The Midnight Garden - Part Two

A Hummingbird helps Peanut to look for Oma, who disappeared inside the Midnight Garden.

The Rat and the Bloom

They reached a second clearing where a crowd of fairies stood in a circle, their wings stilled in silent prayer. They were gathered around a gnarled, ancient cactus, the night-blooming cereus. It was the 'Queen of the Night,' and its single, massive bud was trembling on the verge of its once-a-year miracle.

Suddenly, a commotion broke the silence. A big rat, sleek and brown with whiskers that twitched in terror, bolted from the bushes. It ran with a frantic, scratching sound directly toward the sacred gathering. The fairies shrieked, a sound like breaking glass, and dived for cover behind the trunks of the moonflowers.

The rat, pursued by the shadow of the black cat, dived headlong under the glass table and vanished into the darkness beneath the cloth.

Peanut froze, her eyes darting between the hiding spot and the prowling cat. A fox crossed her path, its red fur shimmering violet through her lenses, distracting her for a heartbeat. When she looked back, the cat was gone. The rat was gone.
There, sitting calmly at the table as if she had never left, was Oma.

She was watching the cereus bud with a serene, knowing smile. "Just in time, Peanut," she whispered. "Look."

The Queen of the Night
The cereus flower began to open. It was a slow, agonizingly beautiful unfolding of ivory petals, each one edged with silver. As it opened, it released a scent so powerful it made Peanut’s head swim, a mix of vanilla, spice, and something ancient and wild.
A cloud of luna moths, their pale green wings like silk handkerchiefs, descended upon the flower in a swirling, humming halo. The sound was a low, rhythmic thrum that vibrated in Peanut’s chest. The beauty was too much. The weight of the feast, the adrenaline of the search, and the heavy perfume of the garden pressed down on her eyelids.

"I'm so... tired," Peanut murmured, leaning her head against Oma’s shoulder. Oma’s arm felt strangely warm, and her skirt felt thick and heavy against Peanut’s legs.

The Morning After
"Wake up, sleepyhead; your soldiers are getting cold."

Peanut blinked. The silver-and-ink garden was gone. The red-and-green glasses were sitting neatly on the counter. She was back in the kitchen, bathed in the pale, honest yellow of a summer morning.

Oma was standing by the stove, her back to Peanut. The air smelled not of jasmine, but of browning toast and the sharp, clean scent of a boiling egg.

"Did we really go?" Peanut asked, rubbing her eyes. "Or was it the glasses?"

"Midsummer dreams are as real as you want them to be," Oma said, turning around with a plate. She was wearing her longest skirt, a heavy, patterned fabric that swept the floor.

As Oma moved to set the soft-boiled egg and the golden strips of toast on the table, Peanut’s eyes dropped to the floor. For a fleeting, heart-stopping second, she saw it. From beneath the hem of Oma’s long skirt, a thick, furry, brown tail gave a quick, playful swish before tucking itself back into the shadows. Oma winked and set the egg down. "Eat up, Peanut. We have a lot of washing up to do."

Peanut stared at the soft-boiled egg, but she didn’t dip her toast soldier. Her eyes were fixed on the heavy hem of Oma’s floral skirt. It was perfectly still now, pooling around Oma’s sturdy ankles like a quiet sea.

Had I really seen it? Peanut wondered. A swish of brown fur? A twitch of something long and tapered?

Oma was humming a tune that sounded remarkably like the rhythmic thrum of the luna moths from the night garden. She moved with a surprising, nimble grace for a woman of her years, darting from the sink to the larder with a quick, scuttling step.
"Eat, Peanut. Cold eggs are for trolls," Oma said, without turning around.

"Oma?" Peanut asked, her voice small. "When the big rat dived under the table in the garden... where did it go?"

Oma paused, her hand resting on a ceramic jar of flour. She didn't turn, but Peanut saw her shoulders lift in a tiny, elegant shrug. "In a garden of shadows, things have a way of becoming other things. A rat might become a whisper. A whisper might become a dream. Or perhaps," she added, finally turning with a wink, "it just found a very good place to hide."

Peanut took a bite of her toast. It was delicious, but her mind was elsewhere. She began to notice things she had seen a thousand times but never truly looked at.

On the windowsill sat a small wooden carving of a field mouse. Next to it was a tiny silver thimble filled with pumpkin seeds. And there, near the skirting board by the pantry, was a small, arched hole that Oma always claimed was "just for the draughts."

As the day went on, Peanut became a silent observer. She followed Oma into the garden to hang out the washing. She watched the way Oma’s ears seemed to prick up at the slightest rustle in the hedgerow, long before Peanut heard a thing. She noticed how Oma didn't just walk across the lawn; she seemed to navigate the garden in zig-zags, sticking to the edges, always keeping her back to the fence.

"Are you looking for something, darling?" Oma asked, pinning a white sheet to the line. The wind caught the fabric, snapping it like a sail.

"Just checking the grass for... for fireflies," Peanut lied.

"Ah. They only dance for those who don't look too hard," Oma replied. As she reached up to the line, her skirt lifted just an inch. Peanut leaned in, her breath held. She didn't see a tail this time, but she saw something else: Oma wasn't wearing shoes. Her feet were small, nimble, and covered in a fine, silky down of brownish hair.

Peanut looked up at the sky, her heart thumping. The secret wasn't a scary one; it felt like a gift. It was a golden thread connecting the kitchen, the recipe box, and the wild, midnight world.

She wouldn't say anything. Not yet. If Oma wanted to be a grandmother by day and something swifter by night, Peanut would be her silent partner.

That evening, as Oma tucked her into bed, Peanut reached out and caught Oma’s hand. "Thank you for the feast, Oma. It was the best recipe yet."

Oma leaned down, her nose twitching ever so slightly as she kissed Peanut’s forehead. She smelled of cinnamon, old paper, and just faintly the damp, sweet earth of the night garden.

"Sleep well, my little bird," Oma whispered.

As Oma walked toward the door, Peanut didn't look at her face. She watched the floor. And there, in the fading twilight, she saw the shadow of her grandmother cast against the hallway wall. The shadow didn't have a human silhouette; it was smaller, rounder, with two pointed ears and a long, graceful curve of a tail that gave a happy, silent flick before the door clicked shut.
Peanut smiled into her pillow. She knew what she would do tomorrow. She would look into the recipe box for something with cheese. Lots and lots of cheese.
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