The truth of lies

She approached the ring of boab trees, standing tall and proud and mighty amongst the various assortment of paperbark, eucalyptus and wattle. One of the trees had a low hanging branch, which she used to hoist herself up into its strong arms. Hanging her satchel over her neck, she climbed swiftly, the bark of the trunk gently scratching her legs as she progressed. Finally, she swung herself down onto her branch. She and her family had discovered this little sanctuary, bordered by the ring of boabs, while walking through the forest one day, and made it their own. It was their special place, all of them, but she thought of that one particular branch as hers. She liked the way the trunk was shaped behind it, as if it were designed to support her as she leaned back into it. The branch was thin and frail, looking as if it may snap off at any second, but she had spent afternoons lounging on it with a book for years and had come to trust that it wouldn't break because the boabs wouldn't let it. It was part of them, and they supported their own.

As she sat down on her branch, she took in the familiar sight of the clearing and sighed contentedly, breathing in the fresh air. It was beautiful. No matter how many times she saw it, its beauty never waned. Her family had planted a garden of flowers amongst the ring of boab trees. Their diversity of vibrant colours blended together in such a marvellous way, she always felt quite inspired by it. Every now and then, various members of her family would come and plant new flowers, adding to the intricate array of shapes and colours, guarded by the strong trees. Most of them were native flowers. All the ones she had helped to plant were anyway. She preferred those ones. Some of her family members chose to plant non-native ones which they particularly loved, and she didn't mind them doing so, but she would have no part in the process.

She took her satchel from around her and opened it, pulling out the new book she had bought recently. She ran her fingers over the words of the title and down the spine, feeling it, sniffing it, and then carefully turning it over to read the blurb, as she always did with a new book before she read it.

'For Tammy, her family had always been the one thing in the world she could trust, so when she finds out they have been lying to her her entire life she feels lost...'

The warm summer's air blew through her hair and she looked around the ring of boabs once more, smiling to herself. This place always reminded her how overwhelmingly grateful she was to have the family that she did. She trusted her family, like Tammy did, but she knew that hers would never betray her like that. Her family were a boat, that kept her afloat on a sea of liars, schemers and backstabbers.

Something at the end of her branch caught her eye. A little white packet, snagged by the twig. She recognised it as a packet of seeds. It must have blown out of reach while someone was planting flowers, and ended up there. She slid along the branch to retrieve it. She read the name of the flower from the back of the packet. Marigold. Weren't they the flowers her and her cousin Zilla had planted a few months ago? She remembered that one of the empty seed packets had blown out of Zilla's hand too. But no, that couldn't be right. She must be muddling the name up with some other flower, because as her eyes skimmed down the packet, they came across the words 'Imported from South America'. She knew that the flowers they had planted were native. Zilla had told her so.

"Are you sure these are native?" she'd asked, when Zilla suggested they plant them together. "I thought they were imported from America or Europe or something."

"No, I'm sure they're native, the packet says so," Zilla her assured her, waving the packet in her direction and then tipping some seeds out and passing them to her. So she had planted them with her cousin, in a zigzag pattern, like a lightning bolt. "Representing power," Zilla had claimed.

They were just beginning to flower now. Only three months after being planted! Bulging circles of yellow-rimmed orange petals. She wondered what these 'marigold' flowers looked like, and flipped the packet over to see the picture on the front. She frowned, confused, slightly uneasy, and hurriedly skimmed the garden again, her heart-beat quickening. No. Many flowers looked similar, she knew that. But the lightning bolt arrangement of flowers she and Zilla had planted were the only orange ones in the clearing; the only ones that resembled the picture of the marigold flower on the front of the packet even slightly. But they resembled it exactly. She didn't understand. How?

Her cousin had lied to her. The realisation struck her like an electric shock; like a lightning-bolt, and she let go of the packet, willing it to disappear. Her book fell from where it had been balanced on her lap in the process. She leaned over to try to catch it.

Snap! She was falling. She had shuffled too far along the branch to where it was weakest, and moved too suddenly in her shock. Her branch had snapped. The boab tree had let it go and it fell with her legs still wrapped around it.

She didn't scream. She landed on the flowers, crushing them beneath her. They cushioned her fall. She wasn't hurt physically. But the flowers were uncomfortable; itchy. She had to get out of them. She had to get out of the clearing. She trudged over all the carefully planted flowers in her path, thorns digging into her ankles, making her curse as she began to cry. She reached the boabs and hurried through the small gap between them. The rough bark of the giant trees scraped her shins as she manoeuvred through them. Why were they so darn fat and bumpy? She hit the trunk in frustration and tripped over one of their long roots. It had been placed in her path intentionally, like a snare, a cruel trick.

As she finally came tumbling out of the clearing, she was bleeding and sore. She ran through the trees: the paperbark and eucalyptus and wattle, welcoming their presence and the boundary they put between her and the boabs. She kept running through the forest. Not out of it. Not home. She ran aimlessly. Because her family had lied to her. Because if she couldn't trust her family, who could she trust? No one.