It was late afternoon when Daisy reached the glade at the centre of the forest. She’d been walking all day and her bag was heavy. Everything she owned was in that bag or stuffed in the pockets of her dazzling bright garments. Not for her the drab black of the crone - she chose the vivid colours of youth. She didn’t want people to be afraid of her; she wanted them to admire her. Besides she looked dreadful in black.
Her feet ached and she sat down on a moss-covered log to consider her situation. The trees cast long shadows over the grass, but the clearing wasn’t a gloomy place. It was light and welcoming and Daisy felt safe. A tangle of blackberry bushes promised to bear plenty of fruit in the autumn and mushrooms dotted the ground beneath an ancient oak. A small stream ambled past her and fish darted through the clear water. Flashes of sunlight glancing off their scaled bodies turned them into tiny rainbows.
Her eyes filled with tears as she re-lived her last morning in the village. Her father had been so angry with her, calling her harsh names that still burned, saying she was no longer his daughter. He’d turned her out of her home as her mother pleaded with him and her sisters wept. Her neighbours’ jeering laughter and their pleasure in her disgrace stung her deeply; she’d thought they were her friends. But, as she relaxed and enjoyed the warmth of the sun on her back, her sadness and her shame slowly melted away until she was at peace, harmony restored.
She removed a tiny black velvet drawstring bag from her bodice and fumbled with the complicated knot. For a moment she thought she’d never be able to untie it, but then the knot fell apart of its own accord and the bag was spread open before her. It contained a single large seed, an odd-looking thing, all straight edges not oval, black and white not green or brown. The instructions were written in a small, crabbed hand on a slip of parchment. Although some of the words were difficult to make out, their meaning was clear and she knew what to do.
Finding the right spot didn’t take her long. She dug a small hole twenty paces from the stream, opposite the path leading back to her village. Now she had to wait for the moon to rise. There was enough time to eat and she was grateful to her mother for the bread and cheese. She ate and drank water from the stream while twilight fell and the forest grew quiet.
The full moon rose and illuminated the clearing with its pearly light. Daisy picked up the seed and blew softly on it.
‘The air of my body.’
She took a silver knife from her pocket and cut her finger, allowing three drops of blood to fall on the seed.
‘The fire of my blood.’
She placed the seed in the hole and covered it with soil brought from her garden.
‘The earth of my home.’
Finally she watered the seed with tears shed for her lost home.
‘The water of my eyes.’
She curtsied to the moon to complete the ritual. She watched and waited, afraid nothing would happen.
Then, in the soft moonlight, she saw a small swelling appear in the ground. It grew and twisted and turned, stretching and groaning, all angles and lines, until after one loud groan, the earth heaved and a small cottage shook itself free, showering clods of soil and clumps of grass over the glade.
She opened the door and stepped inside. The moon shone through the window and showed her a small room with a fireplace. A sleeping loft was tucked beneath the eaves of the thatched roof, next to the chimney to keep her warm in winter. It was perfect for her. She would be happy there.
Daisy had been afraid that her father had been right, that the pedlar had swindled her, but now she felt vindicated. The pedlar had not lied. It was a houseplant.
Her feet ached and she sat down on a moss-covered log to consider her situation. The trees cast long shadows over the grass, but the clearing wasn’t a gloomy place. It was light and welcoming and Daisy felt safe. A tangle of blackberry bushes promised to bear plenty of fruit in the autumn and mushrooms dotted the ground beneath an ancient oak. A small stream ambled past her and fish darted through the clear water. Flashes of sunlight glancing off their scaled bodies turned them into tiny rainbows.
Her eyes filled with tears as she re-lived her last morning in the village. Her father had been so angry with her, calling her harsh names that still burned, saying she was no longer his daughter. He’d turned her out of her home as her mother pleaded with him and her sisters wept. Her neighbours’ jeering laughter and their pleasure in her disgrace stung her deeply; she’d thought they were her friends. But, as she relaxed and enjoyed the warmth of the sun on her back, her sadness and her shame slowly melted away until she was at peace, harmony restored.
She removed a tiny black velvet drawstring bag from her bodice and fumbled with the complicated knot. For a moment she thought she’d never be able to untie it, but then the knot fell apart of its own accord and the bag was spread open before her. It contained a single large seed, an odd-looking thing, all straight edges not oval, black and white not green or brown. The instructions were written in a small, crabbed hand on a slip of parchment. Although some of the words were difficult to make out, their meaning was clear and she knew what to do.
Finding the right spot didn’t take her long. She dug a small hole twenty paces from the stream, opposite the path leading back to her village. Now she had to wait for the moon to rise. There was enough time to eat and she was grateful to her mother for the bread and cheese. She ate and drank water from the stream while twilight fell and the forest grew quiet.
The full moon rose and illuminated the clearing with its pearly light. Daisy picked up the seed and blew softly on it.
‘The air of my body.’
She took a silver knife from her pocket and cut her finger, allowing three drops of blood to fall on the seed.
‘The fire of my blood.’
She placed the seed in the hole and covered it with soil brought from her garden.
‘The earth of my home.’
Finally she watered the seed with tears shed for her lost home.
‘The water of my eyes.’
She curtsied to the moon to complete the ritual. She watched and waited, afraid nothing would happen.
Then, in the soft moonlight, she saw a small swelling appear in the ground. It grew and twisted and turned, stretching and groaning, all angles and lines, until after one loud groan, the earth heaved and a small cottage shook itself free, showering clods of soil and clumps of grass over the glade.
She opened the door and stepped inside. The moon shone through the window and showed her a small room with a fireplace. A sleeping loft was tucked beneath the eaves of the thatched roof, next to the chimney to keep her warm in winter. It was perfect for her. She would be happy there.
Daisy had been afraid that her father had been right, that the pedlar had swindled her, but now she felt vindicated. The pedlar had not lied. It was a houseplant.