by Hadi Atallah
They were high, comfortably two stories. Clove led Rosemary to her room. She admired the sunlight that was filtered through the leaves of the trees, trees that appeared through the window of her chamber upon entering it. The light was brought back into her eyes; the feeling was revitalizing like a mystifying clear conscience coming over her. Her chamber consisted of flowered wallpaper, a wooden bed, a chair and wardrobe with a super gloss enamel, and a spotless washbasin. A portrait of the sun was lodged in a beautiful gilt frame above a polished chest of drawers, and the windows had curtains with brocade roses.
Rosemary felt the warmth coming from the rich, wall papered walls. She knew very well where to place herself. She put her guitar aside and, with a clear and mirthful mind, she looked at the empty high ceiling as she lay on her bed. Then her weary eyes sealed shut and she went to sleep.
Hours later, she awoke from a deep, coma-like sleep. The sky had slowly lost its blue petals only to exhibit night. Rosemary stared out with such wild eyes as if she had never seen her strands before and with such a frightened expression that one of the strands started caressing her face. Rosemary nodded and said: “What?”
While peace had returned to her face, her expression was still vacant and she felt listless. She came to the realization that one cannot work in the darkness so easily, yet there are always things that have the authority to do that. There was absolute silence around her. Rosemary shivered as she heard gravelly dogs snarling from the edge of Butterwort. The soundless night was too strong to make their barks impotent. She noticed that her folding knees made a tent out of the sheet.
She then stood motionless beside her bed and her insides were in a tremor. She thought she could hear the others breathing, although she couldn’t make out any individuals. The bed’s warmth soon deserted her and the cold possessed her. She stealthily opened the door, walked through it and then shut it behind her with similar caution.
After running the length of the corridor, she looked through the partially stained skylight glass ceiling and saw the black sky teeming with a garland of stars. She felt the frosty air burn her lungs, yet she followed the lighting strands half blind, in the darkness. If only the strands came to know that she was still departing from a dream.
All the rooms in the villa were still, although she knew they were not empty. The cold air, which she was gulping, soon reached a thermal equilibrium inside her and a spark of warmth brought back some tranquility within her, toning down her shivers. At the same time, a spirit robe came into view amid the strands’ brilliance. The robe was made of milk-white wool and an abstract form of a sunflower was hand knitted on its backside using moon gold threads and spangles. The robe was positioned in the middle of two circular portraits. One represented Mother Earth, while the other rendered the cosmos.
Her sticky eyes opened at last at the sight of this majestic handwork and, within her, enthusiasm and bitterness were brawling with each other to see who would come out on top. She thought she was going to wake up to unsettling dreams only to wake up to this. She giggled, technically gagging on her smile, while her eyes shone like polished crocodile skin in the candlelight.
***
In the ample light of the next spring morning, the cool scent of mint tea enticed Rosemary to exit her room. Clove wore a coat over his shoulders and was silhouetted by the bright light of the reception hall. He examined her closely as her expression changed from puzzlement to delight.
“How did you sleep?” He asked.
“I assume that I am in the flowering of my commitment right now,” she replied. It was an assumption that bred further exploration.
“Commitment, I see,” Clove said, nodding. “I believe that Miss Marigold can tackle that word for you. I, on the other hand, have to get going.”
“Why don’t we have breakfast together?”
“It’s lunch time already, dear. Gaillardia expects to see her new honored guest. So make yourself feel at home and enjoy your stay here.”
He took an officious look around the rest of the hall, a look which Rosemary felt was a bit too ironic, and disappeared through the main doorway of the villa. The first thing Rosemary noticed was an old golden retriever sleeping by the fire. And then she found herself standing next to an eclectic library. In two shakes of a lamb’s tail, she knew that Gaillardia had a seemingly unquenchable desire for knowledge, but she could not piece together why a trowel was kept on one of the shelves between the books. That left her scratching her head in bemusement.
“Why isn’t this just one of the most pleasurable moments in Butterwort? Hello, there my love!”
The enthusiastic greeting resonated through the room and carried Rosemary along with it, almost immediately raising her own spirits.
Gaillardia’s spectacles stimulated Rosemary to think of the impressive library. She wore a yellow suede and plain silk, as though the alpine chill was absent and had never been there. Rosemary examined how seamless and clean her clothes were, as though they had been scrubbed and pressed several times. Her sensuous lips, amber eyes, rosy cheeks and salt and pepper streaks of hair that was severely pulled back gave off a vibe that was the exact opposite of someone appearing to stand in the distance with a dark trench coat and a cane. Lightness and brightness summed up the impression.
“How was your sleep, little lady?” Gaillardia asked. And then continued without waiting for a response: “I am sure that you’re loaded up with energy, I can see it in your eyes.”
Rosemary noticed how her fluent words and rapid speech reflected the amount of time and energy she had put out to become the eloquent and professional orator she was. Rosemary was about to respond when a maidservant with a shock of white hair and immense earlobes appeared and whispered something in Gaillardia’s ear. Rosemary inspected the crisp and laundered table linen that was stiff with starch and folded in the maidservant’s hands. It was all set for lunch.
“Is he heading there? Very well then, let him be,” Gaillardia said fervently. Then, extending her hand, she said: “Rosemary? Come with me.” Rosemary took hold of the hand instantly. She felt like Gaillardia had a peaceful, relaxed quality about her.
They entered a room with deep-pile carpeting, dark wood paneling and leather couches upon which several people were seated. Rosemary saw young men and women with protruding eyes and the composed and slightly detached air of those who daydream of bees and flowers. Their posture was typically flawless, and everyone was dressed in deep yellows, creamy beiges and royal hues. The window was open because it was predestined to be one of those incredibly immaculate highland days.
“What is the remedy to ignorance?” Gaillardia said while gesturing for Rosemary to take a seat with the rest. “It is loving unconditionally. What is the remedy to depression? It is making love. Love is a powerful energy—use it!”
Despite the fact everyone in the group was in their teenage years and early twenties, whereas Gaillardia was at the very least in her late forties, Rosemary quickly realized that she was the most dynamic of them all. Additionally, Rosemary noticed that Gaillardia’s oration consisted of questions she stated to herself followed by answers spoken with a much unsuppressed pressing of the lips.
Lunch consisted of roast chicken sprinkled with onion and celery, finely minced meat, fine rice and sponge cake. A thick vapor steamed up from the food, and most of the women hit it off with an individual who was warm and funny. He had a long, masculine face, with high, wide cheekbones and prominent lips, and his movements were tensed and twitchy.
Rosemary enjoyed her meal before they all headed to Butterwort’s shady, yet lush, green ravine with Gaillardia in the lead. There were no naturally level places and Viola’s constant wind merged with Butterwort’s upward currents from its vertical hills. The result of Butterwort’s unexceptional environment was a series of fast moving, softly rounded clouds heading inshore proffered from the Viola whose water glistened under the sun as if it were platinum bits weaved onto a golden dress. It was positively a gentle reward fro
m the ocean to everyone spending their time out in the open.
“Is it fate that we should rely on? If so then how can we tolerate it?” Gaillardia asked. “Fate is a wave of tears. Don’t ride its tides into obscurity.” She paused, then continued: “Is it a risky ride? Ah yes, if one has no loyal companions. If my circle of influence values me, then loyalty shall bloom from within my circle.” She looked around, as if admiring everyone. “Just like the humble petals of a flower, and then I ask myself—what is humbleness? Humbleness is a form of will to understand the other first. It’s where the light seems to hook to things, and what do I call such a state?” Again she looked around before answering her own question. “I call such a state The Solar Relationship.”
Rosemary felt as committed as the birds that continued to salute the afternoon with chirps and twitters. She was more than ready to explore Butterwort’s ecosystem, and the wind-swept afternoon felt appropriate for doing just that. A bumblebee circled the flowers. Rosemary lost track of the one she had been tracing for some time and then discovered it again when it glowed on one of the moving flowers. The weather was not too cold, yet the dry wind slightly fluttered the bee’s wings. The women skittered with rustling skirts, while Rosemary looked on intently, exploring the ravine without reserve.
“I love this place, and I consider myself blessed,” Gaillardia said as she pushed back her sleeves and exposed her forearms. “It is a change, but not specifically progress.” Her eyes met Rosemary’s. “I’m a winner once I get these bees back to their usual numbers, you see?”
Rosemary gently nodded. The merry and soft evening sky captured Rosemary’s questioning, but her nervousness cast one of those dizzy spells on her. What did my strands really try to show me last night, she thought. What was so staggering about that robe?
The answers to her questions ripened faster when Gaillardia invited her over to her oak-paneled office. Behind Gaillardia’s desk was a battered oak-made chest of drawers next to a pot of incense and a three-step ladder. On the chest were engraved the words: “Faith, Hope, Charity.” The drawers had been built to contain clothing, but in Gaillardia’s case, they contained charts and reports.
She was following some logical strand with herself. But then she suddenly turned around and fidgeted with the drawers’ insides with a madness of a woman who found carefulness a crime. In the end, she pulled out a series of charts. Each page listed, on the left, the names of flowers, and across the top was a timeline, broken into twelve months. Every flower that existed throughout Butterwort’s ravine was marked with an X.
“All the boys and girls who work in my lodge have invested significant time in growing flowers for Butterwort’s bees,” Gaillardia said. “Unfortunately none of their efforts have proved pivotal.”
Gaillardia was peculiarly steeped with positivity as, smiling, she spoke to Rosemary. It was obvious she had an insatiable appetite for conversation, an appetite that finally drew Rosemary out of her silent mode.
“What’s your long-term strategy?” Rosemary asked, astonished by her tone of voice.
“The Solar Relationship will never stop doing battle for a greener and flourishing Butterwort,” Gaillardia replied. “Butterwort’s weather conditions cannot last forever, while we destroy countless habitats.”
“Obviously not,” Rosemary said.
“I believe that you have the right to know about what is happening to Butterwort. Each and every one of us has the power to make small changes—imagine what we can do if we were all united?” Gaillardia’s remarks were peppered with references that Rosemary knew were out of an environmental book. “We all are committed to stand up for Butterwort’s bees and take action in order to stop the destruction of their environment. We, at The Solar Relationship, identify problems and draw out conclusions that serve as possible solutions.”
“The finest part of activism,” Rosemary said.
“If activism is not clear, definite, attainable and does not even have the capability of being reproduced in other parts of the world, then how can it be prosperous and eminent?” Gaillardia said very passionately and forcefully. “Join us. I think you would do a great service in helping to fight for Butterwort’s wellness. Besides if you do prove to be an essential individual at The Solar Relationship, then naturally you would be rewarded.”
“Rewarded with what?” Rosemary asked, leaning forward.
“You’ll receive the lodge’s highest accolade,” Gaillardia replied. “It would be our spirit robe displayed in the hallway.”
As Rosemary already had an obsession with that robe, this was wonderful news. She grinned from ear to ear as she got herself comfortable in her chair again, then agreed to be part of Miss Marigold’s campaign.
***
Unable to be distinguished individually, the elm and alpine trees swayed as one through the twilight darkness that same night. Rosemary was on her way to the ravine after making sure that everyone was sound asleep. The dry and cold air made her cheeks sore and smart, and she felt the ground beneath her feet in the faint light of the moon. She hummed to herself with her eyes closed like she always did, then began to say with a sleep-inducing quality amid the swelling sounds of crickets:
Borage, Oregano, Lavender and Chives
Mints, Basil, Sage and Thyme
A ravine full of color, a ravine full of smiles
But keep out—the bees will be working
for a while
As she called out their names, a multitude of flowers erupted in every part of the ravine. Even though it was pitch black, the view of the monochromatic flowers helped Rosemary’s commitment soar to even higher levels. Her strands shed a weak glow, as she wiped the imaginary sweat from her forehead and scampered back to her room in the villa.
In the advancing afternoon of the very next day, the light relaxed and softened. Rosemary heard Gaillardia’s old dog giving loud, joyous woofs in the front yard. She went outside and watched Gaillardia nodding to her young companions who stood under a tree. Her activist face became visible, inspecting a hive of considerable size, while countless bees flew back and forth on sprightly wings.
“Do you want to know the reason behind this?” Rosemary asked, winning over everyone’s attention. Rosemary was about to weave her magic on Gaillardia. Everyone resumed their silence, while Gaillardia allowed herself a little smile and nodded. Rosemary lead everyone to the ravine where the air was dry, and to their great surprise, the ravine was overpowered with the excessive smell of flowers in bloom. Gaillardia moved slowly and steadily, removing her glove from one hand.
“What did this?” she asked, as her eyes made their way over Rosemary’s features like a snake eyeing its prey.
“Let’s just say it was all part of nature,” Rosemary replied. “Feelings rise by conflicting laws when watching these waves of flowers, don’t you agree, love?”
“Oh, my my,” Gaillardia said, pressing her lips. “Isn’t this one of the finest creations too? You represent girls with commitment and independence, girls who bring good tidings.”
***
Later that evening, back in the room with dark wood paneling, everyone sat ramrod straight on the leather couches and witnessed Rosemary receive her promised reward. No one could come up with any questions for her. She knew that The Solar Relationship always wanted to express the kind of suitable, lively fusion of assistance and violence that was so needed for the cultures of the impoverished beekeepers of Butterwort.
Rosemary’s method was an answer to everyone’s prayers, and that was unalterable. Rosemary handled herself courteously during the ritual before she flaunted her new robe and guitar in front of everyone. Gaillardia then invited her to rest up on the front porch. Rosemary seated herself on a rocking chair next to Gaillardia. She adjusted her robe and delightfully strummed her guitar. She felt like she was in the right place to ask a question, to break the silence between her and Gaillardia.
“What do you know about the Love-Feel connection, Miss Marigold?” Rosemary asked.
“The Love-Feel connection? I know a thing or two about love.”
“I would love to hear what you have to say.”
“You would love to hear what I have to say? Oh honey. Well, thinking coldly is smart, but sometimes you have to keep your heart open because you’ll subsequently learn that it knows. This is where love resides; it kisses and caresses where the pain is eventually felt. Love is proactive.”
“Then I have to get myself rehearsed before the big fall.”
“What do you mean?” Gaillardia asked, puzzled.
“I sense there is something dark ahead of me, Miss Marigold. What do you think I should do?”
“You sense something dark ahead of you? Love it … love it to the point that you want to change it to light,” Gaillardia replied. “These things take time, Rosemary.”
“I’ve always had a problem with time,” Rosemary said. “Why is there time to start with?”
“Why is there time? So that we can feel every second of every minute of every hour. If emotions are not free, then what is?”
Rosemary felt her answer was refined, maybe a bit too prepared.
“Do you think I have to shut off my true identity during the rest of my long journey, Miss Marigold?”
“Shut off your identity? When I first met you, I knew you were gold,” Gaillardia replied very quickly and without pausing. “And since when did gold obstruct those who revealed it?”
Rosemary experienced a kind of letting go, something relenting, something that felt like commitment rising from the ashes. For all that, she pictured that the Love-Feel connection demonstrated a warm contrast to the state of unfamiliarity into which her world was now pitched.
AWARENESS
The leaves of the pine trees swayed violently each time the powerful and easily felt movement of the wind ripped its way through the sea side town of Pandemville. Throngs of people, including all the region’s movers and shakers, had gathered around Aster to listen to the speech being given by Pandemville’s ruler. Some looked at him in a mournful way; others didn’t know what to think or say.
