Маргарет Миллар - The Cannibal Heart

It wasn’t raining, but the trees still dripped when she shook their branches, or when the hummingbirds darted in and out of the wet leaves. The path had turned to mud that squished, and tugged at the oversize boots trying to pull them off. When she was out of sight of the house she reached down and picked up a handful of the mud to see how it felt; and there, already growing up out of it, was a miniature tree, with delicate lacy leaves like a pepper tree.

She stared down at it, frowning. The little tree reminded her of something, but for a moment she couldn’t think what. She glanced around her more carefully and then she saw that there were other little trees, too, growing all around her feet, and tiny leaves sprouting from twigs and branches that she’d thought were dead. Everything had come to life again like magic. From bare wood little green sprouts had emerged, and buds seemed to be opening right before her eyes. (“Then it began to rain, and the sea filled and everything came to life...”)

It was all there, just as it had been there in Mrs. Wakefield’s dream. The orange trees glittered with gold, and the live oaks reached the sky, and the leaves of the peppers hung down like moist green lace.

“I bet she never had a dream,” she said aloud, scornfully. “I bet she just saw it for herself and said it was a dream.”

What a liar Mrs. Wakefield was, making up that story about the island, and what a baby she herself had been to believe it. She was much older now. No one could ever fool her again.

She walked on, crushing the little trees deliberately with the heels of her boots.