by Hadi Atallah
“I sure do,” Rosemary said.
“Here’s where you shall sleep tonight.” Bay pointed at the mattress that was adjacent to his. “I hope you’ll find it comforting.” He stretched on top of the blankets.
“I had a long day today,” Rosemary said removing the strands from her hair. “I had to wake up early to see Doctor Blossom, then I hurried to Dona Hill and met Sorrel, who’s the ruler of Dona Hill, and oh and his wonderful sister Wisteria. She was so lovely and welcoming, I wonder if I’ll have the same charisma as her when I grow up. She’s like this person where everyone can feel warmth when they’re next to her—it’s so comforting. I haven’t felt like that in a long time, ever since my mother passed away. Anyway, she warned Sorrel about something—I think something is on to us. That is, Clove and me. But I can’t comprehend what it is exactly. That’s why we journeyed all the way here to …”
Rosemary was interrupted by Bay’s ear-splitting snores.
“Well, good night,” she said. Her eyes kept the book, which Bay had held to show her his mother’s decaying flower, in their field of vision. Rosemary had a feeling that, from that point onwards, she was preparing for the unthinkable. Her actions might have aroused pain in the hearts of her loved ones; nonetheless courage and genius were all about breaching and going beyond people’s instincts.
LOYALTY
One who is afraid of climbing the high places of the earth shall forever remain to live among the low ditches. Aster was a man who was prepared to climb the highest of peaks, and when it came to Rosemary, he was prepared to travel to the moon. He was a man of character upon which Pandemville’s moral senses were built. Yet Rosemary’s absence was about to shake the mind of this very man, and discomfort his soul so terribly that it reached the spirit of dejection.
Aster was now a victim of his own incorruptible actions. He did brag and boast to many about his daughter’s supernatural power. And now the world had come up with a funny way to make both his incorruptible actions and Rosemary’s supernatural power visible. It was too early for Aster to realise that fact, but he was no fool. He profoundly understood that his actions sprang up from his character and goals. But was he flexible enough to face changes when they arose? We shall see.
“Rosemary,” Aster called out upon entering the great hall in his castle. His voice usually resonated far enough for his daughter to hear him. The maidservants of the castle, all wearing plain aprons, immediately gathered around Aster paying obeisance to him.
“Good evening, your highness,” one gigantic bony maidservant with a strawberry of a nose said leading the others with their soft greetings.
“Has anyone seen my daughter?” he asked as he made headway towards the sweeping central staircase.
“I saw her depart on her horse this morning, sire,” another replied as she followed Aster’s footsteps along with the rest of the maidservants. “She hasn’t been home since.”
“She’s meddling with my heart, this little one,” Aster bellowed. “Are you sure you haven’t seen her?”
“None of us have come in contact with her since the beginning of the day,” the maidservant replied. “We’re all worried sick.”
Aster entered her sleeping quarters and found it vacant, then he rushed into the dressing room only to find it vacant too. “One of you check the private withdrawing room, she might be there,” he ordered, as his heart began to pump more vehemently. “Someone else search the bathrooms—I shall search the dungeons.”
“I’ll search the pantry,” one maidservant said. “She must be feeling hungry.”
“I’ll check the buttery,” another said and everyone froze. “Just in case. I know she’s too young to drink.”
“Very well,” Aster said. “Everyone spread out. Someone check the storeroom and place of arms.”
“I’ll head for the gatehouse,” a maidservant exclaimed. “My sister will check the courtyard.”
“I’ll head for the castle’s accommodations,” another maidservant said. “Rosemary always finds leisure amongst the soldiers.”
All of the castle’s staff, including the guards and soldiers, were given the order to search for Rosemary. Aster broadened the area of his search outside the castle walls, and within hours, all of Pandemville’s locals were aware of Rosemary’s absence. The locals joined the search teams too but to no avail. As the first glimmers of morning began to break, a rumor about Rosemary’s whereabouts started to emerge.
“I have news of Rosemary, sire, unpleasant news,” a soldier said to Aster, who was overlooking the coastal town from the rampart’s walkway of the castle.
“Anything,” Aster demanded still in mortal dread of a phase that seemed so endless.
“Someone saw a lifeless body on our shores,” the soldier said very hesitantly. “The witness said that the body might be Rosemary’s.”
“Bring this witness to me,” Aster ordered, as his blood pumped without warming him. “And the body, if there is one.” He wiped his sweaty palms with the lemony colored robe that decorated an over-fed frame.
“Right away, sire,” the soldier said and turned to leave.
“You’ve meddled with my heart this time, Rosemary,” Aster said with a hollowed voice, as the first of the sun’s rays made an appearance over the horizon. “Since the beginning of time the heavens sincerely foretell, but how will it assemble your unpredictable action with the bees? The flowers? The light?” Aster leaned his whole body against the parapet.
All the while, sailboats entered Pandemville’s port, whose looming archways stood below the pale clouds that were drifting in the sky as if they were whipped by the invisible lashes of the wind.
Meanwhile in the Peyote Desert …
The lambent light filled the windows with a pale, snow like color and the morning air was cool and motionless. Calendula’s reception room looked like it was filled with smoke due to the intensity of the light particles. Rosemary’s strands were glimmering in her hair for the very first time, but she did not really invest time studying them before she set her hair right. She did not want to feel like a Wednesday on a Friday, especially when she held Bay’s blossoming camellia flower in both of her hands.
“Bay,” Rosemary whispered exhaling. “Wake up, you’ve got to see this.”
Bay opened his eyes and expected to see his new friend’s hair unbraided and sticking out in all directions. He sat up in his mattress like a prickly cactus in the back, then craned his neck to have a better look at his mother’s flower.
“You brought it back to life,” Bay said struggling for air, unconsciously clinging to his guitar. He launched himself at Rosemary and swiftly took her by the hand. Bay inevitably concluded that Rosemary could raise the dead; the idea fixed itself in his mind.
Burial mounds and rock piled graves soon surrounded them; some were small, indicating that there were children. Reverent silence governed the area, while Rosemary steadily pulled her arm struggling to free herself from Bay’s clutches and finding the strength to finally do so.
“I can’t do it,” Rosemary said, her body refusing to gulp down the air. Bay brought his lips together in resigned annoyance.
“I’m sorry,” Rosemary said, offering the flower with both hands.
“Your braids,” Bay said, shaken up. “They’re like radiant desert snakes.” He pulled several reeds out of the sand, and adeptly crafted a strap to which he joined his guitar.
“They don’t usually do that, they seem more than just regular strands.”
“Here, this is yours,” Bay said resolutely. He traded his guitar for his mother’s blooming camellia flower.
“Are you sure you want to give me this, Bay?” Rosemary said, while she scoured the guitar’s features like a phoenix eyeing its world before giving up its life.
Bay remained reticent. He hunkered down, holding his flower in the air, and his other hand sketched four lines in the sand; two vertical, two horizontal, and an X in the middle. Rosemary quickly joined Bay’s game of XO, and marked a circle next to
the X. Bay then drew a line from his X to Rosemary’s O emphatically expressing his love.
“I love you too, Bay,” Rosemary said somewhat complacently.
“Always remember me,” Bay said.
Rosemary perceived, from the manner in which he said it, that there had been a scar and that it had still not softened. A considerate statement was only welcome at that point.
“The flower shall remain living as long as I think of it,” Rosemary said harmonizing with Bay. “That means that I cannot forget you—I promise.”
“Is that how it works?” Bay asked, examining the miracle in his hands. Deep down inside, he believed that promises are usually written on the sand and have the potential to disappear from one day to the next. Rosemary’s promise, on the other hand, seemed everlasting.
“Where will you be going now?” Bay asked, realizing that Rosemary’s strands had turned dormant.
“I don’t know, but I guess I am going to end up in Kunal, wherever that is,” Rosemary replied.
“Kunal?” Bay said, cocking his head sideways.
“There you are, both of you had me worried!” Calendula exclaimed from a distance with Clove right behind him.
“What are you guys doing here?” Clove asked edging closer, as Rosemary placed her newly strapped guitar over her shoulder.
“I assume they’re here to pay my wife a visit,” Calendula said, answering Clove’s question. “I remember a time when I really neatened my hair and beard and got over dressed—Camellia asked me if I was going out to arrange a second marriage for myself.”
“And what did you tell her?” Clove asked.
“I told her that I already struck my head with a rock once, why would I do it again,” Calendula replied, and as he talked his eyes grew moist. “Surely she knew it was a joke but her sensitivity was like the eyes to the sun.” He could see that the two youngsters were enjoying their ocean of silence, the absence of words, where time eventually created hope and the navigational star guided that hope to the shores where their little agreements, promises and jokes resided.
“You knew her too well,” Clove said with selfconscious refinement. “May life always give you royal welcoming.”
“I wish you the same,” Calendula said, his tone consonant with his friend’s. “It’s time you head to the ship, its crew may be waiting for you.”
“I’m always blessed by your presence,” Clove said, embracing Calendula. “I’m lucky I found one.”
“Royal welcoming as is,” Calendula said, his words faultless, although perhaps a bit too intuitive.
In that short time, Bay imagined Rosemary to be riotous, independent and unusual beyond question, while Rosemary admired her bright surroundings. She speculated about Bay and if he, too, ever savored such mornings of wonderment.
“What would you name that flower you imagined, Rosemary?” Bay asked courteously, whispering into her ear.
“Stathalie!” she exclaimed.
“What? Why?” Bay said, somewhat astonished.
“Because I love the name Stacie,” she replied. “But I feel like I’m going to name my daughter Nathalie one day.”
“The Love-Feel connection,” Calendula stated as if an upheaval had been caused inside of him.
“Girls are weird,” Bay said, while his eyes widened up to the fact that he just agreed to a globally shared remark. He gave thought to Rosemary’s imaginary flower before he became mindful of the fact that his friend had already moved away with Clove by her side. He watched them get on a pinnace that was waiting by the shores, and soon enough he was admiring the openness within which the ship’s hull and masts faded like a sigh beyond the horizon. The view was a feast for the eyes.
Rosemary was thankful for the power of intuition, the fact that she picked up on something essential and important about Sorrel and Wisteria. It meant she did not need to worry about explaining the reasons for why she decided to leave Pandemville. Elementally, impulsive actions are highly regarded by nature, for nature exalts spontaneity because it withstands explanation. She also pondered over The Tribe of Sand and Mirrors. How the tribe came to be the free lords of the Peyote Desert, although they owned very little. Rosemary felt that it was bizarre and funny how much that tribe ploughed through the sand, making something out of nothing only to become masters that served no one.
The static sky and its ripples of steady light suddenly filled Rosemary with jovial and sweet vibes that caused her to shut her eyes. Rosemary swallowed her smile soon after she took a whiff of the fragranced wind that reminded her of her own seaside town; she knew that someone was weeping with speculation and misery at that very moment. She knew that life was suspended everywhere except in his heart. The thought of her pounces on her father with little admonitions seemed to weigh in, especially when she reminded herself of the time she would doze on the grass alongside him and then awaken from time to time to hear him say amazing things about her mother.
The light began to shift and the sun went down, removing its warmth. Rosemary was devoid of comfort, as the sky turned salmon-pink, and the greyish waves rolled by the ship into the vast expanse.
***
Hours later, Clove was lying on his bed in a cubicle. It groaned under his weight as he turned. He could not fall asleep, and a fever was rising within him. He was gliding over his drowsiness, which felt like an impenetrable flatland because he could not dive in and get some sleep. He mumbled a few words with no voice emitting from his mouth. He could only see his rounded belly in the dark. His cover was about to slip off completely. He felt the cold creeping through his skin, and he brooded on Rosemary. She must be cold too, he thought.
He sat up in bed like a needle in the spine, fully awake trying to free himself from his gloomy contemplation. He tried to listen to a distant call, or imagine where Rosemary might have been, but he eventually agreed that all that was useless as he chewed the inside of his cheek. He got to his feet with a moan caught in his throat, put on his clothes and left the room in search for Rosemary. It’s dinner time, he thought to himself. Dinner, after all, was his favorite meal of the day.
Rosemary’s eyelids shut briefly as though to wash away her thoughts. When her eyes reopened, she found herself staring at Viola’s waves before spotting Clove, who was wandering on the ship’s partly empty deck. Someone was finally there to take Rosemary out of her pensive mood. Clove examined her at first; she looked absorbed, as if she was a girl imagining her own forced marriage.
“Welcome aboard Guide Hope,” Clove said. “The crewmen of this ship have a motto.”
“What is it?”
“Because there’s beauty,” Clove replied. It was the first conversation they had shared since they boarded Guide Hope. Clove had evidently been too tired to converse before this because he had been working on providing some form of transportation during the course of the previous night.
“You told me that you’re into poetry, right?” Clove said. “I’ve been working on something poetic to say to you, you know?” He gave Rosemary a gentle nudge in the ribs.
“Tell me,” Rosemary said, revealing her love for poems and compositions.
“The only phase I consider I wasted time in is when I thought of how much time I wasted.”
“That’s a joke,” Rosemary said, making light of Clove’s statement and pulling her head back like a giant turtle to get a better look at him.
A sailor drifted by them; his expression was firm and solid as if his face was carved out of limestone, while his eyes radiated with an inadvertent menacing light. Guide Hope’s mast creaked as it took hold of the wind, and Rosemary and Clove watched thousands of different birds, which she couldn’t identify, fly past Viola’s horizon after waking up from their siesta. The next lap of their resettling had just begun.
A thin dark strip of gold permitted Rosemary to make out the skyline. After a few seconds, the whole stratosphere burst into a shining yellowish color. The sun shone, and in the thick of the soupy air, Rosemary knew that the sea held
forth so many promises. She had never seen such an illuminated color in the heavens above. Viola was the same intense yellow as the sky, and she had the bewildering feeling that she was released from gravity and gliding into a field of sunflowers that elongated from the sky to the ocean. Rosemary felt like she was finally living, like a dream in a visionary’s mind.
***
The dream did not take too long to reach its climax, as both Clove’s and Rosemary’s horses rushed tantivy over the dirt washed roads that wound through the pastures. The roadway quivered under the sunlight’s energy, and Rosemary’s surroundings flashed like a partially formed hallucination. Butterwort was dominated by several irremovable features; the cool breeze, the farmhouses and the heaps of hay scattered throughout the fields where kites were flown.
All in all, Butterwort was a delightful and scenic little village curled up among the gusty hills, amongst a liquidambar forest. A villa stood over one of the hill tops and was non-intimidating yet stately. They had to give their names at the gateway, and then make their way up a lengthy, bent path. Elm and alpine trees fenced in the estate stepping up its impression even more, while the horses rolled stones several meters away from them as they gently galloped towards the villa’s entrance that had a yellow ochre colored banner hung on top of it. It read:
The Solar Relationship
Become the light, unmoved by the wind
“Gaillardia Marigold has not changed one bit,” Clove said, admiring the writing. “Once an activist, always an activist.”
“An activist for what?” Rosemary asked.
“For bees,” Clove replied. “She’s in love with them.”
Gaillardia settled and toiled out of a thirtythree-acre property in Butterwort. The house had columns looming along the vast front porch, a lavish staircase fit for royalty, and formal rooms whose hardwood floors had the sound characteristics of a theatre. The villa’s arcaded windows let in the abundant light, and every square meter of it was flooded with art of all kinds. Sculptures spread across the palatial rooms, whereas portraits hung up to its ceiling that reminded her of her home back in Pandemville.
