5 - Alovera Plant
1017 Words
"Over this way." Dryad said. Harold followed, trying to flex the stiffness out of his newly healed arm. "Here. This poor plant is just being drowned in water. It is not thriving under the care of those dolts. You will pay money to take her from this place to your home."
"You want me to... buy a plant?" Harold asked. So much cheaper than his normal doctor charged.
"If that is what your kind call such a transaction." Dryad said. "You will take her home, and keep her safe, and nurture her, and raise her, answering all of her questions. And, when she is old enough to ask, you shall bring her here to me."
"This is more than a single night's work." Old Marishka said.
Dryad drew herself up straight, seeming to add an inch or so to her height. "Harold the half-mortal, do you feel this is an abusive favor?"
"I think you're asking me to raise the plant as a child."
"Yes." Dryad said. "That is exactly what I ask of you."
"I... I guess I've wanted kids ever since my wife took mine during the divorce." he said.
Old Marishka threw her hands up, and slapped the arms of her lawn chair.
"Excellent." Dryad said. "Kompost will help you select proper food for her, and the mice know enough to operate the ... human box thing."
Kompost selected an assortment of pots, a watering can, and a very expensive brand of Mexican fertilizer.
"Still cheaper than my doctor." he said. The mice laughed at him, ringing up the sale under a cashier named Bruce.
"Hey, do you guys know what kind of plant this is and how much water it needs?"
The mice dutifully pulled up the Wikipedia page on Alovera, a plant that indeed, looked like the wilted thing in the pot. "Okay, water... thanks guys."
"Welcome." each of the mice squeaked in turn. "Now get lost." the last said.
"Do you guys have a hand cart I could borrow?" he asked.
"Do we look like we can move a hand cart?" a brown mouse asked him.
"Oh. I guess not. Sorry."
"De nada." a black mouse squeaked at him.
Harold took two loads of supplies to his trunk, and waited at the car for Old Marishka.
The ride home was stressful, not the least because of Old Marishka's lecture on favors and haggling, and how his son probably had whatever genes had led to his unfortunate decision. Aloe, Harold's name for the plant, rode silently in the cupholder.
Even when she was gone (Harold waited to see her enter her front door, although he couldn't say why), Harold's mind worked over her words. Things he should or shouldn't have said, as well as things he wanted to say, but new better than to give voice to.
He hastened home, not the least of reasons being that Princess was on the back porch. Princess had been a rescue dog, a black papillon with white spots. She was an attention hog, and shed everywhere, and thought of Harold (especially his lap) as her personal property. But she was attentive and affectionate, and Harold thought they made a pretty decent family.
He set the plant on a countertop above where Princess could reach her, and opened the back porch. Princess showed none of her normal reluctance, eager to get back inside. "Sorry, Princess. I got delayed after work." Harold said.
Princess looked at him, and did not speak. Then she made a beeline for her bowls, and looked at him.
"Right." Harold said. "You must be hungry, too." He'd ordered food that was bad for him through his cell phone, and rebuked himself that he'd only thought of Princess' loneliness. He filled her water dish first, and then took her kibble from the refrigerator. It was specially made at the local slaughterhouse, and contained bits of ground bones and other organs that ... well, Princess seemed to like the mix, even if Harold were happier not thinking about what it contained.
Princess downed the water, vacuumed up her kibble, and sat down to behold the new plant.
"Princess, this is Aloe. She'll be joining us for a while." Harold said.
Princess turned her head, and nudged the water bowl. Knowing she would need out anyway, Harold complied. "Okay, I was late, after all."
The shows that he and Princess normally watched had long since aired, so he pulled up some recordings on his phone (which he broadcast to the TV), and they watched those instead, while he brushed tangles and lawn debris from her fur.
"I never see you playing in the yard." Harold said. "How do you manage to get so ruffled?"
And while he ignored the outside world, Stickman watched him, and in particular the new arrival to the house.
Stickman was a spirit, one of those phantasmal beings that didn't properly exist or not exist; he simply WAS, and in his own way he adored Princess and showered her with attention and wove all manner of plant debris into her hair. He sang to her tales of the Fae, of times long before his own, let alone hers.
And in that evening, Stickman realized something. He looked in at the home, at the loving that Princess showed her human master and not him.
And he became just a shade more real, as he realized that without the human, perhaps HE could sit there, enjoying the couch and sipping on a soda (he wasn't real enough to hold it, let alone move it, but there wouldn't be much use telling him that) and watching the moving images.
He, Stickman, could be lord not only of the outside of the house, but of the inside as well. He could decorate it with dirt and twigs and dead leaves, and make it... well, less human.
But in realizing he just didn't like the inside, not as it was, his Envy left him. With it, his desire for the inside, and a shade of the real.
So, for that evening at least, Harold had peace.
- Writer
