Free Manroot by Anne J. Steinberg

thing she saw. It refreshed her. The blooms of the flowers attracted bees and butterflies, and a small hummingbird was seen often drinking the nectar. It was a wild unplanned garden, and she ignored Frieda’s advice: “You should plant ‘em in rows – neat-like.”
    She ’d nod, then continue planting just as nature would, at random – and if seeds fell, and new plants sprung out, that was okay; she felt she must let them live the same as they had in the untouched woods. Her garden, her flowers, they were free. She would not make them prisoners in clay pots or neat unnatural rows.
    After supper, when the dishes were cleared and the guests had gone, Frieda released her and Katherine set out, when there was still daylight left. Taking a sack and a small trowel, she made for the woods. When tired she would rest on a fallen log or rock and listen to the chatter of the birds as they prepared for nightfall. Used to her now, squirrels leapt from branch to branch overhead, and through the underbrush she saw the rabbits, with their soft, cautious tread. Occasionally, a small green garter snake would slither across her path, and turtles draw in their shells, to slowly re-emerge, watching her with curiosity. She disturbed nothing, she was part of the fabric of life in the woods. She belonged!
    She found the plant b y the stream; it was different from any she already had. Its furry leaves and the brilliant purple satin of its flower was like none she had seen before or gathered. Carefully, she dug the trowel deep, and lifted the clod of earth, noticing that the leaves did not shudder. She had gone deep enough; a fat earthworm – cut in half by the trowel – dropped to the ground and disappeared under the leaves to regenerate itself.
    Cradling the plant in her apron, she made her way back. In the west the sky was red with sunset and she hurried, for she did not wish to deny the plant. It was so special; she would plant it right away. She knelt at the corner of her plot and began digging.
    “ Rhododendron,” she heard a voice call down to her.
    She glanced up and saw Judge Reardo n looking over the balcony.
    “ I don’t know what it’s called,” she answered.
    “ Rhododendron,” he repeated. On his weekend visits he had noticed the barren patch being transformed. Now he knew whose garden it was. That girl – the maid – the strange one who liked the stars.
    Idly he watched her motions. “No!” he shouted. “That’s wrong – not in that corner.”
    She looked up, her hand shielding her eyes from the setting sun. “What?”
    It was ridiculous, shouting directions like this. He came down the steps.
    She sat back on her haunches and looked up at him.
    “Not in that corner. It doesn’t like the sun – it must be in shade.”
    He dropped to his knees and took the plant from her. Small clods of earth fell unheeded onto his fresh gabardine trousers. He held the plant up – rotated it in his hands, admiring its healthy perfection.
    In a low voice he began, “‘ In the spring I found the rhododendron hiding its blooms under the –’ There’s a poem written about it, you know. I had to memorize it in the fifth grade. I didn’t realize I still remembered it,” he grinned.
    The plant was special. She knew it, feeling a kinship with the unknown poet.
    “ Wrong corner.” He rose and went to the other side, cleared a space. “Trowel?”
    She handed it to him.
    He pushed up the sleeves of the immaculate white shirt and began digging in the rich earth. “Pebbles – a handful. It should be well drained.”
    He waited patiently as she searched the yard and came back with a handful. He hollowed the hole and filled it with pebbles, sprinkling the dirt liberally.
    She watched as he lovingly patted the earth around the settled plant.
    “It should do well here,” he said. He gazed at her garden, and below she could just hear him listing verbally the plants he recognized. “Verbena, alyssum. This one’s