Greta the Gardener was known far and wide for her green thumb. Every flower that she planted seemed to bloom brighter and stand taller than anywhere else in the village. Every tree that she nurtured produced sweeter fruits, and every blade of grass that she trimmed felt plush and inviting beneath your bare feet. Her fame did not go unnoticed, for the royal family even sought her advice from time to time.
One crisp morning in early spring, Greta was planting tulip bulbs when she heard something rustling behind her. Startled, she turned but saw nothing but grass and trees. Dismissing the noise, she continued planting, but again she heard the leaves moving.
“Who’s there?” she called out, squinting at the underbrush.
When no one answered, Greta shrugged and returned to her work. Suddenly, a light breeze picked up, causing the nearby lilac tree to sway back and forth. Thinking it strange since there had been no wind moments earlier, Greta looked again but still saw nothing. Shrugging, she returned to the nurturing of her flowers.
Then something extraordinary happened. A violet petal fell from the lilac tree and drifted down in Greta’s direction. As it neared the ground, it commenced twirling round and round like a little helicopter caught in a whirlwind. Greta watched, mesmerized, as the petal blinked in and out of view in secrecy. Only when it whispered her name did she realize that it was trying to get her attention.
Greta leaned closer and more closely still until she heard the request plainly.
“Come and see! Come and see!” it kept muttering over and over again.
“Come and see what?” Greta said gently.
But the petal only gazed into her eyes with their mystical blue shade, giving Greta no indication of what she was supposed to see.
“All right,” Greta said. “I’m coming.”
With a nimbleness born from years of gardening, Greta hopped to her feet and made her way through the labyrinth of tulips, daisies, and primroses that surrounded her. Gently the petal guided her deeper and deeper into the underbrush until they arrived at a gate she had never noticed before, a gate so overgrown with ivy and soft white blossoms that she would never have thought it existed.
“The secret garden awaits,” said the petal, and it flitted ahead to show her the path.
Greta smiled in understanding as she turned the rusty old latch and slowly pushed the gate ajar. Instantly the aroma of roses, lilacs, and honeysuckles wafted towards her, enwrapping her in a welcoming embrace. Once the gate was wide enough, the petal flittered inside, beckoning her to follow.
Once inside, Greta gasped. It was simply magnificent, beyond her comprehension! As far as her eyes could see, flowers of every colour adorned the land like an artist’s palette splattered by a schoolboy in art class. Some of the flowers grew as small bushes and others poked to the sky bearing immense blossoms the size of her head. At the centre of this fantastic paradise was a fountain hewn from white stone; it pulsed water with the rhythm of a heartbeat.
Greta stepped deeper inside, caught utterly enthralled by the burst of colour and warmth. She floated from flower to flower, sampling their honeyed nectar, only to find them sweeter than any she had ever known.
Just then a soft voice made her flinch.
“Welcome. I’ve been waiting for you.”
Greta turned and beheld a magical sight: an old woman seated at the foot of a magnolia tree.
“You must be the spirit of this garden,” Greta said in awe. “Why have you waited for me?”
The woman beckoned with frail fingers, and Greta seated herself beside her. “Every flower here grows from a dream. Eventually they blossom, bathing the dreamer in unimaginable happiness. Yet since before mankind began, this garden was tended by Spirits such as myself. We cared for every flower from its budding seed to its full bloom. But the flower are lonely. We wish for someone in human form to nurture them with their innocent soul. We were told of you.”
“But I don’t know how to care for mystical entities,” Greta protested.
“You misunderstand. The flowers wish for your heart.”
“And what about you?” Greta questioned gently.
The spirit smiled. “My time is done. I would like to find peace among the petals more than anything else. Will you help me?”
Greta lightly touched the dusty hand of the spirit.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I will.”
Though the days passed, Greta felt entertained and satiated in loving toil. Each day she visited the secret garden, sometimes pushing aside the gate before dawn so as to catch the beauty of the rising sun filtering through the trees, and sometimes entering at dusk, when fireflies lived captive in the air. Every morning, she hopped at the chance to rush to the garden where her delicate lilac had whispered to her about the duties expected of her.
As week followed week, Greta found her heart swelling with purpose as the flowers opened to their full, brilliant colours, their aromas stirring her very spirit. It was there, in that secret place, that the desires shrouded in her own heart began to materialize. She discovered that she was not only nurturing the garden but also her own long-dormant dreams. Each day, as the flowers flourished, so did her hopes, and with the return of summer she bore witness to a miraculous transformation in her life; one that could not have blossomed without the nurturing embrace of that enchanted garden.
As the months rolled on, the spirit became weaker and weaker yet content, for she took great joy in her garden. One evening, just before spring gave way to summer, the spirit and Greta were seated near the fountain, where fireflies shimmered about their heads like stars come down from the skies.
“The time has come for me to return to the stars,” the spirit said lifelessly.
Greta nodded softly.
“Will you allow me to die here?” she asked, and Greta answered gently with, “Yes.”
Yet in her heart she wished the spirit could accompany her always, for the bond they had formed was more pure than that shared with any of the passersby she had met in her life.
“Then I shall leave you embroiled in hopes and wishes that need attending,” the spirit offered, smiling weakly.
Greta placed her hand over the spirit’s. How could she not feel sadness flooding her heart?
“Fear not, dear,” the spirit said, and suddenly Greta’s sorrow ceased to exist. “It would make me happiest of all to see you well tended now like the flowers in this garden.”
Greta looked into the spirit’s hazel eyes.
“When these flowers bloom to their fullest and no longer require your care, they will assist you in achieving your own goals for the rest of your days. They will grant you wishes when you have need of them.”
Greta’s heart soared, and she tried to contain her joy and conceal it from her friend, for she wished nothing but happiness for the spirit.
The spirit must have understood her thoughts, for she smiled yet again.
“I leave you now, girl of dreams,” she said, closing her eyes slowly. And softly her head fell to one side, the touch of her hand as warm as it had ever been, yet she uttered no more words.
At first Greta wept as she held the spirit in her arms; then with the sudden comprehension that the spirit was free and no longer burdened, she laughed softly through her tears. Eagerly she washed the old withered face and laid the spirit beneath the ancient magnolia tree, tucking soft snow-white lilies ‘neath her chin.
With a heavy heart yet grateful soul she returned to her garden to give alms to her flower friends.
As the years rolled on, she sat beneath the tree each day and spoke about the weather, her joys and longings, and all life’s trials and tribulations. She returned to her village with offerings from the crop, which always felt unnaturally abundant, creating for her a welcomed bounty and wealthy lifestyle.
And indeed her wishes were granted. With love and magic blooming all around, Greta’s world morphed into a living dreamscape from the happiest storybooks ever written. The garden’s beauty never faded with the passing of time, while her chestnut hair turned silvery white; it flourished eternally as the scents of roses and lilacs infused the air of every walking moment.
In time the girl of dreams became known as the woman of memories, yet she never forgot that which she tended in the secret garden of dreams—or the whisper of lilac petals that had beckoned her there so long before. Truly, as the spirit had foreseen, life is but a dream half-buried in the beauty of another.