By midmorning, the garden was alive with heat and sound. The sun poured down through the canopy of grass and leaves, pressing against Harry's shoulders like a heavy blanket. His tiny body ached from hunger; the hollow gnaw in his belly was deeper now, sharper. He had survived on nectar and dew, but that wasn't enough. His stomach growled angrily, reminding him that if he wanted the strength to make it home, he needed something more filling. Something with protein.
Harry stopped and leaned on his spear, wiping sweat from his brow. He glanced around at the living jungle. Where could he possibly find real food in this endless wilderness? Then he remembered his mother's advice from her biology books: watch the locals, and you'll learn how they survive.
He climbed a nearby plant stalk, pushing through stiff hairs until he reached a vantage point. From here, the garden opened around him like a vast plain. The frog he had seen earlier sat not too far away, its slick body pulsing as it swallowed another cricket whole. Harry shuddered—getting near that beast would be suicide.
Below, a column of ants swarmed over the body of a cricket they had killed, slicing it apart with their powerful jaws. The brutality made him flinch, and the idea of chewing raw insect meat himself churned his stomach. No. He couldn't do it. Not yet. He scanned the distance again, searching for something less gruesome.
There—across the garden—he spotted a mulberry plant. Its branches bowed with ripe fruits, deep purple and heavy with juice. His stomach clenched with longing. But the distance… it would take him hours to reach, maybe half the day, and he couldn't risk wandering so far off course.
He sighed, turned his head—and froze.
Not far in the other direction, the golden crown of the Penda tree shimmered in the light. Dozens of blossoms glowed pale yellow, their centers rich with nectar and pollen. Bees swarmed lazily in and out of the flowers, their bodies dusted with gold. Harry's pulse quickened. Nectar gave energy, but pollen… pollen was protein. He remembered the passages from his mother's book. The stingless bees gathered pollen for nourishment, and he could do the same.
Decision made, Harry climbed down and marched toward the Penda tree.
It loomed above him like a skyscraper, its trunk ridged and broad as a fortress wall. Harry's throat tightened, but relief came when he noticed a lower branch dotted with blossoms. He dropped his shield and spear at the base, wiped his palms on his shirt, and began to climb. Unlike grass blades, the bark was solid and rough, offering plenty of grip. Still, the climb was grueling, his tiny limbs burning with effort.
At last he reached a flowering branch. The blossoms clustered together in thick golden bunches, each one radiating sweetness. Harry stared in awe. Up close, the flowers were magnificent, the yellow petals curling outward like silken trumpets, the pollen stems standing tall and dusted with powdery gold.
He climbed carefully onto the cluster, crawling into the heart of one blossom. Rich nectar gleamed at its center. He cupped it in his hands and drank greedily. The liquid was thicker and sweeter than any he had tasted before, almost syrupy, sending warmth racing through his chest. Energy surged back into his aching muscles.
After filling his belly with nectar, Harry turned to the pollen stems. They were tall and swayed when he climbed, but sturdy enough to hold his weight. Inch by inch he scaled the stalk, heart pounding as he glanced down at the dizzying drop below. At the top, he scooped a handful of golden pollen. It stuck to his skin like soft dust, smelling faintly floral. He tasted it—it was earthy, slightly bitter, but rich. And it was filling. He ate quickly, licking the powder from his hands, and felt strength return to his body.
Relief washed over him. For once, something had gone right.
But then movement caught his eye. Just one flower cluster away, bees hummed as they gathered nectar. He smiled faintly—until he noticed something strange. Two of the bees weren't moving. They sat perfectly still, nestled into a blossom. Sleeping? That didn't make sense.
Harry leaned closer, squinting. His stomach dropped.
One of the "flowers" twitched.
He blinked and realization struck cold through his chest. It wasn't a flower at all—it was a spider. A flower crab spider, its body disguised perfectly among the petals, waiting for prey.
As he watched, a bee buzzed into the trap. The spider struck with terrifying speed, seizing it in its long legs. The bee shrieked—a high, thin sound Harry never imagined a bee could make. The spider's fangs pierced, venom pumping in. The bee convulsed, wings flailing weakly, then sagged limp. The spider dragged it deeper into the blossom, feasting in silence.
Harry's breath caught. His skin went clammy. That could have been him. One wrong flower, one wrong step, and he'd have been skewered before he even knew what hit him.
Slowly, carefully, he backed away from the blossom, heart hammering. His hands shook as he scrambled down the branch. Every step felt too loud, too slow. He reached the trunk, slid down the bark, and dropped to the soil with a grunt. His shield and spear waited, and he clutched them as if they were lifelines.
He didn't stop running until the Penda was behind him.
Panting, he leaned against a tall blade of grass, forcing air into his lungs. He was alive. Barely.
But the realization hit hard: two days in this garden, and he had nearly died half a dozen times. He had to get back. He had to get big again.
Or he wouldn't last another day