Dandelions
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SHE COULDN'T PUT IT off any longer. If she was going out there tomorrow—into the grass, into the danger—she needed help. She went outside and looked around for inspiration.
The first thing that came to mind was weapons. She rummaged around in her bag until she felt something pointy. This should be interesting.
“Grow.”
Green leaves formed, and then a single red and white stalk. It grew straight and tall, ending in a sharp point, bracketed by decorative scroll work. It also smelled pleasantly minty.
She frowned at it, plucking the spearmint from the ground. As a weapon, it left a lot to be desired, but all it needed was a bell and sprig of holly to make a charming holiday ornament.
She sighed. The spearmint was a joke. She knew it. One look at those monsters and she knew a sharpened stick wouldn't do anything except maybe make them angry...although the mint would help with the monster breath...after they ate her.
She wasn’t a warrior, anyway. Even if she could learn to defend herself, it wouldn’t happen in a day. She needed something that could fight for her...
She reached into her purse, sorting through seeds with purpose now.
Dandelion.
The warmth that came with it felt... fierce. Protective. Not at all like the cheerful yellow flowers she remembered from lawns and wishes.
She took the seed outside. The rain had lightened to a drizzle, the fog still thick. She planted it well away from the treehouse, near the edge of her property where she could see the shield wall.
"Grow."
The plant shot up fast and strong. The stem was thick, muscular almost. And as it grew, she saw what was forming.
Not a flower. A creature.
It had the basic shape of a lion—four legs, a tail, a maned head. But its body was hollow, like a dandelion stem. Translucent green, with visible space inside for carrying things. And its mane was an explosion of dandelion fluff—white and impossibly soft—looking, surrounding its face like a cloud.
The eyes opened. Golden. Intelligent. It looked at her and made a sound—the kind of sound a flower would make if only it could speak.
"Hello," she said carefully.
It walked toward her, movements fluid and strange. When it reached her it butted its head against her hand, and she felt the fluff of its mane—impossibly soft, like touching clouds.
Another stem was growing. A second dandelion formed, slightly smaller. Then a third.
Three of them, circling her, golden eyes watching everything.
"You're going to help me tomorrow," she told them. "We're going to get blue bulbs. And there will be monsters."
The largest one—she was already thinking of it as the leader—made that sound again. The other two echoed it. They understood.
"Stay outside," she said. "Guard the property. And tomorrow... Tomorrow we hunt."
They spread out immediately, taking positions around her grove. Sentries. Protectors.
She watched them for a long moment, these impossible creatures made of plant stem and dandelion fluff, and marveled.
She kept herself busy all day. First she had Walter describe what her territory looked like from the top of the tree. As she’d suspected, there wasn’t much of interest on her land, but he could see houses and farms on the other side of the shield wall.
She tried to stay busy for the rest of the day, but her mind kept drifting to tomorrow. To the grass and the monsters and the glowing bulbs she desperately needed.
Finally, the sun started to sink, so she went inside for good. The light was fading, the evening coming early with the clouds and fog.
She replaced the sunflower in the oven. Made herself tea. Tried to eat but couldn't manage much.
Through the window, she could see the dandelions prowling the perimeter. Golden eyes glowing faintly in the dusk.
The shield wall pulsed weakly where the cracks were worst.
Tomorrow. Eleven to two. Three hours to gather enough bulbs to survive.
She wrapped herself in blankets and sat in the rocking chair, watching the fog, watching the dandelions, watching the damaged shield.
Walter had gone up to his nest. The treehouse was quiet except for the rain and the creak of wood.
She should sleep. She needed to sleep. But every time she closed her eyes, she saw those milky white monster eyes. Felt the claws that had caught her calf. Smelled the rot on their breath.
Tomorrow she was walking out there on purpose.
She made herself go to bed, but she just lay there in the dark, wrapped in blankets, knowing sleep wasn't coming. Her mind kept running through scenarios. Three hours. Would it be enough time? What if the fog didn't clear? What if—
Stop.
She got out of bed. If she couldn't sleep, she could at least prepare better.
Rain. She'd be out in the rain tomorrow, trying to gather bulbs with wet hands and poor visibility.
An umbrella. She needed an umbrella.
Back to the purse. Her fingers found the seed almost immediately.
Umbrella plant.
Of course. Of course there would be one.
She planted it inside—no point going out in the rain now—and watched it grow. The stem rose up, then unfurled at the top like an actual umbrella opening. The canopy was made of broad, overlapping leaves that formed a perfect waterproof dome. A curved handle grew at the base.
She plucked it free, tested it. Lightweight, sturdy, exactly what she needed.
For a moment she felt better. Prepared. Ready. Then she imagined herself out there. Holding the umbrella in one hand. The spearmint spear in the other. Trying to pick up blue bulbs and put them in her purse while—
Oh.
She'd need both hands. To fight, to grab bulbs, to run if she had to. The umbrella was useless if she couldn't use it. She set it down carefully against the wall, feeling foolish. One more thing that wouldn't help.
Back to the rocking chair. Back to staring at the darkness.
The rain filtered through the leafy roof outside. The oven glowed. The dandelions prowled outside, and she was safe in here. It would be fine.
Eventually, exhaustion won, and she lay back down. She slept, dreaming of white eyes and red cracks and grass that went on forever.
***
DAWN CAME GRAY AND cold. The oven had burned low—she'd need to replace the sunflower again, but first...
She went to the window and looked out. Two dandelions prowled the perimeter.
Two.
Her stomach dropped. She grabbed her boots and ran outside. The fog had lifted slightly. She could see her grove, the shield wall, and there—
Scattered plant matter. Shredded dandelion fluff caught on the grass. A hollow stem torn in pieces. One of the dandelions was gone.
The other two came to her immediately, pressing close. The larger one had scratches along its flank—deep gouges in the translucent stem.
"What happened?"
They couldn't answer, of course. But she could see the evidence.
Claw marks on the ground near the shield.
More damage to the red, cracked section.
Something had tried to get through. The dandelions had fought it off.
One had died protecting her. It was a plant, sure, but she still felt bad.
"Thank you," she whispered to the survivors.
The two remaining dandelions pressed closer, flanking her, their fluffy manes tickling.
She looked at the shield. The cracks were worse. Definitely worse. If she hadn’t created the dandelions, it might have been worse.
And she was down to two protectors instead of three.
Walter appeared at the door. "Madam? Are you—" He saw the scattered remains and went quiet.
"We're going today," Wren said. Her voice was steady. Flat. "As soon as the safe window opens. We can't wait any longer."
"Yes, madam."
She went inside to prepare. To eat something even though she wasn't hungry. To put on her velvet and boots and gather her highly visible spearmint spear.
To try not to think about how badly this could go.
The clock—she didn't have a clock. But Walter did, somehow. Squirrel magic, maybe.
Four hours until eleven.
Four hours until she walked into the monster-infested grass with two plant-lions and a sharpened mint stick.
She sat at the island counter and waited for the safe window to open.
***
SHE SAT AT THE COUNTER, hands wrapped around a cup of tea she wasn't drinking, staring at nothing.
Wait.
The dandelion. It had scattered everywhere, yes, but—
Seeds.
It had to have seeds. That's how dandelions worked. The fluff carried seeds.
She set down her cup and went back outside. The two remaining dandelions watched her curiously as she knelt in the wet grass.
There. Among the torn stems and scattered fluff. Small seeds, dozens of them, clinging to the remains. She gathered them carefully. This brave creature who'd died protecting her—it could protect her again. Its offspring could.
She planted them immediately.
"Grow."
The first rose up, another hollowed-stem lion with a cloud of dandelion fluff. Golden eyes opened. It made that unique dandelion sound and immediately went to greet its siblings outside.
"Grow."
A second. Then a third. Then a fourth.
By the time she was done, she had six dandelions prowling her property. Six protectors instead of three.
Good breeding stock, that first one. Strong. Fierce. She hoped the new ones inherited that.
Walter watched from the doorway. "That's better. Much better odds."
She nodded, looking at her small pride of plant-lions. They moved together, coordinating without sound. Two staying close to the treehouse, four ranging wider, checking the perimeter.
"What time is it?" she asked.
"Nearly ten, madam."
One hour.
She went back inside and forced herself to eat. Bread, butter, a purple egg that she watched very carefully as it baked. Drank tea. Checked her purse—empty except for seeds, ready to be filled with blue bulbs.
Adjusted the strap to cross-body, pulled it tight. Put on her boots, her velvet jacket.
Picked up her spearmint spear.
The two original dandelions—the survivors from last night—came to the door. The others gathered behind them. They knew. Somehow, they knew it was time.
"Ten—thirty," Walter announced quietly.
Thirty minutes.
She stood at the door, spear in hand, lions at her feet, and watched the grass beyond the shield.
It looked so peaceful in the late morning light. The fog had cleared. She could see the blue bulbs now—clusters of them glowing faintly among the green.
So close. So dangerous.
"Eleven o'clock, madam."
She took a breath. Opened the gate, and stepped through the failing shield.