Wilderbloom Garden

WILDERBLOOM GARDEN

A Whimsical Fantasy Adventure

By Ashley Tapia

Chapter 1: The Gate That Wasn't There Yesterday

Merry Thistlewick had always suspected that the world was hiding something.

Not anything particularly frightening, mind you. She wasn't convinced that monsters lived beneath her bed, nor did she believe the moon was a giant ball of cheese, despite what her uncle insisted after his third slice of actual cheese.

No, Merry suspected something much more interesting.

She suspected that perfectly ordinary places occasionally became extraordinary when nobody was looking.

A puddle might secretly lead somewhere else. An old tree might remember every person who had ever sat beneath its branches. A stone lying beside the road might have spent the previous evening attending a party with several other stones and simply wasn't talking about it.

Merry considered these perfectly reasonable possibilities.

Her neighbors considered Merry a curious child who asked too many questions.

Both descriptions were accurate.

On the morning everything changed, Merry was wearing her favorite green coat, a pair of sturdy boots, and a small satchel containing three biscuits, a notebook, a pencil, a piece of string, and a button she had found in the street.

She had no idea what the button was for.

She simply liked to be prepared.

The morning was bright and breezy. Birds hopped along the hedgerows, the grass sparkled with dew, and the village beyond the fields was beginning to stir.

Merry was taking her usual walk along the old garden path.

She had walked this path dozens of times before. It wound between two low stone walls, passed a crooked apple tree, and ended at a grassy hill where the wildflowers grew thickest.

There was nothing unusual about it.

Not a single thing.

Which was precisely why Merry stopped walking.

Something was different.

She stood perfectly still, narrowing her eyes at the end of the path.

Between the stone walls, where yesterday there had been nothing but a tangle of brambles, stood a wooden gate.

A little wooden gate.

It was made of honey-colored timber, with curling vines carved around its edges and a brass handle shaped like a sleeping cat. Tiny blue flowers grew between the boards, although Merry was reasonably certain that wooden gates did not usually grow flowers.

The gate stood beneath an arch of twisting branches. Beyond it, Merry could see brilliant splashes of color, as though someone had spilled several rainbows across the countryside.

She blinked.

Then she blinked again.

"Hmm," she said.

It was an excellent word for the occasion. It expressed curiosity, suspicion, and a willingness to investigate without committing to anything.

Merry approached the gate.

A small wooden sign hung from one of its posts.

She leaned forward to read it.

WELCOME TO WILDERBLOOM GARDEN.

Beneath those words, someone had carved a second message in smaller letters.

PLEASE LEAVE YOUR EXPECTATIONS AT THE GATE. THEY TAKE UP TOO MUCH ROOM.

Merry grinned.

"Oh, I think I'm going to like this place."

She reached for the handle.

The sleeping cat-shaped brass ornament opened one eye.

"Tickets?" it asked.

Merry jumped backward.

The cat opened its other eye and yawned.

"Well? Do you have them, or are we going to stand here all morning discussing the weather?"

Merry stared at it.

"Tickets to what?"

"To the garden, naturally."

"I thought this was the entrance."

"It is."

"Then why do I need tickets?"

"Because entrances are not the same as tickets." The cat looked unbearably pleased with itself. "Honestly, do I have to explain everything?"

Merry glanced around for the person operating this peculiar gate.

There was nobody.

"Who am I supposed to buy tickets from?"

"Me."

Merry examined the brass cat.

"How much do they cost?"

"One question."

"One question?"

"One good question. We don't accept the boring ones."

Merry thought carefully.

She could have asked how the cat talked, but that seemed rather obvious. She could have asked who built the gate, but she suspected the cat would produce a long and unhelpful answer.

Instead, she asked, "What happens if I come back tomorrow?"

The brass cat smiled.

It was not a reassuring smile.

"Ah," it said. "Now that's a good question."

The gate swung open.

Beyond it lay a garden unlike anything Merry had ever seen.

She forgot to breathe.

For a moment, she simply stood there, holding the straps of her satchel and staring at the impossible landscape.

A wide path of polished pink stones curved between towering flowers. Some blossoms were as large as umbrellas, with petals striped in orange, turquoise, and gold. Others floated above the ground on thin silver stems, bobbing gently as though they were underwater.

A stream of sparkling water ran uphill.

A collection of mushrooms stood beside it, each one wearing a tiny hat. One mushroom wore a hat made from a walnut shell. Another had fashioned itself a magnificent purple bonnet.

In the distance, trees with twisted silver trunks leaned over a meadow of glowing grass. Their branches were crowded with fruit that looked suspiciously like little glass lanterns.

And above everything, floating gently across the sky, were several enormous lily pads.

There were birds sitting on them.

One bird appeared to be knitting.

Merry opened her notebook.

She wrote:

Possible explanations:

1. I am dreaming.

2. I have accidentally discovered a place that doesn't follow ordinary rules.

3. I should have eaten breakfast before leaving home.

She considered the list.

Then she crossed out the first possibility.

Dreams rarely included such convincing smells.

The air was rich with the fragrance of fresh rain, sweet strawberries, warm bread, and something that smelled exactly like sunshine.

Merry took one step through the gate.

Then another.

The moment her boots touched the pink-stone path, a tiny bell rang somewhere overhead.

Every flower along the path turned toward her.

Merry stopped.

The flowers stopped, too.

She took a step to the left.

Every flower turned left.

She took a step to the right.

Every flower turned right.

Merry stared at them.

The flowers stared back.

"Well," said a large orange blossom, "she's not particularly graceful, is she?"

"I beg your pardon?" Merry said.

"Oh, she talks!" cried a blue flower. "I thought she was another garden statue."

"She's much too wobbly to be a statue," said a yellow one.

"I am not wobbly!"

"You nearly fell over your own feet."

"I was testing the ground."

"With your face?"

Merry pressed her lips together.

She was beginning to understand why the sign had warned her about leaving her expectations at the gate.

She had expected flowers.

She had not expected flowers with opinions.

"Good morning," she said politely.

"Good morning!" sang the orange blossom.

"Lovely weather," said the yellow one.

"Terrible weather," declared a purple flower.

Merry glanced at the sky. It was perfectly clear.

"How can the weather be terrible?"

"It's too cheerful," the purple flower grumbled. "Gives everyone unrealistic expectations."

The other flowers erupted into arguments.

Merry quickly walked away.

She had only been in the garden for three minutes, and already she had learned that flowers could talk, disagree, and apparently complain about happiness.

This place was wonderful.

She was going to need more biscuits.

---

The pink-stone path led Merry beneath an archway of vines.

As she passed, the vines curled above her head and dropped a small purple flower into her hair.

"Thank you," Merry said.

The vines rustled.

"You're welcome," they whispered.

Merry smiled.

Then the vines dropped another flower.

And another.

Within seconds, Merry was wearing a crown of purple blossoms.

"Oh, that's lovely!" called a nearby flower.

"She looks like a walking flowerpot," said another.

Merry carefully removed the crown.

"Thank you, but I don't think I need—"

A vine reached down and gently placed the crown back on her head.

Merry sighed.

"All right. I suppose I'll wear it."

The vines rustled approvingly.

She continued down the path until she reached a clearing filled with mushrooms.

Dozens of them stood in neat little rows, each with a different hat. They appeared to be holding a meeting.

At the center of the group stood a mushroom with a crooked walking stick and a pair of spectacles balanced on its cap.

It cleared its throat.

"Order! Order! I shall have order!"

A smaller mushroom raised a hand.

"Can we have biscuits?"

"No."

"What about a small biscuit?"

"No."

"A crumb?"

The mushroom with spectacles banged its walking stick against the ground.

"Absolutely not! We are discussing the most serious matter in the history of this garden!"

"What is it?" Merry asked.

Every mushroom turned toward her.

The one with spectacles narrowed its eyes.

"Who are you?"

"Merry Thistlewick."

"And what are you doing here?"

"Exploring."

"Without a permit?"

Merry glanced at the sign hanging above the clearing.

It read:

GRUMBLECAP MEETING HALL. PLEASE KNOCK BEFORE ENTERING.

Beneath it, someone had added:

KNOCKING IS OPTIONAL IF YOU HAVE BISCUITS.

Merry looked down at her satchel.

The mushrooms followed her gaze.

Their expressions changed immediately.

"Well," said the mushroom with spectacles, "perhaps we can make an exception."

"I thought you didn't allow biscuits," Merry said.

"We don't," he replied. "But exceptions are very important to the proper functioning of any society."

Merry pulled one biscuit from her satchel and broke it into several pieces.

The mushrooms cheered.

The one with spectacles accepted his portion with great dignity.

"I am Elder Grumblecap, chairman of this meeting, keeper of the eastern mushroom patch, and the only individual here who understands the proper use of a walking stick."

A mushroom in a tiny green hat muttered, "You use it to poke people."

"I use it to emphasize important points!"

"You poked me yesterday."

"You were standing where I wanted to emphasize!"

Merry laughed.

Elder Grumblecap looked offended for approximately two seconds before deciding that laughter was an acceptable form of appreciation.

"Very well," he said. "You may ask one question."

Merry looked around the clearing.

"What is this place?"

The mushrooms exchanged glances.

Several of them shuffled closer together.

Elder Grumblecap adjusted his spectacles.

"This," he announced, "is a garden."

Merry waited.

The elder waited, too.

"Yes," Merry said. "I gathered that."

"Then your question has been answered."

"But why does everything talk?"

"Because silence is terribly overrated."

"Why is the stream running uphill?"

"Because it prefers the view."

"Why are there birds sitting on floating lily pads?"

"Because the ground is terribly crowded this time of year."

Merry opened her notebook and scribbled furiously.

Elder Grumblecap leaned toward the mushroom beside him.

"She's asking too many questions."

"I like her," the other mushroom whispered.

"Why?"

"She brought biscuits."

Elder Grumblecap considered this.

"A sound argument," he admitted.

Merry was about to ask another question when something small and golden shot out from behind a mushroom.

It raced across the clearing, skidded through a pile of leaves, and collided with her boot.

"Oof!"

Merry looked down.

A tiny creature lay on its back, waving four little paws in the air.

It had fluffy golden fur, leaf-shaped ears, and a tail that ended in a bright pink flower.

The creature blinked up at Merry.

Then it sneezed.

A shower of glitter burst from its nose.

Merry stared.

The creature sat up, shook itself, and inspected the flower on its tail.

"Oh, good," it said. "It's pink today."

"You can talk, too?" Merry asked.

"Of course I can talk."

The creature looked at her suspiciously.

"Can you?"

Merry blinked.

"Yes."

"Excellent. I hate conversations with people who don't answer."

It sprang onto a nearby stone and stood proudly with its paws on its hips.

"My name is Pipkin. I am an expert explorer, a professional snack enthusiast, and a highly respected authority on—"

"Pipkin!" shouted a voice from behind the mushrooms. "Have you seen my hat?"

Pipkin's ears drooped.

"Oh, crumbs."

A peculiar man came hurrying into the clearing.

He wore a patchwork coat, a pair of muddy boots, and a floppy hat decorated with feathers, buttons, and a single daffodil. A watering can dangled from one hand.

He stopped in front of Merry and looked her up and down.

"A visitor!" he exclaimed.

Then he looked at Pipkin.

"And you have been eating the labels again!"

Pipkin looked scandalized.

"I have not!"

The man pointed to Pipkin's mouth.

A small paper label hung from one corner.

Pipkin slowly swallowed.

"That was a different label."

"From where?"

"The snack cupboard."

"You ate the labels off the snack cupboard?"

"They were very informative."

The man closed his eyes.

He took a long, patient breath.

Then he opened them again and beamed at Merry.

"Welcome to Wilderbloom Garden! I'm Mr. Wobblepot, the caretaker, groundskeeper, organizer, occasional cloud-wrangler, and—when absolutely necessary—official finder of lost things."

Merry glanced at the missing-hat sign hanging crookedly from a nearby tree.

"Are you looking for your hat?"

Mr. Wobblepot touched his head.

He was wearing a hat.

He stared at it.

Then he looked at Merry.

"Ah," he said. "No wonder I couldn't find it."

He removed the hat and examined it carefully.

"This isn't mine."

"Then whose is it?" Merry asked.

Mr. Wobblepot shrugged.

"Someone else's, I imagine."

He put it back on.

"It suits me rather well, though."

Merry burst out laughing.

Pipkin laughed, too, producing another tiny cloud of glitter.

Even Elder Grumblecap gave a reluctant chuckle, although he claimed afterward that it had been a cough.

Mr. Wobblepot offered Merry his hand.

"Come along! You must see the garden before it changes."

Merry shook his hand.

"Changes?"

"Oh, yes. It changes all the time."

"Why?"

Mr. Wobblepot paused.

He looked at the trees.

Then the mushrooms.

Then the floating lily pads.

"Well," he said, "because it does."

Merry waited for an explanation.

None came.

"That isn't a very helpful answer," she pointed out.

"Isn't it? I find it enormously helpful. Saves a great deal of explaining."

Pipkin hopped onto Merry's shoulder.

"Come on! I'll show you the best place in the whole garden!"

"Where is it?" Merry asked.

Pipkin pointed toward a distant hill.

"Over there!"

Merry followed the direction of the tiny paw.

There was no hill.

There was a lake.

A moment earlier, Merry was certain she had seen a hill in that exact spot.

Now the lake glittered beneath the sunlight, dotted with enormous lily pads and tiny boats made from curled leaves.

She turned to Mr. Wobblepot.

"Was that lake there before?"

Mr. Wobblepot scratched his chin.

"Not that particular lake."

"How many lakes are there?"

"Depends on the day."

"How can the number of lakes depend on the day?"

"Well, yesterday we had three lakes, two ponds, and a puddle with ambitions."

"And today?"

Mr. Wobblepot looked toward the water.

"Today, I believe we have four lakes, one pond, and a puddle that has become rather arrogant."

Merry stared at him.

He smiled pleasantly.

She decided not to ask any more questions for a little while.

Her notebook was already filling up, and she had a feeling she would need several more notebooks before the week was over.

The three of them set off down the path.

Merry walked carefully, watching the flowers sway and the mushrooms whisper. Pipkin pointed out a tree growing upside down, a patch of grass that sang opera, and a bush that produced perfectly round bubbles instead of berries.

One bubble drifted past Merry's nose.

It smelled like cinnamon.

She poked it.

POP!

A tiny voice inside the bubble shouted, "I'M LATE FOR LUNCH!"

Then it vanished.

Merry stopped walking.

"Did that bubble just talk?"

"Yes," said Pipkin.

"Why?"

"Probably hungry."

Merry wrote that down.

Talking bubbles may require regular meals.

She was beginning to think her notebook was not going to be nearly large enough.

---

Eventually, they reached a small bridge crossing the uphill stream.

The bridge was made of polished white wood, with little golden railings and a row of miniature bells hanging beneath it.

Merry leaned over the railing.

The water sparkled as it flowed upward toward the clouds.

Tiny silver fish swam through it, occasionally poking their heads above the surface to complain about the current.

"This is the most extraordinary place I've ever seen," Merry whispered.

Mr. Wobblepot smiled.

"That's what everyone says on their first visit."

"What do they say on their second?"

"Oh, usually something like, 'Where has the bridge gone?'"

Merry looked at him.

"The bridge moves?"

"Sometimes."

"Why?"

"Perhaps it gets bored."

Pipkin nodded solemnly.

"Bridges need excitement, too."

Merry laughed again.

She had never imagined that a bridge might have feelings.

Then again, she had never imagined talking flowers, opinionated mushrooms, or clouds that demanded biscuits.

Perhaps she had been imagining far too little.

She crossed the bridge and stepped into a meadow where the grass shimmered like emerald velvet. Flowers of every imaginable color swayed in the breeze, and little golden insects danced above their petals.

In the center of the meadow stood a magnificent tree.

Its trunk was silver, its leaves were translucent blue, and its branches held hundreds of tiny glowing lanterns.

Merry approached it slowly.

Something about the tree made her feel quiet and peaceful.

For the first time since entering the garden, she had no questions.

She simply stood beneath its branches and looked up.

A warm breeze passed through the leaves.

The lanterns glowed brighter.

Somewhere overhead, a bird began to sing.

Merry smiled.

Perhaps this was the garden's greatest magic—not that everything could talk, or that the paths moved, or that ponds could decide to go for walks.

Perhaps it was the feeling that anything wonderful could happen here.

Anything at all.

Then the tree sneezed.

A hundred glowing lanterns dropped from its branches.

They bounced across the meadow like little balls of light.

One landed on Mr. Wobblepot's head.

Another landed on Pipkin's tail.

A third settled inside Merry's satchel and began humming.

The tree sighed.

"Excuse me," it said. "I've been growing dust all week."

Mr. Wobblepot retrieved a lantern from his hat.

"Bless you."

"Thank you."

The tree sneezed again.

This time, a small golden apple fell directly into Professor Puddles' path.

The snail, who had apparently been following them for the past hour without anyone noticing, looked up at it.

He adjusted his spectacles.

"A fascinating specimen," he declared. "I shall examine it immediately."

He took a bite.

The apple squeaked.

Professor Puddles froze.

Merry froze.

Pipkin froze.

Even Mr. Wobblepot stopped adjusting his hat.

The apple squeaked again.

Professor Puddles slowly lowered it.

"Well," he said, "that's new."

The apple opened two tiny eyes.

"Excuse me," it said. "I'm trying to sleep."

Professor Puddles stared at it.

Then he carefully placed the apple back on the ground.

"My apologies."

The apple yawned.

"Thank you."

It rolled beneath a nearby bush and went to sleep.

Merry laughed so hard she had to sit down.

And that was how her first morning in Wilderbloom Garden unfolded: with talking flowers, a missing hat, a lake that hadn't existed ten minutes earlier, and a sleepy apple that objected to being eaten.

She had only one remaining question.

She turned toward the entrance, intending to ask Mr. Wobblepot whether she could return the next day.

But the gate was gone.

In its place stood a towering hedge covered in enormous white daisies.

Merry walked toward it.

She searched behind the flowers.

She checked between the leaves.

She even asked a nearby daisy whether it had seen a gate.

The daisy sniffed.

"Don't be ridiculous. Gates don't grow on hedges."

Merry returned to her friends.

"How do I get home?"

Mr. Wobblepot looked mildly surprised.

"Oh! You'd like to leave already?"

"I'd like to come back tomorrow."

"Ah!" He brightened. "That's entirely different."

He reached into his coat pocket and produced a small wooden token shaped like a leaf.

On one side was carved a little flower.

On the other were five words.

COME BACK WHENEVER YOU WONDER.

Merry held the token in her palm.

It was warm, as though it had been sitting in a patch of sunlight.

"Will it bring me back here?" she asked.

Mr. Wobblepot smiled.

"It will bring you somewhere."

"Somewhere?"

"Well, this is Wilderbloom Garden."

He spread his arms toward the impossible landscape.

"Somewhere is rather the whole point."

Merry looked at Pipkin.

Pipkin looked at Merry.

Professor Puddles nodded wisely.

"Indeed. I have spent seventeen years studying the garden, and I can confidently say that I know almost nothing about it."

"Seventeen years?" Merry asked.

"Possibly eighteen. I lost track while counting the mushrooms."

Elder Grumblecap called from somewhere behind them.

"You counted us twice!"

"I was checking my work!"

Merry tucked the wooden token into her satchel.

Then she turned toward the hedge.

A little door had appeared between two daisies.

It had a brass handle shaped like a sleeping cat.

Merry grinned.

"Of course it has."

She opened the door.

On the other side was the familiar path, the crooked apple tree, and the grassy hill where the wildflowers grew thickest.

Merry stepped through.

The door clicked shut behind her.

She turned around.

There was nothing there but a tangle of ordinary-looking brambles.

Merry stood quietly for a moment.

The morning sun warmed her face. Birds sang from the hedgerows. Somewhere in the distance, a farmer called to his sheep.

Everything looked exactly as it had before.

Almost.

Merry reached into her satchel and pulled out her notebook.

She opened it to a fresh page and wrote:

Wilderbloom Garden.

Flowers talk. Mushrooms wear hats. Trees sneeze lanterns. Apples complain about being eaten.

The garden changes constantly.

She paused, tapping her pencil against her chin.

Then she added one final sentence.

I must return tomorrow.

Merry closed the notebook and hurried home.

Behind her, deep within the brambles, a tiny brass bell rang.

The sleeping cat opened one eye.

"Another one," it murmured.

Then it yawned, closed its eyes, and went back to sleep.

Far beyond the hedge, the garden was already changing.

The silver tree packed its roots and began moving toward the lake. The lake decided it preferred being a meadow. The meadow began growing enormous purple cabbages.

And somewhere beneath a particularly large mushroom, an apple woke from its nap.

"Has anyone seen my bed?" it asked.

Nobody answered.

The garden had other plans.

Tomorrow, Wilderbloom would be different.