I’m just happy she’s still holding my hand.
Alisha turns towards the nearest laneway, and we walk up the northern edge of the garden, following a gently winding pathway in a long curve. She stops several times to bend down and smell the flowers, or crush herbs between her fingers to enjoy the tangy scent.
“It’s so quiet here,” I say absently.
“Yes,” Alisha answers. “Just the singing of the birds, the whisper of the wind, and all the happy little contented voices.”
“What?” I ask, slightly alarmed.
“Hmm?”
“What voices?”
She frowns, looking down at the rose bloom she’s admiring. Her fingers gently graze the delicate white petals.
“I don’t know,” she replies. “It just sounded right. Now that I think of it, I can’t really hear anything…but for a moment, it felt like I could hear people talking far away, or softly singing.”
“Maybe there’s a function here,” I say with relief. “They hold picnics and other events in the garden, so maybe something is happening nearby.”
“Probably,” Alisha agrees, turning her attention back to the flower.
I don’t know. It sure looks to me like she’s communicating with it in some way. But is it talking back?
I follow Alisha up the winding path, watching her drift back and forth across the track as she examines all the flower beds, shrubs, and bushes. Every now and then, she mutters under her breath, and I start to wonder what I’ll do if she actually starts talking to the vegetation.
It could be worse, I guess. It would still be damn scary if they answered.
There is a sudden, surprised shriek from the nearby line of bushes where Alisha just disappeared. Nearly jumping out of my skin, I clear the distance in one frantic leap, landing beside Alisha and grabbing her arm to shove her behind me.
“Stay back!” I yell.
“It’s quite right,” a deep but feminine voice rises from the thick scrub. “I was just startled.”
For a moment, my entire world starts to crumble as logic leaks out of it like mortar running between the solid bricks of accepted fact.
The bush is fucking talking!
Before I can start to really panic, a woman stands up on the other side of the bushes. She’s tall and slender with a light tan and long, ash-blond hair.
“Oh, hello, Alpha Bradley,” she says in her melodic voice. “How lovely to see you here.”
“Have we met?” I ask.
“No,” she answers, smiling. “But I know who you are. I’ve seen you at events.”
“Of course,” I reply, taking a couple of steps back and keeping Alisha behind me.
The woman comes out of the bushes, carrying a small bucket in one hand and shears in the other. She’s dressed in loose pants and a long-sleeved shirt in thin, white fabric, and wears a wide-brimmed hat on her head.
“I’m Grace Fenton,” she says, dropping her shears in the bucket and holding out her hand. She frowns, shakes her head, takes off her gardening gloves, and tries again. I shake her hand warily.
“And who might you be?” Grace asks, looking behind me.
“I’m Alisha,” she answers shyly, coming forward to shake hands.
“I’m in charge of the garden,” Grace says. “We have a few gardeners, but I’m the head keeper. I’m out here practically twenty-four-seven, so if you need a guided tour, I’m your girl. Is there anything I can do for you, Alpha?”
“No, nothing specific. I just wanted to bring Alisha to see the plants.”
