Knock knock.
Two knocks on the front door of my house broke - gently - my morning routine. Every morning, I spent about half an hour feeding precious water to the plants in my garden. It started years ago, as a way of getting into morning meditation without silly cross-legged positions, and then it became a demand - the same plants which had been growing (more or less) happily for years, started waking me up every morning. I could feel their needing energy, their gentle and firm demand to calm their thirst; sometimes I can even feel their leaves touching lightly my forehead. I thought it was all psychology, you see, until I noticed that after light rain they still call me, but they don't want water. They want compan-
Knock knock.
I had started going off for one of my infamous tangents. The door - I needed to answer the door. I dropped the hose, walked to the tap and turned it off. I felt the plants getting anxious, even nettled.
I walked in through the backdoor, through the house; two young girls smiled as I opened the door. They could have been nine or eleven, their skin was dark. Were they aboriginal? One looked African, but I could never tell - and was always to afraid to ask.
"Yes?" I said.

The smaller of the two looked as if she'd been crying. She spoke so quietly, mumbling into her chest. I couldn't make out what she said.

"What's that, sweetie?" I asked.

The bigger girl spoke. Her black curly hair waved around her head like underwater ferns, floating and light. "The lady across the street said Ms. Starkey would know where Melissa's cat is. She's Melissa," she said, elbowing her companion. "Are you Ms. Starkey?"

My heart collapsed in on itself, like a potato bug rolling itself up against the world.

I didn't know where Melissa's cat was. Not exactly. It's not as if I'd seen her cat, or the puppy in the posters Glen Johnson down the street had tacked up to the all the utility poles in the neighborhood. I hadn't seen Margy Blankenship's blue heeler, or Slim's goat.

I don't know Slim's real name. I guess I should, since he's lived down the street almost my whole life, since before Mom disappeared when I was seventeen. Back then, Slim called me Little Norphin Nannie, even though I'm named after my mother, Rebbecca. Everyone just calls him Slim. These days, Slim just calls me Becca, like everybody else.

"Are you Ms. Starkey?"
Oh yes, that question. My mind had left the room for a moment or two. It did that quite a lot lately.
"Yes, I am. But you can call me Becca, sweetie. Everybody does."
Melissa, the shorter girl, spoke again. This time, her voice was mixed with strength and hope
"So, you know where Shady is? You know?"
I didn't. I couldn't. I mean, I couldn't possibly remember exactly, and even if I could, there would be no use. But how could I possibly explain that to a crying little girl?
"Unfortunately, I don't know where Shady is" I said.
Melissa's heart sunk, as the older girl spoke.
"Can we look in your garden, Ms. Starkey? Please?"
Melissa stood aghast when she heard the question, her reddened eyes looking out of place on her pale face.
No doubt, these girls were determined.
"Sure" I said.
I opened the fly screen, let them in, and started walking towards the garden.
"Please shut the fly screen behind you, darling" I said.
I could see the house's front door from the back door. It was quite a scene. They reminded me... they reminded me of kittens, when they are lured into a trap by the smell of fresh kangaroo meat. Every step was gentle and careful, each one of their movements smooth. Children were a little bit like little animals after all. Maybe a little too much.
I went to the backyard. Amazingly, they followed me. The shovel was still in the ground.
"I was watering my plants. They need nutrition, you see" I said, while turning the water on. The plants' flowers and leaves were tense - just like cat's hair during a fight. The plants were ready to strike. I kept them calm, watering them, touching them gently.
The two little puppies started snooping around, as the grass tried helplessly to cling to their tiny bare feet.
"Yes, the plants need feeding" I repeated as I tried to distract the plants from the intruders.

Knock knock (4)

The grass pushed lightly against their tiny girl feet, pressuring them deeper into the garden. The ferns lifted their fronds up in tense hope. The thin small trees murmured softly, expectantly.

"Stick close to me, okay?" I said. "Don't run off ahead, no matter what." I held out my hands, and they each clasped a tiny trusting hand in mine, one on either side.

So many years ago, I also had a kitten. Then the garden hardly spoke. It was my garden, and my mothers, and she taught me the zen of caring for another. "Patience, care, and love," she told me. "Center yourself on patience, care, and love, and you can grow the most extraordinary things."

I remembered my kitten, Princess Georgie. I imagined Shady looked just like Princess, playful and calico and regal when eating bugs. My mother had told me, "Keep the fly screen closed," but back then the plants hardly ever said anything, and so I wasn't very careful.

I cried and cried. Mother tried to console me. "Princess Georgie is in a better place," she said, but I didn't believe her.

Would Melissa believe me if I told her Shady was in a better place?

Melissa tugged on my right hand. "Ms. . . . I mean, Becca?"

I decided I should probably show her Shady's better place. She would never believe me, otherwise.

We walked deeper into the garden, hand-in-hand.

"We are going to look for Shady. Don't you worry, we are going to look for your pussy cat" I said.
Sensations started exploding and melting together, impatience from the plants mixed with the little girls' fear and with my exhilaration. The grass was getting stickier, the stems stronger and more determined.
"Ouch!" said the older girl. "My ankle!". She stopped, kneed down. Her ankle, just above the foot, was bleeding. Something in the garden had been greedy. Too greedy.
They stopped a few seconds. Just enough.
"I am stuck" said Melissa, the smaller girl. The grass was well tangled around her small feet.
The older girl never told me her name, did she? I asked her.
"You hurt yourself, silly girl. What is your name?"
The plants needed time, slow creatures living off patience and water.
"Monica! Monica!"
An adult voice answered my question. Monica looked at me, with understanding eyes. The plants echoed the shout, "Monica! Monica!", from the depth of the garden. To my surprise, she turned her head. She had heard it. I wasn't the only person who heard the garden.
Monica stood up, her shiny juice feeding happy leaves. She tried to lift Melissa, but didn't manage. She tried again, the grass ripped slightly.
"Mum!" she shouted, towards the garden. "Mum!" again, towards the house, on top of her diaphragm-filled voice. Her shout filled the air, the plants went quiet, their grip lessened.

I stroked Monica's black curly hair, so wild and free. "Give them a minute," I told her. "They want to taste you, to get to know you."

Monica's mother called out again, nearer, louder. Monica shouted toward the house, "Here, Mum! We're in the garden!" Her voice didn't tremble at all, and her eyes were wide. "We'll be out in a bit!"

From deep in the garden, the faint rustle of living green called, "No, Monica. In here." Monica gasped.

She was frightened, I could tell. I could only feel relief, and joy. I thought perhaps I was just a bit insane, that the garden was normal, and I was the strange one. But Monica's reaction proved my sanity.

I felt the garden respond, felt my giddy joy spread through the grass and ferns and plants with no names, shrubs and beautiful blood-red tulips and sea-green moss, all the way to the gnarled solitary tree at the garden's heart.

Melissa whimpered, "I thought you were going to take me to Shady."

There was that. I had promised, and I didn't want to disappoint this beautiful young child, so happy and careless. But I hadn't been deep into the garden in many years.

Monica looked up at me, innocence and anxiety mixed up in those shiny brown eyes. "They want to taste us?"

"Yes," I said. "Just taste, for now. They're kind of scary, aren't they?"

She nodded, her lips drawn. "Is this what happened to Shady? Did they eat him?"

I smiled, hoping to comfort her. "No," I said. "No, not exactly. They did something even more wonderful."

"I want to go home" said Melissa. "I want to go back."
"No, dear, I am afraid not-"
If was then that I felt a small hand push forcefully against my waist, the strength of a threatened animal. I let go of the girls' hands, and nearly managed not to fall. The grass betrayed me: it was trying to grasp my feet as well - why? why? - and I fell on my back.
An impossibly high-pitch noise filled my ears and my head, the light vision went strangely dim. Behind me there it was, the solitary tree in the middle of the garden, the beginning of everything, the voice, imposing his disapproving presence on me.
Wetness surrounded my scalp. I moved just enough to see the little girls run for their lives, the little child - what was her name? - screaming "Shady! I saw shady! He was like...", the distracted grass and ferns surrounding my juicy head.
"Melissa!" her mother called again, fear generating from her animal instinct.
I am here, solitary tree. You wanted water. More water. Then animals, more animals. How, you've tasted children. You want them. So be it. Plants are patient beings, you will not be tempted by my blood now, you will not let this fern strangle me.
So be it.