instant they set her down in the weeds and grass she turned sunny once again.
When Olivia was barely four years old, her mother had set her up with a small raised garden behind the farmhouse, and Olivia had sat with her seedlings each morning and talked softly to them as if it were the most normal thing in the world to hold a conversation with a patch of peas. When the people of the Bethel hamlets came to the farm to pick up their produce, theyexchanged glances with their eyebrows raised almost off the top of their heads. They stopped one another at christenings and bar mitzvahs to speculate: What do you make of it? they said. Witchcraft? The Devil’s curse? Dropped on her head?
But Olivia herself had no idea that at four years old she’d already caused such a sandal. Her peas grew up their teepee so quickly that a person starting on a glass of fresh lemonade might see them climb a good inch by the time the last drop was gone. Her sunflowers shot up two stories high. For a time, Olivia had assumed that her experience with plants was typical. But as she became aware that the exclamations of garden visitors were not simply the obligatory phrases of adults giving praise, she came to understand that plants behaved differently in her care.
Of course, there were logical explanations—everybody knew Pennywort soil was the best in the valley, that it had been the best ever since the Concert had come to town. But Olivia had seen that when she gave any plant her attention, it flourished abnormally whether it was a tiny seedling or a half-dead peace lily brought from a neighbor as a gift. Her talents had limits; she could not single-handedly defeat drought, and there wasn’t much she could do about floods or early frosts. But in general, the Pennywort fields fared better than others in the same area. And her secret garden—that was the most prolific garden of all.
On summer nights after sunset, she could sometimes be seen heading alone into the garden maze, where it was presumed she locked herself behind the gray stone walls for hours at a time. Some people said that once inside she transformed herself into an ugly old black bear—so that when garbage cans were raided and bird feeders were pulled down, old-timers were only half joking when they said it was Olivia Pennywort having her way. Others hypothesized that when she touched the enchanted soilof her garden she turned into a giant calla lily, and so she needed the earth of her garden the way Dracula needed to sleep on native soil. Still others said the Pennyworts weren’t doing anything magical or supernatural behind their garden walls—except for growing a highly potent form of wormwood, which the reclusive old dingbat Arthur Pennywort had used to make such a powerful form of absinthe that his brain had turned a toxic, fairy green.
Wormwood and calla lilies aside, what Olivia grew in her garden had the distinction of being just as outrageous, if not more outrageous, than what people believed she grew. Her plants were the kind that unfailingly jarred mothers to tug their children’s hands and warn them to stay back, don’t touch, and get away. Some species were so rude that even the marauding, yellow-eyed goats of Green Valley—goats known to eat everything from newspaper to electrical cords—tended to avoid them. They were poison ivies and nightshades, stinging nettles and poison hemlocks, laurels and sumacs and doll’s eyes. And on certain summer nights, Olivia slept the deep sleep of a child among them, the most dangerous, toxic, and itch-inducing plants of the rudest kind.
She took a heavy key from around her neck, opened the door to her garden, and slipped inside. The sun had set, but there was still some light in the sky, and her plants seemed to rustle in greeting. Olivia felt a change come over her, as it always did when she returned to her garden—a cellular ignition that made her feel both relaxed and energized. Green poison ivy crawled up the stone
When Olivia was barely four years old, her mother had set her up with a small raised garden behind the farmhouse, and Olivia had sat with her seedlings each morning and talked softly to them as if it were the most normal thing in the world to hold a conversation with a patch of peas. When the people of the Bethel hamlets came to the farm to pick up their produce, theyexchanged glances with their eyebrows raised almost off the top of their heads. They stopped one another at christenings and bar mitzvahs to speculate: What do you make of it? they said. Witchcraft? The Devil’s curse? Dropped on her head?
But Olivia herself had no idea that at four years old she’d already caused such a sandal. Her peas grew up their teepee so quickly that a person starting on a glass of fresh lemonade might see them climb a good inch by the time the last drop was gone. Her sunflowers shot up two stories high. For a time, Olivia had assumed that her experience with plants was typical. But as she became aware that the exclamations of garden visitors were not simply the obligatory phrases of adults giving praise, she came to understand that plants behaved differently in her care.
Of course, there were logical explanations—everybody knew Pennywort soil was the best in the valley, that it had been the best ever since the Concert had come to town. But Olivia had seen that when she gave any plant her attention, it flourished abnormally whether it was a tiny seedling or a half-dead peace lily brought from a neighbor as a gift. Her talents had limits; she could not single-handedly defeat drought, and there wasn’t much she could do about floods or early frosts. But in general, the Pennywort fields fared better than others in the same area. And her secret garden—that was the most prolific garden of all.
On summer nights after sunset, she could sometimes be seen heading alone into the garden maze, where it was presumed she locked herself behind the gray stone walls for hours at a time. Some people said that once inside she transformed herself into an ugly old black bear—so that when garbage cans were raided and bird feeders were pulled down, old-timers were only half joking when they said it was Olivia Pennywort having her way. Others hypothesized that when she touched the enchanted soilof her garden she turned into a giant calla lily, and so she needed the earth of her garden the way Dracula needed to sleep on native soil. Still others said the Pennyworts weren’t doing anything magical or supernatural behind their garden walls—except for growing a highly potent form of wormwood, which the reclusive old dingbat Arthur Pennywort had used to make such a powerful form of absinthe that his brain had turned a toxic, fairy green.
Wormwood and calla lilies aside, what Olivia grew in her garden had the distinction of being just as outrageous, if not more outrageous, than what people believed she grew. Her plants were the kind that unfailingly jarred mothers to tug their children’s hands and warn them to stay back, don’t touch, and get away. Some species were so rude that even the marauding, yellow-eyed goats of Green Valley—goats known to eat everything from newspaper to electrical cords—tended to avoid them. They were poison ivies and nightshades, stinging nettles and poison hemlocks, laurels and sumacs and doll’s eyes. And on certain summer nights, Olivia slept the deep sleep of a child among them, the most dangerous, toxic, and itch-inducing plants of the rudest kind.
She took a heavy key from around her neck, opened the door to her garden, and slipped inside. The sun had set, but there was still some light in the sky, and her plants seemed to rustle in greeting. Olivia felt a change come over her, as it always did when she returned to her garden—a cellular ignition that made her feel both relaxed and energized. Green poison ivy crawled up the stone
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