A Pot of One’s Own
✧ Stories from Red Wood Forest
A knock. A new pot. Somewhere to go.
A Pot of
One’s Own
Iri’s plant has a few questions about the window.
Then a whole garden goes past it.
A knock in a rather small place
The first knock came while Iri was making tea.
They opened the door.
Nobody.
The second came while they were looking for a spoon.
They opened the cupboard.
“Lower,” said a voice.
Iri looked beneath the table.
“Higher.”
On the windowsill, their little plant lifted one of its three purple flowers.
“Here.”
A root poked through the bottom of its pot.
Tap. Tap.
“Oh,” Iri said. “You need a bigger pot.”
“Yes,” said the plant. “And I have a few questions about the window.”
A little more room
The new pot was blue, with little clouds around its rim.
Iri filled it with fresh soil. The plant stretched its roots into the corners and gave a small, leafy sigh.
“Better?”
“Much.”
Iri put it back on the shelf.
A fern’s longest frond settled across its flowers.
“Except for that.”
The fern rustled.
“I’m trying to grow.”
“So am I.”
Iri shifted the plant towards the window.
“Lovely,” it said. “Could you open it?”
Iri pushed the latch. The latch stayed where it was.
They pushed harder.
Nothing.
“It’s been stuck for a while.”
“How long is a while?”
Iri looked at the fern.
The fern looked away.
At the end of the shelf, a wooden duck said, “I remember breezes.”
Something enormous passes by
That afternoon, something enormous passed the window.
First came a leaf.
Then a balcony.
Then a row of teacups, each catching drips from a tiny gutter.
Finally, an eye on a very long stalk peered inside.
“Evening,” said a snail.
An entire garden curled around her shell.
There were flowers in hanging baskets, mossy steps, a little pond, and a fern sitting beside three suitcases.
A sign swung from the lowest balcony.
The plant leaned so far forward that Iri caught its pot.
“Where are you going?”
“Around the pond tonight,” said the snail. “The hills tomorrow.”
“Could I try the pond?”
“Of course. Come to the landing.”
The eye withdrew.
The garden moved on.
Very slowly.
The plant watched until the last teacup disappeared.
Then it said, “I’ll need to pack.”
Three pebbles. One important string.
Its luggage consisted of three pebbles, a fallen petal, and a piece of string, all wrapped in a leaf.
Iri fetched the little trolley they used for heavy parcels.
“Are you coming too?” the plant asked.
“If you’d like.”
“Yes. You know where I keep everything.”
“It’s all in that leaf.”
“Then you’ll have an easy journey.”
Iri smiled, though something inside their fluff felt a little tight.
They had imagined the plant growing bigger on the windowsill. They hadn’t imagined it going to the hills.
They placed the watering can beside the pot.
“Ready?”
The plant raised all three flowers.
“Very.”
All aboard the garden
At the landing, the snail lowered a broad ramp.
“Welcome aboard. I’m Suri. Please keep your roots clear of the wheels.”
Iri pushed the trolley up.
The garden smelled of damp earth and something sweet that bloomed only after sunset. Little lamps hung from curved stems. Somewhere, water made a pleasant plinking sound.
The travelling fern waved from beside its luggage.
“First trip?”
“Yes,” said the plant.
“I’ve brought too much.”
“What’s in the suitcases?”
“Stones.”
“All three?”
“They’re different stones.”
The empty space was on a low balcony with a view of the water.
The plant settled there.
A breeze slipped between its leaves.
“Oh,” it said.
Then, after a moment:
“Oh, I like this.”
Iri sat beside it on a folded blanket.
Below them, Suri began to move.
They passed the baker’s window just as the last buns came out.
They passed a frog teaching three smaller frogs how to sit on a lily pad without sinking it.
One of the smaller frogs was eating the lesson.
At the pond, moonflowers opened along the bank.
The plant turned its blossoms towards each one.
“Hello.”
“Hello.”
“Lovely evening.”
“Lovely roots.”
The plant tucked a root shyly beneath its pot.
Iri had never seen it so pleased.
They were glad.
They were also beginning to miss it, which felt odd when it was sitting right beside them.
A very large ah-choo
Halfway around the pond, Suri stopped.
“Something,” she said carefully, “is tickling my nose.”
The travelling fern shut its suitcases.
“Oh dear.”
Suri’s eyestalks trembled.
“Ah.”
Iri gripped the balcony rail.
“Ah.”
The plant held its flowers together.
“CHOO.”
The garden shuddered.
Water leapt from the teacups. A lamp swung in a circle. The blue pot slid towards the open end of the balcony.
“My plant!”
“My luggage!” cried the plant.
Iri caught the pot against their knees.
The leaf-bundle bounced once, twice, and landed on a lily pad.
A frog looked down at it.
“I didn’t order this.”
“Could you keep it there?” Iri called.
The frog put one foot on the string.
Suri lowered herself beside the bank.
“I’m terribly sorry.”
“Are you all right?” asked Iri.
“Yes. A dandelion went up my nose.”
From somewhere near her mouth came a tiny voice.
“I was blown.”
A safer spot to sit
They retrieved the bundle with a long-handled pond net.
The petal was damp. The pebbles were unharmed. The string had acquired a small piece of duckweed.
The plant counted everything twice.
Then it looked at the balcony.
“I’d like to stay for the rest of the trip.”
Iri still had both paws around the pot.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. But I’d rather not slide off.”
“Quite reasonable,” Suri said.
The travelling fern opened a suitcase.
“I have some excellent wedging stones.”
Iri fitted two beside the pot. Suri found a spare rail, and they tied it across the opening with garden cord.
The plant gave the pot a testing wriggle.
It stayed put.
“That’s better.”
Soon they were moving again.
This time, Iri let go.
You can go. I’ll help you pack.
As they rounded the last bend, the plant asked, “Would you be sad if I went to the hills?”
Iri watched the lamps reflected in the pond.
“I’d miss you.”
The plant’s flowers dipped.
“But you can go,” Iri added. “I can miss you and still help you pack.”
For a little while, they listened to Suri sliding through the soft grass.
“I don’t think I want to go tomorrow,” said the plant.
“No?”
“I’d like to go home tonight. But I’d like home to have a breeze.”
Iri nodded.
“And room beside the fern.”
“Right.”
“And perhaps another trip.”
Below them, Suri lifted an eyestalk.
“I pass your window every Thursday.”
The plant considered this.
“Thursdays would be lovely.”
Making a little room
Back home, Iri put the trolley beside the shelf.
The fern leaned forward.
“How was it?”
“I met moonflowers. Suri sneezed. My pebbles went boating.”
“A full evening, then.”
Before lifting the pot, Iri moved the books to another shelf.
The wooden duck went onto a little table facing the walkway.
“Oh,” it said. “People.”
Bayu came over the next morning with oil for the window latch. Together, they eased it open.
Cool air entered the room.
The fern rustled from tip to tip.
Iri set the blue pot on a small wheeled stand.
The plant pushed gently with one root. It rolled towards the light.
Then it rolled back.
Then forward again.
“I may need to practise.”
“You have room,” said the fern.
Thursday’s coming
That evening, Iri read in their chair.
The plant watched the neighbours pass. When it had seen enough, it rolled into the quieter corner beside the fern.
Tap. Tap.
Iri lowered the book.
“What is it?”
The plant held out its leaf-bundle.
“I’d like to unpack.”
They arranged the three pebbles around its stem. The petal went beside them.
Iri picked up the string.
“Shall I put this away?”
“Keep it handy. Thursday’s coming.”
Iri laid it beside the pot.
Then they made tea, opened their book, and rested their feet.
For a while, the only sound was the evening breeze moving through the leaves.
Then the wooden duck spoke.
“Do you think Suri takes ducks?”
The plant turned one purple flower towards it.
“Can you pack lightly?”
The duck looked down at its smooth wooden body.
“I shall travel as I am.”
