by Bill Tiepelman
The Bloomkeeper's Lamb
The Garden That Grew Itself Somewhere between where the map ends and where afternoon naps become time travel, there’s a village so small it fits in a pocket dimension — or at least inside the walls of Mrs. Tattersham’s overgrown back garden. Nobody really *moves* there. People just show up with suitcases they don't remember packing and an odd craving for elderflower cordial. They call it Hushmoor Hollow. Now, Hushmoor was known for many things: silent goats, whispering fences, and that one Tuesday when it rained marmalade (don’t ask). But mostly, it was known for the Garden That Grew Itself — a spectacular riot of peonies, roses, and things with far too many vowels in their botanical names, blooming entirely out of sync with the seasons and sometimes in sync with showtunes. No one admitted to tending it. The mayor (a retired opera singer named Dennis) insisted it was “self-cultivating,” though he did once get caught pruning the azaleas while singing to them in Italian. But the truth — the real, whispered-at-tea-time truth — was this: the garden belonged to the Bloomkeeper. And the Bloomkeeper’s lamb? She was a fluffball of inconvenient mysteries. Imagine a lamb. Not your average field-hopper. This one’s wool swirled in tight little curls like spun sugar, shifting hues depending on the angle of the sun or whether you’d said anything cynical lately. She smelled faintly of peppermint and improbable hope. Her eyes? Far too intelligent for someone who frequently licked tree bark like it owed her money. Her name was Luma, and she arrived one spring evening precisely 14 minutes after Hushmoor’s last clock stopped ticking. She simply walked out from the thickest bloom of moon-roses and looked at the villagers like they were the surprise, not her. No one knew where she came from. But the garden grew twice as fast after she appeared. And twice as weird. Within a week, the begonias started forming synchronized dance formations. Bees spoke in haiku. Dennis was abducted briefly by a very polite mushroom (he came back smelling of tea and thunderclaps). And Luma? She just stood there, blinking slowly, like she was waiting for someone to finally read the instructions. Then the dreams started. Dreams of distant bells, ancient keys, and doors made entirely of petals. Everyone in Hushmoor had them, though no one spoke of it aloud, because — well — that's how things work in magical villages held together by gossip and curiosity. One morning, a letter appeared under Luma’s hooves. It was written in gold ink and smelled like elderflower and ambition. The note read: “You are late. The Bloomkeeper is missing. Please report to the Seventh Gate immediately. And bring the lamb.” Luma blinked twice. Then, turning with an alarming sense of purpose for someone shaped like a marshmallow, she trotted toward the forest edge. Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. Until Dennis, back from his fungal escapade, said: “Well, bollocks. I guess we’re going adventuring, then.” And that’s how the village, the lamb, and a great deal of gardening equipment found themselves heading into a realm they didn’t know existed, to find someone they weren’t sure was real… led by a pastel-colored mystery with a peppermint-scented butt. The Seventh Gate (And Other Unwise Landscaping) The party was seven strong: Dennis, who insisted on bringing opera binoculars despite lacking an opera; Miss Turnwell, the village baker with a suspicious knowledge of swordplay; two identical twins named Ivy who communicated exclusively in interpretive sneezes; young Pip, who had recently turned into a flower for an afternoon and come back oddly confident; a shovel named Gregor (don’t ask); and of course, Luma — the pastel lamb with a gaze like she remembered your childhood secrets. They followed her through the forest, which was less a forest and more a polite riot of sentient topiary. The hedges whispered things like “left at the mushrooms” or “have you seen my comb?” and nobody seemed to question it. Luma never faltered. Her tiny hooves barely touched the mossy floor as if the earth was giving her a gentle push with each step. The Seventh Gate turned out to be a large wrought iron arch nestled between two ancient willow trees, with glowing vines spelling out the words: “If You’re Reading This, It’s Probably Too Late.” It gave off the exact vibe of a place that had opinions about who was worthy — or at the very least, a strong interest in dramatic timing. “Shall we knock?” Dennis asked, before the gate sighed audibly and swung open on its own, revealing… a hallway. Not a garden path or a mystical realm. Just a dimly lit hallway that looked like it had been designed by someone who once ate a candle and thought, “Yes. This should be a vibe.” They stepped inside, and immediately, their thoughts got louder. Not verbally — mentally. Pip’s inner monologue began narrating everyone’s actions in a dramatic voice (“Dennis brandishes his opera glasses, bold but emotionally conflicted!”), while one of the Ivys projected continuous images of extremely disappointed grandparents. Miss Turnwell’s brain kept chanting “There is no muffin. There is only the jam.” over and over. Only Luma seemed unfazed. She trotted down the corridor as the very walls shimmered with blooming vines and smells that didn’t exist in the normal world — scents like “first kiss in spring rain” and “cherry pie left on a windowsill for someone who never came home.” At the end of the corridor was a room. Round. Bright. Floating somewhere between “luxury greenhouse” and “witch’s conservatory.” And at the center, reclining on a throne made entirely of thistles and chamomile, was the Bloomkeeper. Or… what was left of her. She looked like someone had pressed ‘pause’ halfway through turning into a constellation. Stars blinked from her cheeks, vines curled through her hair, and her voice sounded like bees politely holding a meeting. “You're late,” she said, eyes on Luma. “I expected you… two blooms ago.” Luma snorted. Loudly. A tiny peony popped from her wool and bounced across the floor. No one knew what that meant, but the Bloomkeeper smiled — that kind of smile that might turn into lightning or forgiveness, depending on how you held it. “They came with you,” she said, gesturing toward the awkward line of villagers now pretending to know how to stand heroically. “That changes things.” “What things?” asked Pip, nervously adjusting a petal that had mysteriously sprouted from his collarbone. The Bloomkeeper stood, her vines curling gently around her arms like living lace. “The garden is no longer content with itself,” she said. “It wants… out.” A moment passed. A deep, root-stirring silence. “Out… of what?” Dennis asked slowly. “Out of here,” she whispered, tapping her temple. “Out of dreams and into streets. Into cities. Into poems written in chalk and hearts that forgot to water themselves.” Luma bleated. The Bloomkeeper nodded. Then, without warning, she unraveled — not in a sad way. More like she’d turned into wind and light and something older than both. In her place stood a mirror. Inside it: a garden. Wild. Blooming. Alive. And waiting. Underneath, a message etched in petals: “To tend a garden like this, you must first break open.” The mirror rippled. And Luma walked through it. The others stood, blinking, unsure. Until Ivy (or was it the other Ivy?) took Pip’s hand and stepped in after her. Then Miss Turnwell. Then Gregor the shovel (still don’t ask). One by one, they entered — shedding old fears like petals on the wind. Only Dennis hesitated. He looked back once, toward the place they'd come from — the cozy, bizarre little village of Hushmoor. Then forward, into the blooming unknown. He straightened his jacket, adjusted his opera glasses, and said: “Right. Let’s garden some chaos.” And with that, the gate closed behind them. But somewhere in Hushmoor, the flowers still danced. And if you looked closely, you’d see new ones blooming — ones that hadn’t existed before. Ones shaped like memory, mischief… and a little lamb’s hoofprint in the soil. Epilogue: The Hoofprint and the Hush Years passed, as they do — irregularly, if you're in Hushmoor — and the village changed in ways that no one could quite measure. The fences no longer whispered (they sang now, mostly jazz standards), and the marmalade rain had become seasonal rather than spontaneous. The garden remained, impossibly alive, though no one pruned it anymore. It pruned itself, occasionally into the shapes of things not yet invented. Flowers bloomed in languages. Peonies opened to reveal keys, poems, and once, a tiny pair of socks labeled “emotional backup.” And every so often, someone new would appear. Not move in — just appear. Standing at the gate with grass in their shoes and a look like they’d accidentally remembered a dream. They would walk through the village, take tea with Miss Turnwell (still the baker, now also a semi-retired wand instructor), and eventually find themselves near the mirror — now standing proudly at the edge of the garden, framed by twining lavender and a little sign that read: “Proceed if you wish to bloom unbegracefully.” No one saw Luma again in quite the same way. But every full moon, the flowers would bend toward the horizon, as if listening. And in the morning, there’d always be a single perfect hoofprint in the soil. Right at the gate. It smelled faintly of peppermint. And impossible hope. Somewhere out there, beyond mirror and vine, the Bloomkeeper’s Lamb still wandered. Growing gardens in people’s hearts. Snorting at overly serious poets. And making sure no one — not even the most cynical, root-bound soul — forgot that they, too, were meant to bloom. The End. Sort of. If the story lingered in your chest like a dream you’re not ready to wake from, you can bring a piece of Hushmoor Hollow home. The Bloomkeeper’s Lamb is available as a framed print to enchant your walls, a metal print that gleams like moonlit garden gates, a throw pillow to cuddle like a slightly mysterious pastel companion, and even a fleece blanket — warm enough to ward off even the most cryptic chills. Let your space bloom with whimsy and wonder, one hoofprint at a time.
