I remember the garden, how I would hopscotch down the path that stretched from our back door all the way to the flower beds. Dad would be in the potting shed, always planting new seeds to blossom in all seasons. Sometimes, we would sit and he would point to the flowers as I pulled the grass from its roots. The familiar smell of soil as I snuggled in to listen to him talk about the bugs that needed the flowers to survive, about the animals that would take the autumn leaves for their beds to get them through the winter. Sometimes I would fall asleep on his lap as the sun set over another bright summer’s day. Other days, I would be a whirling mess of flowy skirts and energy, racing across the lawn or chattering away in his ear as he knelt to pull the weeds.
We had made perfume with the petals of the rose bushes that grew around the borders. With the overzealous nature of childhood, I had removed the petals of other plants nearby. He was clearly heartbroken by the carnage I had wrought across his precious beds, but he gently took my hand and led me to a patch of tall, frilly plants. Placing his fingers on the delicate flowers, I watched him pull up the top half of the flower, the ever-present dirt under his nails a distraction from the opening and closing.
“This is a Snapdragon. When you pull the tops up, you can make their mouths open and close.” He said to me.
I reached out my sticky child fingers and crushed the flower between them.
“Gently,” he said, “they’re delicate. Do you remember when we talked about the bees? We want to look after these flowers for them.”
I reached for another flower and pinched the top up. It spat fire into my palm and I beamed up at my dad as magic burst from this beautiful monster. We watched together as the Snapdragon came alive. It flew through the air, roaring. The daisies closed up to protect themselves from the inferno released as it passed by.
A whole new world had opened up before me in my own back garden. Over the years, we told the stories of the plants and flowers all around us. When I was really little, we would settle on the grass after a long day of playing and he would tell me about Witch Hazel and her faithful friend Catmint.
Witch Hazel lived in the forest, in an old, creaky cottage where no one ever went. The children in the village were told to stay away from the crazy woman in the woods, but no one knew that Witch Hazel wasn’t dangerous, she was just different.
Instead of spending her days trying to sell her wares in the market, she would read and practice the spells in her books. Sometimes they didn’t go so well and instead of removing the rose thorn from Catmint’s paw, she would end up with pointy cat ears of her own, poking out from her wild, curly hair. On more than one occasion, Catmint had been accidentally turned neon green or royal blue and, even once, into a Crab Apple.
After struggling to fit in after I left for university, he took me down to the end of the garden and told me about Cowslip.
Cowslip had lived a lonely life, always feeling different from the other calves he grew up with. When they were new-born, all of them would enjoy the fields they called home, running around playing at all hours until their mothers called them back to have their night-time milk. As Cowslip grew older, less and less of his friends wanted to play out in the fields until he was the only calf running parallel to the fences. He tried to grow up with them and made the effort to join in, but he felt like an outsider, never understanding why they didn’t want to be out racing in the pen. They all liked to stand around chewing the cud and gossiping about the weather.
Over time, he stopped trying to blend in so much. Cowslip longed to feel the wind whip past him as it had when he was young, but running around the fields was frowned upon now that he was fully grown, so he would just stand and watch the world go by without him, longing to be a part of it.
On one of those days, Cowslip left the shed with the other cattle. As he walked to the trough with the other cows, a streak of black passed by him, but when he turned his head, he saw only white and brown cows beside him. Gone so quickly, he had hardly had the time to blink. As he ate, he kept one eye trained on the nearby fence. When he went out to the pasture to watch the people play in the park, he angled himself to see as much as possible, but for the whole day, he didn’t see any more black.
After many days, Cowslip forgot about the shadow that had passed by him. Until one morning, when he walked out into the neighbouring meadow to graze.
A beautiful black Peony dipped her head toward the grass, her neck bent so gently toward the ground and her mane falling across her face. Her lean, long limbs powered by supple muscles rippled a sheen across her coat as they rolled beneath them. She stepped forward to nibble on a fresh patch of Wild Lettuce. She was so close to the fence now, she would soon see him, but Cowslip couldn’t tear his eyes away from her. She was exquisite.
When she looked up and saw him staring, her bright eyes studied him. He couldn’t bear to think of how he must look. He admired her for her beauty, he knew she could only see his idleness reflected within his lumbering body and lonely eyes. He retreated behind the bushes, hiding himself away. He heard the gentle tread as she moved away from him and risked stepping out from the bushes to watch her go. To his surprise, she stood just on the other side of the fence, waiting for him to emerge.
She beat her hoof on the ground and shook her mane, but he could only stand and watch, too frightened that he would scare her away if he did anything else. In a burst of energy, she kicked up the dirt and ran down her side of the fence, all the way to the end of her field. He was entranced by her as she sped past. No one judged her for being free.
As she reached him, she slowed, looking deep into his eyes. She flicked her head and he understood. She wanted them to run together, each on their own side of the fence but still alongside each other. He hesitated and she took a few steps. Looked back. Before he knew it, he was running with her, the happiest he had ever been. The wind sped past him as he tried to keep up with her. The other cows watched and raised their brows, but he didn’t care. There was nothing more important than him and the Peony. As they slowed, he felt happier than he had ever felt since he was a calf. Cowslip had found someone who loved the wind in her mane just as much as he did and he would never forget the feeling again.
Every morning, Cowslip would go out to the fence to wait for Peony and they would trot down the length of their field together, relishing the ground beneath their feet.
Not too long after he told me that story, I found my own Peony. After a few years, we were sharing story times with my own sticky-fingered child.
Princess Camellia awoke in an unfamiliar place. The room was dark and smelled of rot, her hair stuck to the sweat on the back of her neck and there was pain. So much pain. A throbbing in her head melted into pain in her shoulder, an ache in her hip mingled with a burning in her knee. She could barely think past it all, but she knew something was wrong. She lifted her head to look around her and realised she was bound by Knotweed. Princess Camellia didn’t know where she was or how she had gotten there, but she knew she needed to get free.
Queen Alchemilla paced in her quarters, furious with her husband. He was taking too long. Camellia had been gone for over 5 hours and he was yet to send out the search party. They were losing time. The winter days were short and time was running out to head out before nightfall. Alchemilla had voiced her opinions one too many times and had been sent to her chambers before she further embarrassed him in front of his subjects. Camellia was her daughter and she would have a say in her rescue.
She called Iris, her chambermaid, to ready her riding gear, pulled on her favourite Foxgloves and made her way to the stables. Peony was already in her bridle when she arrived, and Coreopsis, the stable boy, was tightening her saddle. Iris must have warned him ahead of her arrival. She collected Houndstooth from his kennel and they set off, following Camellia’s scent.
Alchemilla rode for hours, through villages and towns all across her kingdom. She knew riding in the forest at night would be difficult, but she pressed on, hoping that she could catch up to whoever had taken her daughter and wouldn’t in turn be caught up to by her husband and his band of knights. She was finally on Camellia’s trail and she would not allow him to send her back to the castle.
As soon as night fell, she knew she had made a mistake. She should have stopped at the inn on the edge of town. She would have been able to eat and Peony would have had a stable to rest in. Just as she was considering turning back, she spotted a cottage ahead.
Witch Hazel heard a banging at her door and Catmint raised her heckles. They looked at one-another. No one had ever knocked on her door before. Slowly, she edged toward the door and peaked through a gap in the wood. She watched the woman on the other side for a moment. In her left hand she held the reins of a beautiful black horse, her right draped lightly across her stomach, her fingers worrying a gold button on her waistcoat. She stood tall and her eyes were watchful, glancing around the trees as she listened to the wind brushing through the branches. By her side was a dog, his ears pricked and his nose constantly searching the air.
Witch Hazel opened the door and was greeted by a wide but hesitant smile.
“Good evening, I have travelled too far into the forest and the night has drawn in quickly. I was wondering if I could stay with you?”
She was struck by a familiarity she couldn’t place. This, mixed with the confusion of being called upon, left her speechless.
“May I?” she asked again. Witch Hazel shook her head and then nodded, leaving Alchemilla confused. Eventually, she stepped aside and let her in.
Alchemilla entered a crowded room. The walls were covered in floor to ceiling bookshelves crammed with books of all sizes. In-between these were sheets of crumpled paper sticking out in all directions, scribbled notes half readable in the dim candle light. An armchair sat in the corner. Catmint curled in Witch Hazel’s vacated seat, an open book on the small table next to it. She made her way into the room and saw a glimpse of the kitchen. An imposing table filled the room, covered in jars and miscellaneous containers, some spilling onto the tabletop. A single dining chair was pulled against a wall under a high cupboard, an improvised ladder for the petite woman.
She watched Witch Hazel as she stood in the corner, watching Alchemilla take in her surroundings in turn. She looked out of place in her own home, shifting between leaning on the door frame and standing rod straight. Alchemilla realised she didn’t get many visitors.
“Your home is lovely.” She said. Witch Hazel only nodded in thanks.
Alchemilla fetched the dining chair, placed it next to the fire and sat. Sparks flew out into the room, fireworks built to a crescendo in the space between them, lighting the walls in a menagerie of colours. Houndstooth scurried under her chair and Catmint jumped into Witch Hazel’s arms. She grabbed a jar from the windowsill and gathered the light show within.
“Sorry about that,” she said quietly, “I’m not used to having guests and I tend to leave things lying around.”
She pointed to the tipped over pot that Alchemilla sat next to, but she didn’t even glance in its direction. Her eyes were wide and fixed solely on Witch Hazel, her mouth sitting agape.
“Are you OK? Are you hurt?” She checked over Alchemilla’s face for burns and any damage to her very expensive clothing. Alchemilla’s mind was whirring. Slowly, she came back to herself and was finally able to put her thoughts into words.
“You’re a witch?” she said, full of excitement. “I thought you had all died out?”
“No, we just hide a lot. People aren’t generally accepting of the things they don’t understand living next door.”
“How long have you been out here alone?”
“All of my life, I was born here. I didn’t used to be alone though. My father was killed when he went into the village for supplies. They were frightened of him. A mob had gathered and when he tried to portal, they attacked him. My mother died soon after.”
“How awful, I’m sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do?”
“No one can do anything, it’s the will of the people. I can’t be protected from their prejudices.”
“My people will listen to me.” Alchemilla said. Witch Hazel placed Catmint on the side table behind her and stepped toward her.
“Who are you?” Witch Hazel continued forward, blocking her view of Catmint entirely. Houndstooth stood and Alchemilla placed a hand on his head to settle him.
“Queen Alchemilla, dear.” She said, “And what would your name be?”
“Witch Hazel,” she said, taking the gloved hand offered to her as Alchemilla stood to face her.
“I would like to propose an exchange, Hazel.”
Witch Hazel stepped back, fully taking in the woman in front of her. She hadn’t expected the Queen to be so capable. She had always assumed she would be a small woman who did her husband’s bidding and wore pretty dresses. Queen Alchemilla, however, was imposing. She moved with grace as she studied the books on the shelves, when she pulled out one of her many potion-filled tomes, Witch Hazel could see that there was a strength to her. Clearly, she wasn’t a meek or timid woman. No one would enter these woods at night unless they had to.
“What would you be proposing?” she asked.
“There’s something I read about when I was little. I don’t know if it’s fairy-tale magic or something real?” she said, her voice small and her eyes averted from Witch Hazel. “They called it a Heart Portal.”
“Heart Portals are real.” Witch Hazel said, watching her. “It’s old magic and I’ve never done one before, so I don’t know if it’s a good idea?”
“It’s the only idea I have, Hazel.” Said Alchemilla. “I know, it’s a lot to ask of you, but I can offer you something in return. You can be my… Witch in Waiting? No, my Court Witch?”
“There used to be witches in the castle. They were usually called the ‘Sorceress in Residence’.”
“Yes! You, Witch Hazel, will be my official Sorceress in Residence and will be cared for like my own daughter.”
“But why would you want to help me?”
“Because I need you more than you need me. I have to find my daughter before she is harmed and, quite honestly, I believe you are the only one who can help me.”
Witch Hazel watched Alchemilla, the hope bubbling inside her and the shine she could see in her eyes as she considered all the possibilities. She turned her back on the Queen and left the room. Alchemilla’s heart broke and her face fell as she dropped into the chair, her head in her hands. She glanced up as she heard Witch Hazel’s soft steps nearing, a scruffy sheet of paper in her hand.
“This here,” Witch Hazel said, “is a Binding Contract. It is for your protection as well as mine and you are bound to it and to me, as am I to you. I need you to understand, if you don’t fulfil your part of the bargain, the price will be death. You cannot run from these agreements, somehow it will always find you. I will help you find your daughter as well as I can, whether that be through a Heart Portal or some other magic. From you, I ask that I, and all other Magicals like me, be protected in your kingdom.”
Alchemilla’s smile spread across her face. She scanned the document for anything untoward and signed. The alliance had begun.
When he got sick, we would visit as much as we could. He was tired from the chemo, but he still wanted to sit on the grass in the late summer sun, imagining the alternative lives of the flowers that sprang up.
Lily of the Valley was beautiful. She was a small, delicate woman, pale as snow and quietly deadly.
Black Eyed Susan closed the file on her desk and stretched out. She had been chasing Lily for years, from one city to another, she had followed her from murder to murder, always just a few minutes late. Always missing her by a breath. Lily was an assassin and a good one too. She had taken down diplomats, heads of state, celebrities, royalty and even a car dealer (although Susan was pretty sure that one was personal).
Susan was close to retirement, but she couldn’t hang up her police hat until she had her. Susan was haunted by Lily. She dreamt of her, saw her in places she wasn’t, thought about her constantly when she should have been focussing on other things. Chasing Lily had meant the end of her marriage, she had put everything into catching her. She couldn’t stop now.
There had been so many tip-offs over the years, but none were as solid as tonight. The team had infiltrated the gang who had hired Lily for the hit and they would be waiting for her to arrive. Tonight would be the night that Susan would have her in handcuffs.
Everything was set, Lily would arrive at the house at 11pm. Her target was already inside. The team had eyes on every part of the building, back-up waited a few streets over, ready to pull the undercover car that would take Lily into the station.
The time for Lily’s arrival ticked by. Hours passed but she never showed. Eventually, the stake-out was called off. Susan readied herself to leave, simmering with anger. Someone had warned Lily, she was sure of it. She would find the leak that snatched Lily away from her whatever she did. As she pulled her hair out from the collar of her coat, her radio crackled.
“Ma’am, I think you oughta see this.”
Susan rubbed her temples, straightened and erased the frown from her face before she stepped out of the house she had watched from. There was a buzz, murmurs passed between officers as she neared the building. She had barely stepped in the door when she saw the blood. A series of women’s bloody heel prints led into the kitchen where the target sat on a chair. Long dead.
Susan looked past the victim, there was nothing she could do about him now. Anger bubbled inside her as she realised Lily had left them a trail to follow. A trail that ended in a note:
Did you really think that charade would fool me, Susan? I saw through it the moment the job was commissioned, but I thought I’d have some fun with you all anyway.
Remember dear, without me you have nothing. What’s waiting for you once you finally catch me? An empty house? No one waiting for you to come home at night, no children, no grandchildren. Admit it to yourself, you need me. You need me to bring the fun into your life. You need me to give you purpose.
You and I are not so different, Susan. Everyone knows who I am and the things I do, but only I see you for who you are. Your heart is as black as mine. A dark expanse within that bright shell. I see through your protective petals wrapped tightly around your core. Peel them back, you might like what’s inside.
Forever waiting for you to realise you’d rather be with me,
Lily
Susan grabbed the note from the table and shredded it in her hands before she realised what she had done. The evidence was ruined. Lily had gotten to her. She had reached deep down inside her and she had made her stupid. Susan retreated as the officers all watched, some managing to hide their shock, others with their mouths gaping open. She walked until she could feel no more of the officers’ eyes on her and screamed from deep within.
Only Susan saw Lily step out from the shadows with a smile on her face. She was close enough to cuff her, but no one saw Susan turn and walk away.
On one of his last days, I wheeled him out into our old hiding spot in the back garden. I wasn’t the compact little girl who used to sit on his lap anymore, but I could still settle in beside him and hold his hand as he told me his last story.
Agapanthus was a hunter. He snuck up on his prey until they were overcome, often not aware of his presence until it was much too late. A solitary creature that could do so much damage to a herd, picking them off one by one. Usually, he would remove the Geraniums of the pack first, the oldest, the slowest, the least agile. Rarely they outran him. Other times, he would attack younger members, leaving an incomparable devastation in his wake. The youth of the herd lost to a silent killer.
On this day, Agapanthus slunk through the jungle of stems, the lavender releasing its soothing scent as he brushed past them. The muscles rippled under his black sheen as he stalked the Crocus lounging by the pond, looking for a fly to extract from the air. He watched from the cover of the stalks and settled to pounce upon his unsuspecting dinner. He fell back on his haunches and the power roiled through, catapulting him into the clearing. The Crocus spotted the fly just as he clasped his jaws around her and they fell into the water. The Agapanthus skulked silently away again with a full stomach, leaving no evidence of his hunt except a paw print in the mud. A whole life consumed by a hidden enemy.
He may have been gone, but I always had his stories to remind me of his love. The scent of freshly tilled soil always taking me back to those days on the grass, sitting surrounded by the wonders of his garden. So many flowers providing us with endless inspiration. When my children asked me for bedtime stories, I honoured him with the tales of Witch Hazel and Cowslip, but I could never bring myself to talk to them about Agapanthus. The thief who took him from us.
