Where Weeds were Flowers

Scott strode through the tall grass, the jackknife swung in his pants pocket, a heavy weight that pulled his leg forward like a pendulum. He imagined that he was a clockwork man, made of tin, sprayed with Rustoleum. He wiped his damp forehead. The muggy air was dusty and hard to breath. He started to dig out the inhaler in his other pants pocket. Changed his mind. I'm the Tin Man, he reminded himself. I don't need to breath.

Saturday morning cartoons were long over. His mom was grocery shopping in town. Scott made a chicken sandwich before arming himself for the field. He packed a water gun loaded with vinegar. He ran his jackknife blade over a sharpening stone. Inhaler, sweatband, sunglasses. A map stolen from the glove compartment. It had nothing to do with the meadow, but he liked the sound it made when he spread it over the weeds. He checked that the map was still in his backpocket. He looked back at the house, pretending that it was miles away. He saw Gramps sneaking a cigarette at his bedroom window, blowing smoke out of his tracheal tube. Scott wouldn't tell. And Gramps wouldn't report that his grandson was waist-deep in choking weeds.

Scott was forbidden to play in the meadow. It was asking for trouble, according to his mom. Scott was ready for it. The knife was to cut flowers, but he was prepared to defend himself if needed. He slung an old pillowcase over his shoulder, waiting to be filled. Grasshoppers bounced off his shirt. He nearly tripped on a bicycle wheel rusting in the dirt. He moved cautiously, keeping an eye out for new specimens. His breathing was loud in his ears, as if he wore a space helmet. The meadow was another planet—alien but welcoming. A place where weeds were flowers, and flowers were weeds. He cut down thistle, loosestrife, fireweed that crumbled like red chalk.

"This is Mars," he said. "The red planet. Before the water was lost." He stuffed the pillowcase. Samples to study back home.

Ahead of him, the ground dipped behind a pair of poplars. This late in August it wasn't unusual for the leaves to start changing, but these seemed to shift color as he watched, as if the fall season was racing toward him in seconds. A breeze whistled through the branches as Scott walked under them. It was a dry sound, like the wheeze he heard when Gramps breathed through the hole in his throat.

He lopped off the head of a cattail and shoved it in the pillowcase. He moved the blade to the next stalk, and the next—a cattails massacre. In time, he would become legend among cattails, assuming they noticed. He believed that cattails, like all plants, lived mostly in the moment, without regrets.

Scott paused his decimation when he grabbed something that looked like a cattail but wasn't. Purple spikes circled its head, button-sized flowers sprouted from the tips, like a mace pretending to be a party decoration. The flowers were frayed, the stalk brown. It was obviously dead. He pocketed his knife and snapped the head off. He sneezed. Dust or pollen filled his nose. It smelled like mustard and made his eyes water.

He plopped the dried flower into his pillowcase and took a step deeper into the meadow, looking for more of the strange plant. Water seeped into his sneaker. He hopped back, scanning the field. The river was several hundred yards away, and it hadn't rained much all summer. An underground spring?

"What the?" Scott whispered.

"What the?" the plant whispered back.

Scott stared at the flower. After a few seconds, he thought he saw a face in the petals. There was a nick in the stem below the flower. That's where the words leaked out.

He reached to touch the dead stalk and pulled his hand back. It was hot as hell. Then he shook his head, realized his imagination was getting the best of him, and yelled at the plant.

'Well, screw you!"

He took out his knife, flipped it open, and swung the blade at the stalk. The dead material crumbled on impact and exposed a long emerald stalk underneath. Scott dropped the knife and leaned in for a closer look. The stalk was damp and shiny. It reminded him of a butterfly a few seconds out of its cocoon. Maybe the dead stalk was actually a vegetable cocoon. He'd never heard of such a thing. There was certainly nothing like that in his collection.

Scott rustled through the grass in search of the knife. He wanted to cut this weird thing down and take it home. He separated the weeds sweeping his hand in a long arc. Where the hell did it go? His movements grew more frantic, that was his best jackknife, right from Switzerland (or that's what his uncle had told him).

He imagined the tiny airborne particles before he even saw the dust. Oh shit. In response to his thought, his chest began to tighten, it felt like he was inside one of those rooms that spies always get trapped in, the ones that crush them.

Scott knew the feeling, he knew he better get the hell out of the field, quick. He jammed his hand in his pocket and yanked out his puffer. He got up, took a couple of quick shots, and kicked at the freaky plant before he walked back to the poplars.

He had to take another puff when he left the field and started up the alley that led to his house. He was glad his mom wasn't home from work. She'd be after him for scrambling around in the dirt and the weeds, generally giving him hell for having asthma in the first place.

He lay on his bed and stared at the poster on the ceiling. It was a blow up of that crazy Escher drawing where the stairs are going off on all directions and if you tried to figure out how it all worked it just hurt your head. Scott thought about how cool it would be to live in a house like that.

He heard his mom walk in the back door. He rolled over on his stomach, the tightness was almost gone, and tried to fake sleep.

His mom poked her head in the door.

"What wore you out?"

"Uh, huh, wha?" Scott rolled over and his chest gave a twinge, he fought the urge to put his hand there.

"You feeling okay, Hon?"

"Yeah sure, just lazy."

"Well, you can give me a hand with supper then. That'll fix it."

Scott thought it was pretty stupid how his mom figured work was the cure for laziness. Scott put the water onto boil and spun the lid off a jar of Ragu. His mother hummed and chopped peppers. He wanted to say something about the meadow, he wanted to tell her about the weird plant he found but he held back. He wanted a chance to roll this one around in his head some more, go back and see if there were more plants like it. He'd bring a big knife this time, one he couldn't lose. Damn, he better find his Swiss Army one before he collected a specimen. He didn't want to chance another attack before he got the freaky thing home.

He ate his spaghetti and chatted to his mom about her work. She talked about the same old creepy guy that came in every Wednesday looking for woman's panties. She laughed and said he looked harmless, even if he had that one cock-eye. She asked Scott if he was looking forward to school, to Grade Eight, and being the king of the hallways.

"I don't think it's going to be like that."

"Sure it will. You're always telling me that about the Grade Eights. How did you say it... they walked around like they owned the place, fountains and all." His mom laughed and waved her hand in the air.

"I'm not going to be like that," Scott said.

"Oh... well, good then!"

Scott sensed his mom's awkwardness. He hated when she got like that. He quickly changed the subject back to her work. Soon, they were talking about some new clothing line coming in from the States, and how her manager thought it was a big deal.

They finished supper and watched Jeopardy together. Scott said he was feeling tired and was going to go to bed early.

"You okay, Hon? How's the breathing today?" She put her hand on Scott's chest. "Any better? Yesterday you said --"

"I'm fine mom." He put his hand on hers. "Just tired, that's all. I'm going to read for a bit."

Scott fell asleep reading the latest Strange Horizons mag. He dreamt of steamy African jungles where the air was so thick it felt like you were drinking it.