In the deepest parts of the forest, the most evil things are the smallest. Anyone could tell you that the forest’s monsters, though menacing, were nothing compared to the flowers. The masses of writhing wildflowers, tangled dandelions and buttercups, the sprouts without names proper, were easily the most horrifying detail of the forest’s fearful traits. The masses of roots and stems pulsed along the ground, always present. Any monster could tell you that these flowers were to be regarded with the reverence of any sensible fear.
Long ago, the flowers had been populous and colorful, shining brightly along the floor of the forest, basking in the shade of the trees. But everywhere these flowers spread became poisoned; the earth would turn black and thick, and nothing save for the wildflowers could twist its way out of the miserable rocks. The trees began to wilt and decay; grasses rotted underfoot of the mighty animals which grazed upon them; vegetables came up small and spotted, pockmarked in increasingly ugly fashions. It was impossible for anything to carve out a life around the roots of the flowers, which heaped themselves as high as they chose. If anything had asked them, they would have been perfectly pleased to say that this fate suited them just fine.
The monsters had enough. They packed up their bags and moved their homes, far enough away that the ground could be tilled and come fall a harvest would come to fruit. The flowers, dependent on the underground streams that coursed below their roots, could not follow. They survived on the water that flowed from a pond that fed their streams in the heart of the forest. They became bitter, preening their deadly petals for attention of any soul, but any sensible being stayed well away from the shoots. They flew fast on the wind when they scattered their seeds, but there was no way to stretch quite as far as they desired. They sulked as they slowly crawled toward the monsters, determined to bask in the eyes of many.
One day, a child came to the forest. She couldn’t have been more than ten years old, the day she arrived. She was horribly lost; she spent hours crying for her mother, begging for her father, her nanny, anyone to come and collect her. She spent a great deal of this time with puffy eyes and a hoarse throat, her hair mussed and her dress torn and her shoes scuffed. She was dirty and did not like it and would enjoy very much to go home now please. Her cries went unheard by the monsters of the forest.
However, the flowers, ever inching forward, heard the child. She was very much terrified of the monsters in the dark, of bears and fairies and witches, and had read enough fairytales to know that being lost in the big, dark woods, all alone, usually meant that two of the three were swift to appear, and depending on how unlucky she was, the third wasn’t far behind. The flowers saw this as their opportunity; they’d be ------ they reckoned, if they didn’t utilize every chance they were presented with. So slowly, they approached her, appearing perfectly innocuous.
"We can help you," they chorused, "if you’ll promise us just one favor."
"What favor?" She sniffled, still scared and tired.
"We want to grow," the flowers explained, sugary sweet. “We want to spread our pretty petals where everyone can see them. The monsters don’t appreciate us, you see. We should be admired from all ends."
"You are pretty," the child conceded, "I suppose that’s not a bad favor."
"Of course, we need to settle our deal," the flowers pushed, maintaining their singsong. It seemed to work well, as the child relaxed a little. "We’ll need to trade a little."
"Well," the child reasoned, "what would you like?"
"Your voice," they told her, "we’ll take your voice for a crown made from our stems, to bind you to us and us to you."
The child wasn’t sure of the flowers, but there wasn’t anything she could find wrong in the reasoning. Surely spreading the wildflowers couldn’t hurt her too horribly, she reasoned. Surely, she could overcome a bunch of roots should she need to. And so she agreed, and the flowers captured her voice.
The child would come to be feared just as greatly as the flowers themselves. She silently and solemnly spread the flowers, extending their reach tenfold. The monsters flew whenever she approached with seeds, sowing them straight into the earth of their crops, or around any viable water. She heralded doom for an area, spurred disaster and death. Many times, monsters woke up in the morning to find she’d appeared overnight, and were forced to leave their homes. They did not know the child was miserable doing this work, conned by her own lack of intelligence and youth in the face of her panic. They did not know that she was horrified to watch the monsters retreat again and again. They only knew that she was a warning, and tied her to disaster. Eventually, the flowers encompassed the entire edge of the forest, and trapped any wandering soul inside. The monsters became shepherded and desperate, and the child grew incredibly lonely; even if she could have escaped the flowers, she could not return home.
It was long before another human stumbled their way into the forest’s deepest areas. Quinn was equally as lost as the flowers’ child upon her arrival, but a few years her senior. At home, he had gotten rather lonely, and so in an effort to distract himself he had gone searching for adventure in the woods, and found himself incredibly and hopelessly lost. He, however, was not received by bitter flowers; he was received by terrified monsters, who had only ever seen one human before, and they regarded her as a thing of evil. They turned away from him when he spoke, ignored his pleas for directions, and only after a great while of trying to orient himself in the direction of home did he hear about the child.
"It’s another one," whispered one monster, coated in luminescent feathers, to another, which had a great deal of tufty fur obscuring its shape. "Those flowers, they’re plotting something awful. I just know."
"Of course they are," the other replied in the same low tones, "did you hear about the harpies, the ones who lived by the old mahogany? Had to up and leave their homes last week, lived in the same house eighty-six years and then just had to go. Didn’t even have time to take their shoes."
Quinn had not been intended to hear this particular conversation, but nevertheless he remained still as he watched the monsters, who were strolling leisurely along the dirt road Quinn had been following (in the defiant hopes that at least one monster would’ve seen the sense in a road sign by now. He hoped in vain.) for at least a day now. Though their pace was unhurried, they were agitated; they were horrified by the idea of the flowers encroaching. Quinn listened, interest piqued. These monsters were nearly double his size. What could be so threatening about flowers?
"That girl," the feathered monster hissed, in reply to the hairy one’s story, "comes at night and sows disaster, I’ve heard. Nobody’s ever been able to keep her out, not even old Bethy’s fence, and that killed all her poor chickens."
"What did you expect of an eight-foot high-voltage fence? And that’s not true, ol’ Blue- by the clearing?- he’s got an untouched plot- you remember, when my sister moved in, she was his neighbor and she said his was the only place devoid of the ---- weeds…"
Quinn noted their mention of Blue- this was not the first time he’d overheard a discussion about the flowers, nor was it the first time Blue had been mentioned to be free of their plague. However, it was the first time anyone had mentioned a girl bringing them, and he was rather surprised when he turned his attention from the monsters and found a child, staring slightly sadly at him.
He jumped, yelping a little, but the monsters out walking were just out of earshot. He stared into the girl’s wide eyes, then let his gaze drop a few inches and- oh. Where a mouth should have been, or at least lips usually appeared, there was only solid flesh. Her face was smooth from the nose down; her eyes, a deep brown, were the only things that he could focus his attention on to keep from being sick. Her hair was flyaway, mostly straight but laid in frizzed curls at the ends. Her knees were scraped and she looked a little like she’d been caught in a freak wind turbine accident by the state of her dress, but she didn’t look too bad- more like she’d been walking through thorns too long. Speak of the devil.
"I’m Quinn," he offered weakly, after a minute’s awkward pause. "You are-" He stared at the girl while she c***ed her head, a silent reply, "-that girl?"
Her nod succinctly provided all the answer he needed. "I’m assuming you’ve got a good idea of where you are," Quinn started, "so you’d know the way out, yes?"
She tilted her head to the side, then bobbed her head once. She pointed down at the dirt path, then off into the distance vaguely in the direction she’d come from. She cycled her hands a moment, in a gesture that communicated on and on. Then, she did a tiny "tada" gesture near her face, while Quinn watched, baffled.
"Is that it?" He asked, incredulous, "Well then, I’ll be on my way." He began walking towards this distance, miffed that he’d been headed in the completely wrong direction this entire time. He was promptly stopped by the arm the flower girl adhered to his bicep.
She shook her head violently, flailing her arm at the ground, and Quinn focused his attention downward- there were wildflowers, slightly throbbing, all around the girl’s feet. She pointed at them, then at the distance, and then repeated the action until Quinn’s brow unfurrowed, and he understood.
"Oh," he breathed as it dawned upon him, "the flowers block the way out." Then, noticing the panic in the flower girl’s eyes, the wreath curled tightly around her head, the way she danced just out of the stems’ reach, "-you don’t actually like them, do you?"
The child whipped her head back and forth, prancing on her feet as the flowers bobbed underneath her. Quinn stood still a moment, thinking.
"How about," he proposed, "we find the clearing where- Blue, he’s the one- where he lives. Do you know where that is?"
The girl tipped her head to the side before checking to make sure the other monsters were gone, and then grabbed Quinn’s arm, dragging him after her as she marched off the path and into the trees. Quinn took in the overgrown surroundings. The trees seemed to stoop and lean, bending under their own ancient weight. The darkness, more the obstruction than absence of sun, was thick and muggy. Quinn observed the floor of the forest, with skittering animals and crunching dead leaves, but also blackish spots where the grasses stopped; the flowers clumped in the spots’ centers, taller than anywhere else. As they progressed, these spots became denser and larger, with increasing numbers of flowers.
The flower girl dragged Quinn seemingly endlessly, until at last the trees made way for a bright, vast tract of clearing. The circle, bordered by rocks, was maybe a quarter mile in diameter. The grass was pocked with the spots, which decreased in frequency until they disappeared completely about fifty yards radiating from the quaint home in the clearing’s center and its surrounding picket-fenced garden.
Quinn walked with the child until she stopped at the edge of the flowers, shoved him forward, and insistently gestured toward the home. Quinn waited for her to follow, and when it became obvious she wasn’t going to, took a deep breath and approached the cottage.
Quinn rapped only once on on the door before it was tossed open, and a giant pile of translucent, breathing goo filled his vision. Blue, it seemed, was the only way to accurately capture the dripping mass. Two bespectacled, thin eye-like shapes marked what Quinn assumed was the head, and confirmed when the beast gave a booming start of speech.
"Another one! Why, this year, maybe y’all’ll get to my eggplants, rate you’re developin’, though I’d like to see y’all try to get at my tomatoes, I reckon those’ll stay good another decade at least-"
"Your eggplants," Quinn said, astonished, as the drawling mass peered at him, "what on earth have I got to do with your eggplants?"
"Ain’tcha with them flowers? Been goin’ after my produce for ages, reckon I annoy ’em to bits, what with bein’ on the only plot o’ land they haven’t infected this side o’ th’ pond."
“No, sir, I’m not with any flowers- in fact, I’m against them. Can you tell me how come they don’t bother you?”
"You swear you ain’t with ’em? Well, it’s real easy- flowers can’t stand havin’ too much o’ this li’l concoction I’ve got, makes ’em shrivel up. I pour it on my lawn an’ they bug right off."
“Concoction, sir?”
"Well, I s’pose, ’s some moonshine I brew myself, and tastes right fine but them flowers can’t stand it. Fact, I’m th’ only one who drinks it, really, shame it is."
Blue then regaled him with the story of the moonshine; how he made a certain fertilizer for his land using his special brew, which seemed to poison wildflowers and crabgrass alike, but not much else- "’cept the asparagus, dunno why, right shame I can’t grow asparagus"- and so far, the flowers only approached to the untreated segments of his lawn. He then proceeded to complain about living so close to the pond the flowers received their water from, and the inconveniences that provided.
"Besides cuttin’ all the food off, they chased all the neighbors away. I ain’tgot any company at all these days," Blue concluded, just as Quinn lost his patience entirely.
"Can I have a few bottles of moonshine, sir? For the road?" At the incredulous look of Blue, "Please, sir, I’m not going to drink it- just a jug or two?"
Blue looked rather offended by that. "Of course you’re gonna drink it," he said, "an' you'd better tell all'a your friends, too, I've got more than I can hold and they've been denyin' its quality for years..."
Quinn, both slightly aghast and slightly proud, took as many bottles as he could hold. It must have been four gallons thrust upon his spindly arms, which omitted a pungent stench of spoiled milk and fish. Quinn suddenly decided that this exact scenario is what the legal age protects against, and that as soon as he returned to an area with a respectable legal system he'd swear off alcohol forever.
Quinn returned to the flower girl, who was standing at the edge of the black pockmarks. The flower girl's ankles were twisted in thin stems, a wispy dandelion swaying on top of her shoes. When he approached she broke the vines, although it took her a minute to shake them off.
"Here," Quinn announced, dropping a jug into her arms, "you take that-"
He was cut off. The second the flower girl touched the jug, the crown of flowers atop her head hissed and shrieked. They recoiled and began to smoke- it was almost as if contact with the container itself had burned them. The child dropped the jug immediately, but it was too late. The flowers around her feet curled onto her ankles and wound their way up her body. Quinn nearly dropped his own jugs in his surprise, and juggled them quickly to free an arm.
Before he could reach out to her, the flower girl was dragged back and away from the jug by a mass of roots. Every point of her, save for her face, had a stalk of some plant life coiled around it and pulling. Quinn ran after her, dropping another container in the process. The flowers weren't moving fast enough to lose him- if he hadn't been carrying several jugs of questionable substances, he would have been able to grab her. As it was, he had to strain his arms and legs to keep up. The flowers led him back, far past where any monster would dare to turn, for ages upon ages, and just before his legs wobbled enough to give out, he slowed down and was able to jog into a clearing.
The flowers had wrapped themselves tightly around the flower girl, coiling and squeezing. Quinn stood behind a tree, leaning the jugs against it, observing the area. It was like the black spots dotting the forest, except larger; the clearing couldn't be honestly called a clearing. It was similar, rather, to a rotten pit, devoid of trees and grass. The soil was black, where it could be seen through the throng of weeds. Behind the flower girl was the only area that didn't outwardly appear poisoned- a large pond, with perfectly clear water, stretched out under the trees. It wasn't the largest Quinn had ever seen, but it was the only water he'd come across, and he was certain that it was an important source for the flowers.
"You traitor," the flowers spat at the child in their clutch, "poisoning us! Have we not been loyal? We have never once hurt you, and yet you deign to destroy us? Certainly, to banish us forever? You promised to help us grow."
Quinn watched, quietly, then moved carefully. He was certain the flowers didn't know he was there, and he needed stealth to make it through. They were blind, not deaf, it seemed, and he wouldn't be able to avoid them if he stepped on them during his trek.
"Have we not been good to you?" The weeds continued, "you were lonely, and we gave you company. You promised us a favor, and then betrayed us."
They paused, and a mumbling set across the clearing- and beyond that, it seemed. The whole forest was coming to a verdict, arguing about how to proceed. Quinn tiptoed his way to the water, over and around the quarreling tufts. He reached just barely in time.
The flowers came to a decision, unanimous. "We have no choice but to punish you."
Just as they began to squeeze the child’s throat, Quinn tilted the jug in. A tense few seconds elapsed before any change occurred, and Quinn could only stare in horror at the flowers’ grip on the child’s throat. Then, she dropped, the flowers hissing like before, seemingly boiling alive. They turned away from the girl, clawing towards the water. Quinn avoided the knots of roots tangling their way towards him, watching as the flowers slowly wilted.
"We wanted to grow!" They whined. The wilting stems spread outwards, revealing all the black ground in the flowers’ wake. The earth was scarred beyond recognition, but not beyond repair. The flowers, however, were poisoned entirely; in the coming years, not one single dandelion would puff up, not a petal from a buttercup would be seen, and forget-me-nots would go forgotten. The forest would rebuild. Blue would grow eggplants. Grass would replace the soil, and monsters would move home decades later.
For now, though, Quinn rushed to the aid of the flower girl. She would be fine, if badly bruised. Her voice had been stolen, and remained with the corpses of its captors. She was on her own once more. She had no home to return to, and no family or comrades to accompany her. Quinn remembered the flowers’ passing comment.
"You’ve got nowhere to go," he thought aloud, "no home, or anything."
The child shook her head. Quinn understood what it was to be lonely- it was how he’d ended up in the forest. He pondered, for a brief second, a possibility. Then, he presented it.
"Well," he said, "you could show me the way home. And then, maybe- you could come along?"
The flower girl looked him square in the eye. She considered this offer for a second, before nodding. Quinn was certain that if she could’ve, she would’ve smiled. Then she stood up, grabbed his arm, and led on towards home.