asking what was for lunch.

  “How was school?” inquired the kitchen.

  “Weird,” I said, following the voice past a didgeridoo and several walking sticks carved with the help of beavers and fold-away knives. Dad’s bongos and Mom’s fiddle leaned against the far wall, waiting.

  My siblings Kail and Elsie, aged two and five years like fine cheeses, crowded on top of the kitchen table. For some reason, this was the most popular homework area. Kail was busy drawing unicorns for a story. The ponies had smiling faces and over-to-the-side horns. Elsie had glue, string, and paper and was… making stuff.

  “Weird?” asked mom, as she looked up from doing something official with a computer and a graph.

  “Yeah, some kid climbed out of a puddle, and I passed a math quiz.”

  “Uh-hum, that is weird. Want to help with dinner?”

  “If it’s pizza.”

  In my cauldron, otherwise known as a medium mixing bowl, I stirred up some flour, flaxseed, oil, water, and spices. Dad and the pizza came through different doors of the house at nearly the same time. The pizza sort of fell apart, so we had to eat it with forks. Kail started crying when he bit too much of the spicy pepper, and I ran about getting out rice milk to calm the burning, while apologizing for growing the peppers too hot. The milk splashed off the bottom of the cup, and into my eye, because physics does things like that. As I wiped it away, I knew no matter of hand washing could erase all traces of recently cut entirely-too-spicy pepper from fingers. The burning gouged deep into my eye. I flailed my arms in hapless abandonment, knocking a bottle of salad dressing to the floor. Elsie, in a desperate attempt to get away from the commotion, slipped in the spreading oily mess. On her way down, she slapped the edge of the table that held a forkful of pizza, which flung like a folkloric rabbit toward the moon-shaped lamp above the table, and adhered itself to a crater. What a delicious sacrifice to the moon. And I wondered about the nature of sacrifice. What if delicious sacrifices potentially delivered delicious results, while painful sacrifices delivered painful results? My inner goddess would want pizza over pain any day.

  The rest of dinner passed by uneventfully.

  Sunset began with a streak of razzmatazz red along the horizon, which melted into a warm macaroni and cheese, and finally into the awkward orange that lasted all night because the sky didn’t actually get dark so close to town.

  Our neighbors, Phyllis and Martin, often came over to play music. They had formed a band with my parents, and called themselves Tomentose. They often played in the local coffee house on Wednesdays. Their daughter, Mae, came too. She and I were the same age. We grew up amusing ourselves by climbing the same power lines I walked under on my way home, and singing wonderful and silly show tune songs. We would name things, like her cat’s tail, and made up monologues about what would happen if, say, that tail got it in its mind that fences were a big problem in society. Then, we would pretend to be cats that swung on swings and meowed in three musical notes.

  Mae and I gradually walked in different circles, but those circles met up occasionally, and we laughed about old times, and new times. That evening, we added the fashion magazines she brought over to my woodsy ones, and sat in the common room, making collages as our parents strummed and drummed.

  “What do you think about having this giraffe,” I asked as I cut one from a nature magazine, “surf on this lipstick?” I cut out a lot of blue sweaters and hats to act as the sea.

  “Cute,” Mae replied. “Do you think it could swim if it fell off?”

  “Good point. I’ll cut out a floatation device, too. I would put rocket boosters on its feet, but they probably wouldn’t work after they got wet.”

  “And the traction would be awful.”

  “Uh-oh. It’s headed right towards the reef of spiky shoes. This is looking disastrous.”

  “Here. Here’s a jump. That giraffe looks like a good enough surfer to handle a jump over those heels.” Mae handed me a cutout glass of milk.

  “Thanks. This’ll be good for its bones, too.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Except it won’t be that good.”

  “Yeah?”

  “The cow probably had a lousy life, caged and unappreciated. I think giraffes are vegan anyway.”

  “I bet the cow would want to be surfing too.”

  “Yeah! I need a cow picture now.”

  A crash emanated from the fort, in which Elsie and Kail were doing whatever they were doing in a previously uncommonly quiet fashion. I poked my head through the sheet wall.

  “Everything okay in here?” I inquired.

  “Fine.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Nuthin’.”

  “Doesn’t look like nuthin’.”

  “Made a time machime,” Kail announced proudly as he showed me a metal lunch box with the leg of a stegosaurus taped to the side.

  “This is how it works,” explained Elsie. She opened the latch to show some loose wires attached to knobs and buttons. She picked up a ball of knotted string. “This is the map. These red things make it go forward, and these blue things make it go backward. And this button stops things. We just have to find a way to power it.”

  “Very interesting,” I commented. “Where did you get all these pieces? This knob looks like it came from the kitchen cabinets.”

  “Um.”

  “And is that my hair clip?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Um.”

  “I suppose since it’s for your time machine, you can borrow it. Ask next time, ok?”

  Elsie nodded and giggled, which made Kail giggle, which made me giggle. I turned back to Mae, who had kept working. She was going through an eye phase, and her piece looked at us with intensity. I thought it would go well on our wall of masques that we collected over the years, which always seemed to be Watching.

  When we felt done enough, we went to sort through our multitude of board games. By the time we picked one and set up the last piece, our parents decided practice was over. We threw some faux fits in the name of staying up later, but were actually pretty tired, so we didn’t fight too hard.

  *~*

  The Garden

  The full moon called me from sleeping. A silver strip of light snuck between the shades and rested on my eyes. There were only two reasons I felt a person should be woken up not on their own accord: either moon shadows or mischief. Ok, blueberry pancakes could be added to the list. Especially when they were followed by a hint of mischief.

  I laid blinded by the liquid light of the night sky sphere. Quicksilver. Sometimes I would imagine sneaking outside and dancing in a Faerie circle throughout the night, then returning home with muddy feet and the sort of exhaustion that only came from laughing with others for hours. These days the veils between worlds had grown too
thick to pass through easily, and my imagination stayed only in my mind. Someone had boarded up the door to the Otherworld and nailed on a For Sale sign. Perhaps the Fae had moved houses because they weren’t keen on the new imposed ordinances against singing into the night. I would have loved to attend their housewarming party.

  A person could dream.

  My dreams made the routine of what was commonly called life more manageable. Mae loved the routine, and I was happy for her. Schedules filled me with dread. Schedules were the potatoes in the soup of civilization. Wait. I liked potatoes. Schedules were more like the stabby bits that poked out from the door of the iron maiden of civilization. They had to be there because they were in the blueprints. They were the blueprints. Schedules made sure things got done. I saw their use, but they had a habit of turning into objects of obsession. They left little room for change, for flow. The universe spoke to us constantly. Schedules made it difficult to hear the messages, and pay attention to the signs.

  The signs with which the universe spoke often showed themselves subtly. The right book appeared at the right time, and would tell me exactly what I needed to hear at a certain moment in time: a perfect quote. An inconvenient delay often opened a shortcut to a meaningful experience. That was one reason I was always late to stuff. Punctuality was in the same category as schedules, and busywork.

  Signs were especially important when I felt grumpy for seemingly no reason. The grumpy meant something was off, so I made a special point to look out for the signs. Sometimes I had to grump around a while first, but mostly I had to step outside. Stepping outside could do wonders. That was why I did not mind when the moon woke me up and beckoned me to the outside world.

  I sat up and cat stretched as I climbed into a thick woolly sweater with big honeycomb textured buttons and geometric designs of the tertiary persuasion. The moon called me, and I would go.

  The grass was wonderfully dewy as I stepped through the yard to the circular herb garden, which also seemed awakened by the moon. My bare feet were cold. I never minded cold feet much, so long as they were bare. If I could heat them up soon, I’d be fine. Three and a half steps later I decided sooner should be now, and shuffled back inside for some slippers before embarking again.

  Back when my age could be counted in single digits, I had helped my parents with their garden. They had a few pokey plants and a few roundish plants, and some tingly sweet smelling spring blossoms. I mostly dug holes to find hidden earthworms, and got bit by grubs. Those jerks.

  As I grew, the garden became more mine. My parents had other things to do. I began speaking with the plants. They were difficult to hear, and their language was strange. Native plants would speak the most clearly. They said they knew the soil in this area the longest.

  I bought seeds and seedlings of those native plants, after making sure the growers grew and gathered ethically. Reseed and respect the land. Nature was having enough difficulty keeping out invasive species, without the help of people opening up spaces to invade. I did grow nonnative species as well, especially herbs. Most of the nonnative plants I grew couldn’t survive the winter, so I knew they wouldn’t escape and cause problems elsewhere. The oregano, though, had its mind made up to take over the entire garden, and I had to keep reminding it that it was being unfair to the currants and the tarragon.

  I planted seeds, and told them stories as they grew. My stories weren’t ever very involved or very long. They often went a bit like:

  One day after a rain, a Nasturtium seed decided it was tired of being cooped up inside all day and ran around, pushing at its walls, until it popped its top and reached skyward. It grew in spicy goodness, then was spotted by a girl who knew it wasn’t poison so she had a nibble.  Thanks Nasturtium. To be continued…

  The plants never seemed to complain about being eaten, especially after a short story and polite gratitude. They appreciated my asking their permission. Perhaps it was all in my mind, but I felt they knew they were being asked. Usually, after asking if I could pick leaves or berries, a feeling of approval would come over me, but sometimes it just didn’t feel right. I respected the plants enough to follow that feeling, and moved on to pick something else. Nature was thoughtful. There was always something else to nibble instead.

  The garden gave unexpected gifts. I’d found stones with little quartz crystals, and feathers. Once, I found a plastic giraffe with chipped paint. I named it Sonia, and put it near the entrance. It became the guardian of the garden. Another time, I found an old coin with dirt packed in the triangle holes around its perimeter. I had no luck researching its origin. It now sits in a bird box in my room, cradled in cleansing mountain sage leaves.

  Plants were great teachers. They didn’t have words, but they spoke. They taught about the benefits of certain weeds, which weren’t actually weeds. They were just misunderstood. The plants trained me to spot the friendly bugs, who stopped the unfriendly bugs from getting a bit too close. Sometimes the plants had an argument, so I would have to separate them. Other times, they would gaze at each other from across the plot, and I would have to bring them together. They would complain of low water by wilting, or feeling ill by grumpy leaves. Mostly, they lounged around quite happily.

  Some would say the plants that filled the spaces between the paths were jumbled and messy when in full swing. I would advise a look closer. To the unobservant eye, they looked unstructured. Unscheduled. I thought they were lovely ordered chaos.

  The herbs and I had a symbiotic relationship. Well-pruned herbs grew more vigorously, and I was able to enjoy many delicious spices. The same went for vegetables. For a long time, ornamental flowers bothered me because I thought they were inedible, and therefore useless. I gradually learned they often had edible and medicinal properties. In addition, the birds, bees, and butterflies loved the flowers and seeds. My disdain turned to respect, and my respect turned to love.

  Strong moonlight colored the world a pallid indigo with shrouded edges. Sharp shadows hid dreams and nightmares both. I made a subtle bow to the moon in case she was watching, and stepped between Sonia the giraffe and an awakening lavender bush that stood en guard at the garden entrance. As summer returned, lavender’s drowsy aroma would bring serenity to any sniffer. Pots of mints continued along the curved border. They had to sit somewhat contained, or else they’d try to take over. Mints were pleasant, but pushy. I stooped to pick an early leaf of hardy lemon balm, who was in the mint family. The bees loved it. I agreed with them. Crushed and soaked in water, it made good lemonade.

  Culinary sage stood in bunches. Its protection of flavor and aid to digestion was worthy of such valor that any round table knight would bow to its excellence. The elderberry and blackcurrant buds were ready to burst, but were still closed and protected from occasional frosts. In their slumber, the raspberry bushes dreamed of brandishing their prickles to any lackadaisical sap who would hoard their soon-to-be bounty. Their leaves made delicious tea.

  I pattered toward the gazebo in the center of my garden. I had crafted it out of fallen branches, rope, and patience. Years of intertwining vines helped its stability. Concord grapes grew up the east and south sides, and over the top. Scarlet runners, with their delicious flowers and beans, would soon tendril up the north and west sides. The sandy center of the gazebo was my favorite meditation area. I also went there when I felt especially lonely. My friends with roots always knew the right things to say.

  Sitting on the sand was the boy who had crawled out of the puddle. He sat calm as dormant shrub, with closed eyes, as if in deep meditation. I was thoroughly curious about him, despite being skeptical of whether or not he was a recurring figment of my imagination. I mean, he had emerged from a puddle so shallow it wouldn’t cover a toad. Right? Right. He fit a little beyond what I knew of reality.

  His eyelids, slow as continents, opened and turned in my direction.

  The boy parted his lips as if to speak, but said nothing and closed them. He tilted his head left, and Looked at me. I saw me as he saw
me, as if I looked through his eyes. In his stare, I wasn’t who I thought I was. I wasn’t gentle, quiet, scattered, easygoing, nervous about getting things wrong, or a pizza queen. I wasn’t the identity I’d built for myself. I was a carbon based coelom organism biped consisting largely of liquid water and cells and energy, whose electromagnetic field glowed greenly, especially in my palms. I smelled faintly of lemon balm.

  I wondered if he saw through my eyes too. His age seemed near my own. His expression was thoughtful, and I imagined he used small smiles more often than belly laughs, similar to what he was doing now. I thought he would be someone who could sleep comfortably under the stars or in the rain with only the pack he had over his shoulder. He could hear the plants even more than I.  His eyes held constellations.

  He took what could have been a homemade hacky sack from his pack and gave me a quick look that said, “Forgive me in advance, you may not enjoy this, but it’ll be good for you,” and whapped me in the face. I coughed, breathing in the powdery sand that puffed out. It smelled faintly of rosemary and freshly burnt popcorn.

  Before I could recover, he said slowly, but guiltily, “Really sorry. The creatures of this planet use words. I had to do that so we could converse. Please stop being mad.”

  “Stop being mad,” I rumbled with angry eyebrows. “You’re new at introductions.”

  “The dust facilitated the transmission of information between us,” he said. His voice was like a ruddy sunset over sand.

  Flustered, I replied, “Maybe I’m still sleeping. If you were a dream, that would have made sense.”

  “The dust is from my planet. I have always carried it to remember. We all come from dust, and return to dust. It would make sense that most languages are from dust as well. This dust is alive, in its own way. This matter has memory. It remembers being stardust, and communicates with other stardust. It has provided a bridge for our languages.” His inflections were those of speech that has traveled far, and he spoke slowly, deliberately.

  I swept some settling sediment from my face, and said, “I have taken language classes in school, and the learning was slow and forgetful. A lot of trouble could have been avoided by flinging dirt around. I don’t feel that would have had the same effect, though.”