by Hadi Atallah
“Wisdom is a shame to love,” Jonquil said.
“So imagine a pine cockroach and a firefly,” Rosemary said. “How would the cockroach reply if the firefly said—‘What’s up?’”
“The cockroach would say ‘Enough,’” Jonquil replied. “Just enough.”
Rosemary giggled. “When you talk repeatedly of skin cream, it does not really only mean wrinkles and ageing,” she said. She steeled up and thought of the problem at hand, thinking that tonight she was about to do something utterly unforeseen in Jonquil’s mind. She knew that things, like losing business, happen in the world we all live in, so her powers had to have a noble purpose, a collateral for people’s needs. Rosemary closed her eyes and narrated her magic with a humming tune:
Can you play with madness?
No, madness plays with you
But it also teaches you things
That are so true
***
Back at the farmhouse, Clove noisily washed himself with soap, rinsed his whole body with water then stepped out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. His hair was rather unkempt. He staggered as he tried to keep his balance from one foot to the other. Rosemary enjoyed his endearingly playful manner and gaped at the carefree smile on his lips, whereas he was really intrigued by Rosemary’s illuminated strands in her hair.
“You did it again, didn’t you?” Clove said. “You saved Jonquil with your sharp, deadpan wit!” Rosemary nodded.
“We agreed that the farmers continue their work regardless of the fact that a tragic event happened,” Jonquil said, as she entered with a blackened book because of the dust that had collected on its cover. She swiped the dust off blackening her palm, and Rosemary was able to read its title:
The Key To Success Is To Fly A Kite
“Every childhood should be a happy one,” Jonquil said. “Not every child has a happy early life, yet being able to look over, just like a flying kite, can come to the aid of a favorable outcome.”
“Is this book mine?” Rosemary asked.
“Yes, it is now,” Jonquil replied, taking a playful swipe at Rosemary’s face.
“Your products can elicit enthusiasm because many women are bonded to youthfulness,” Clove said. “Your work is a phenomenon too, you know?” Clove could not tell what was behind Jonquil’s smile or whether he had really moved her or ridiculed her. For that matter, he did not know what exactly was going on.
In the meantime, Rosemary fought to hold back her tears, until she finally managed to expel them to someplace quiet and fathomless. What is Kunal like? she wondered.
STRENGTH
Surrounded by rocks on the broad expanse of the high, deserted mountain, Rosemary and Clove toiled onwards, slowly advancing in the snow. The ceiling of clouds lifted, permitting sparse but clear light in the opening of the alpenglow morning. Rosemary could see her breath flowing from her nostrils, as both of them followed a trail that almost disappeared from time to time under a sheet of fresh white snow. Their footsteps were muted by the snow, which limned the trees surrounding them. For a moment Rosemary felt the rosy sky and white earth to discernibly provide artwork for her eyes. The weather was clear and the light was intensifying over the snowy mountain. Clove waved both his hands without warning as if he were a bird who just discovered its wings as they arrived at a plateau.
“We’re finally here,” Clove said. “This is where we separate.”
Rosemary knew he was weighing the repercussions of such as decision. She had watched her father in comparable quietness sorting out situations like these. Clove finally drew a smile on his face, after what seemed to her like a lifetime.
“I never got over the fact that you are teasing me, and holding back some essential part of me,” Clove said. He then retraced his steps, at first to a certain degree uncertainly, then with decisiveness, while Wisteria watched the clear light bathing both Rosemary and Clove and the whole white plain on which they stood. She noticed Clove not giving Rosemary the courtesy of a backwards glance.
A tall and muscular man with a steel grey beard and a balding head with a sailor’s ponytail and impressive teeth stood alongside Wisteria. He had a long crooked nose and two big black cocoons for eyebrows with glowing eyes and a blatant bronze complexion. His robust and brawny physique with minimal body fat portrayed the effect of health as a result of living in Kunal’s harsh conditions. He also seemed to blink about once every five minutes.
“Hello, Rosemary,” Wisteria said, taking her by the hand. Her pale dress danced gracefully behind her. “This is my husband, Valerian.”
“The people of Kunal have been preparing for your arrival,” Valerian said. His voice was deep and vibrant, and he had a grave accent. It sounded so deep that it felt like he rarely spoke, desiring instead to be a self-possessed and attentive listener.
“Oh, all of my new friends treated me like a princess, Wisteria,” Rosemary cried out. “Check out my guitar, my robe, my brooch and my book—I earned every one of them.”
“When assembling our sense of self, Rosemary, we take in thoughts, images, objects and maybe even rituals from everything around us,” Wisteria said.
“In my case, I could say that I assembled my senses from all around the world,” Rosemary said.
“Exactly, and this will form who you really are, in a slight yet significant way.”
“Your convictions are invaluable, dear,” Valerian said. “But Rosemary may be tired. Let’s head to the castle.”
The main castle was a handsome fivestory stone structure. The ground floor was the reception area, and the upper floors contained several hundred apartments. The basement, however, was the command center, staffed with eleven caseworkers. On the wall around the conference table were several large boards, with drawings and lists of different flowers and plants. The basement was the lowest chamber, though it still had windows overlooking neighboring mountains because the castle was constructed on a cliff.
“What are you working on?” Rosemary asked.
“Do not be intimidated, Rosemary,” Wisteria said. “Remember that only you can really make a pivotal change. Everyone else is here to help you deliver your creations to the real world.”
“Think of them as bridges,” Valerian said, while Rosemary continued examining the caseworkers.
“What am I supposed to do?” Rosemary asked as she was ushered by Wisteria to a little room that was filled with bags of wheat. This castle has enough to withstand a siege, Rosemary thought.
“All I ask of you is to create a flower,” Wisteria said. “A flower that may be the best witness to life. A flower that shall outline the true meaning of life and so will become a miracle full of magic.” After speaking, she reflected on what she just had said. On sober analysis, however, what she was asking seemed far-fetched and beyond the realm of possibility.
“The idea for getting it right is only a hope,” Rosemary said, as Wisteria shut the door, thus leaving her all alone in the little room.
A sparrow alighted on the sill of her window, pecked at its feathers, then took flight disappearing into the whiteness of the outside world. Rosemary could hear horses snorting and pawing the earth, while a morning fog concealed the mountains on the other side. They were places where nothing had any connections with a specific person. But the sky was consistent in shedding its dry light on the lonely expanse, thus melting the snow so that the sun would burn the fields down to rock and stone.
The next day, Rosemary woke up to the faint wind that was prowling around the castle. The sky was white and cloudy. Perhaps the wind would drive away the clouds and the sun would appear again, Rosemary thought. Minutes later the light from the sun lay in vivid streaks on the ceiling and the upper parts of the objects in the little room. But it remained dark where Rosemary was. Then, she heard the door unlock, and Wisteria stepped in holding a tray.
“This will all end soon, my dear,” Wisteria said. “You must be hungry.”
“I really am hungry,” Rosemary said bef
ore she breakfasted on fried bread, eggs and bacon.
Wisteria knelt beside Rosemary and watched her finish up the remainder of the food in silence.
“I know that something sinister is waiting for me, Wisteria,” Rosemary said with a mouthful of bacon and eggs before taking a bite from the fried bread. “But I can’t do anything about it. And neither can Clove. I know that’s the reason he abandoned me.”
“Going to great lengths can possibly please your strength and sheer agility for capturing things, some of them other-worldly,” Wisteria said. “We all have faith in you, Rosemary.” She rose to her feet, went out the door and sealed it shut behind her.
Rosemary knew that these measures were to protect her from something she really could not understand. But despite it all she needed to acquire her freedom as soon as possible and by whatever means possible. That had been the whole point of her escape from Pandemville, the reason why she had left her father. She closed her eyes, and with a calming voice, she hummed a cheerful tune:
It’s my rightful place
It’s my rightful taste
Wherever I am
Rosemary opened her eyes and found herself staring at an empty floor, a space devoid of her magic powers. No miraculous flowers grew, yet her strands wriggled through her hair and untangled themselves. She tried again:
Obsession’s drive is only satisfaction
But focus’s drives are love and interaction
Rosemary kept her eyes closed, hoping something was germinating from the little room’s floor, while the strands softly removed the guitar off of her back. She took a peep through both of her hands, still nothing. She blew a raspberry and hummed to herself again.
Resilience is pliancy with a twist of empathy
While cunningness is a dose of deceit and
apathy
Rosemary waited for some flowers to shoot up, but instead, she heard the strums of a few chords. One of her strands was carrying the guitar vertically, while the other played it. This must be fun, she thought. She rested close to the side of her strands, while her mind gathered the lyrics of a new song just like emotions building up when a solemn promise was made. Rosemary sang, while her strands strummed along respectfully.
Go to great lengths
You’ll know your real strength
Trust and you’ll see
What you are meant to be
Here’s the thing
All that you love is real
A bee is not meant to sting
But it still got the feel
Laugh and sing
Tears might follow
Imagine you’ll heal
We’re not hollow
Full of life
You just need a spark
To brighten up your day
But you still prefer the dark
That’s why—we all fell in a hole
A hole that later grew flowers
They grew so high and tall
The wind rustled through them for hours
The brittle strumming of her guitar ended at the same time as the words from her song, and the wind turned violent when a sudden clap of thunder sounded close by. Rosemary sniffed crankily, remaining motionless. She then turned towards the door and went to sleep.
The next day, Wisteria stepped in, and no sounds came from Rosemary. She was amazed at the mixed joy she felt from the thought that Rosemary might have acted chaotically with nothing resulting from her actions.
This did not stop Rosemary from remaining calm, however. With eyes open, Rosemary stared at the ceiling. Wisteria had played it right up till now. Rosemary thought that she might have woken up because of hunger pangs for the past several days. But, despite having been treated with great consideration, her vague hopes and worries grew by the day. Concerns about her fate seeped into her head and burnt through her body causing her to become sluggish and lethargic.
“Good afternoon, Rosemary,” Wisteria said, placing the food tray on the floor. “I have brought some lunch and white tea for you. I checked up on you twice this morning but you were fast asleep.” As she spoke, Rosemary sucked up the burning liquid in rapid little sips.
Noon seemed as though the day were merely beginning. The snow was falling in the midst of ongoing blackness with minute rushes of wind clattering the little room’s door. Wisteria remained in the room until Rosemary completed her lunch. Rosemary felt that Wisteria wanted her to say something to obtain a small-scale proof of her well being. What does she want me to say? Rosemary wondered.
“You have faith, and I have self-esteem,” Rosemary said with an inner sigh. “But nothing has come out of either till now. I guess your faith is senseless.”
“You better watch out, young lady,” Wisteria said. “Self-esteem might end up dangerously close to pride and arrogance, whereas faith is modesty with a spearhead just like a unicorn.”
“You can’t blame me,” Rosemary said. “My character is the same as my father’s.”
“Your father might have been imperious. Nevertheless he is a strong-willed man. He thought he had a definite idea of what you must become, and what you ought to do.”
“All I know is that he did not create wild stories about my mum being a flamboyant character,” Rosemary said. “I know you knew her, and you were pretty close too.”
“Why would you say such a thing?”
“Jonquil said that your powers are limited to family members and maybe a few close friends,” Rosemary replied. “What do you know of my mother?”
“That she was as magical as you,” Wisteria said, her voice calm now as if she had repeated that statement multiple times. “That she was created amidst perplexing circumstances. That she hazarded the world’s temptation and put herself in grave danger when one night a group of fanatics attacked the ancient shrine in Dona Hill’s forest.”
“How old were you?”
“I wasn’t born yet. Sorrel was only a few months old at the time.”
“Are you going to tell me the rest of the story?” Rosemary said. “That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?”
“Your mother was the only survivor by the time my father got there. She was wrapped up in cloth with a valise strapped to her tiny chest. He knew that ignorance, blindness and immaturity manipulated the fanatics that night. Their refusal to accept your mother’s austere family made them dream of the world that was absent of charms and magic.”
“My father never mentioned any of this to me,” Rosemary said.
“He most probably never mentioned the magic in your strands too. They were the ones that led my father into the forest. They basically saved your mother’s life.”
“I dream of the day when I’m saved from all my questioning,” Rosemary said. The sky had become darker, for the snow had started to fall to a greater extent during the afternoon.
“Your mother was known for her ability to twist phrases and her modest gestures. She had the capacity of the most melancholic rhetoric.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if my mother gave you the power of clairvoyance.”
“Enough of the past,” Wisteria said, somewhat brusquely. “I hope you’re not waking up disoriented.”
“I’m not feeling vague and peevish at the moment. I guess I’m okay now.”
“I hope you guessed right,” Wisteria said. “I’ll leave you to work alone. I’ll come and check up on you later this evening.”
Meanwhile … outside the castle’s gates
“Hand over … my … daughter!” Aster yelled, making an attempt, by exacting speech and by inserting long pauses between individual words, to deepen his voice and emphasize his demands. “I … know … Rosemary … is … in … there.” He was freezing, but he insisted on eliminating everything from his voice that might betray that fact.
Aster had become an unquenchable man, and his energy had become like someone half his own age. His anger and insistence soon caused The White Colony to form a line of men all throughout the castle’s parapet with Valerian amongst t
hem. Aster’s eyes narrowed and his eyebrows came together uttering words he never thought he would ever say. Aster’s far from facetious remarks morphed Valerian’s world from light to dark. Aster, on the other hand, gave Valerian a hooded, threatening look.
Wisteria crept into a quiet area, away from the clamorous men in the hope that things would of themselves return to the way they really and naturally should be. But the impetuous winds proved otherwise. She entered her office, thinking to herself of ways she could prove to Aster that his daughter was unhurt. She imprecated the weather when the ink froze in her inkbottle. The idea of having Rosemary write a quick message to her father soon faded. The next best option was to free Rosemary.
In the meantime, Aster’s inconsistent and volatile movements (not to mention his shouting and threats) provoked something in the unconscious of one of Valerian’s men. As if an automaton, the soldier released his arrow. It travelled through the thin, sheltering line of men and plunged into Aster’s chest almost immediately.
Rosemary’s countenance faded the moment she saw her father stretched lifelessly on the snowy plateau, his milk-white robe drenched in blood. Rosemary was allowed passage outside the castle’s walls. She hurried towards her father, her heart pumping blood without warming her. Aster’s men automatically stepped out of her way with discouraged faces, while Rosemary wailed and beat her breast.
“We did all we could to prevent something like this from happening,” Clove said, getting his hand on Rosemary’s delicate shoulder. He was on his knees alongside Rosemary.
“He’s gone,” Rosemary cried, swinging round, spinning on her knees, taking herself in Clove’s arms. “My father is gone because of me.”
“Take her inside, Clove,” Wisteria said, her voice unsteady. Then in an oracular undertone, she continued: “Some things we cannot elude, they remain true—like death.”
“If only you knew how to grow the Aida flower,” Clove said, walking Rosemary back to the castle.
The Aida flower? Rosemary thought, and her heart leapt. My father’s pendant! “What would an Aida flower do?” She asked, her chest heaving.
