The Tangled Garden

A glint of morning sunlight reflected off the rooftop of the National Gallery on her left; Vi turned onto the street, heading toward the glass building, which sparkled like a jewel as if inviting her in. She often came here when she felt lonely. She locked her bike, entered the building, and walked up the long glass corridor to the permanent collection of the Group of Seven. Vi had always loved paintings by artists of this group, and stopped by to admire their Canadian landscapes whenever she visited. Today, a large oil canvas, The Tangled Garden by J.E.H. MacDonald, caught her eyes at the back of the exhibition room and drew her in. She examined the bright colours of the flowers in the overgrown garden, softened by the surrounding shades of green. She noted the contrast between the chaotic hustle of the vegetation against the tranquility of the iridescent mauve shed in the background. She stepped closer, hunching her back to look under the nodding sunflower heads. She took another step and lost her footing. She tried to regain balance, and whoosh! She tumbled down, landing on her knees, feeling the coolness on her skin and breathing in the earthy smell of wet grass.

Something tugged at her as if her dress ravelled with a plant, making her fall onto her behind. She examined her knees, flicked off the dirt, rearranged her dress then looked up. She had landed into the middle of a flowerbed. A monarch butterfly fluttered among Black-eyed Susans. A bumble bee buzzed around, inspecting her. A hummingbird hovered above her head, then flittered up. She craned her neck, following the bird with her eyes, toward the canopy of a ginkgo tree and a Japanese maple. Everything looked familiar. She was… in her own garden!
As if to erase any doubt from her mind, next to the three large stones at the edge of the flower bed, the statue of a monk that she’d named Ryokan after the Japanese poet, smiled at her. Yes, she was in her garden. Her heart started to race, but how did she get here? Vi recognized her plants, but they towered above her. Coneflowers, half eaten by rabbits, were twice her height. Crocosmia stalks swayed their flowerheads in the breeze like flag poles. She had shrunk! Panic swelled in her chest. Vi remembered that she had left her bike at the National Gallery. How would she go back to the gallery and bring it home? She staggered onto her feet, but something behind her back gave a tiny pull again. She looked over her shoulders: she’d grown wings!

Vi’s heart thrummed. How did this happen? What would she do with wings? She tried to flap them but lost balance and fell face down. She tried again and fell sideways. Two white butterflies wove their way among the flowers as if mocking her. She’d always been clumsy, her limbs too long and causing her to trip over things or to smash them. Now that she had six limbs, how was she going to control them?