The Girl Who Cried Flowers and Other Tales

by Jane Yolen

  ALSO BY JANE YOLEN

  The Bird of Time

  The Boy Who Had Wings

  The Girl Who Loved the Wind

  The Wizard Islands

  Text copyright ©1974 by Jane Yolen

  Illustrations copyright © 1974 by David Palladini

  All rights reserved. Except for use in a review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying, and recording, and in any information storage and retrieval system is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher. Published simultaneously in Canada by Fitzhenry & Whiteside Limited, Toronto.

  Designed by Sallie Baldwin Manufactured in the United States of America

  ISBN 0-690-00216-5 0-690-00217-3 (LB)

  In ancient Greece, where the spirits of beautiful women were said to dwell in trees, a girl was born who cried flowers. Tears never fell from her eyes. Instead blossoms cascaded down her cheeks: scarlet, gold, and blue in the spring, and snow-white in the fall.

  No one knew her real mother and father. She had been found one day wrapped in a blanket of woven grasses in the crook of an olive tree. The shepherd who found her called her Olivia after the tree and brought her home to his childless wife. Olivia lived with them as their daughter, and grew into a beautiful girl.

  At first her strangeness frightened the villagers. But after a while, Olivia charmed them all with her gentle, giving nature. It was not long before the villagers were showing her off to any traveler who passed their way. For every stranger, Olivia would squeeze a tiny tear-blossom from her eyes. And that is how her fame spread throughout the land.

  But soon a tiny tear-blossom was not enough. Young men wanted nosegays to give to the girls they courted. Young women wanted garlands to twine in their hair. The priests asked for bouquets to bank their altars. And old men and women begged funeral wreaths against the time of their deaths.

  To all these requests, Olivia said yes. And so she had to spend her days thinking sad thoughts, listening to tragic tales, and crying mountains of flowers to make other people happy. Still, she did not complain, for above all things Olivia loved making other people happy—even though it made her sad.

  Then one day, when she was out in her garden looking at the far mountains and trying to think of sad things to fill her mind, a young man came by. He was strong enough for two, but wise enough to ask for help when he needed it. He had heard of Olivia’s magical tears and had come to beg a garland for his own proud sweetheart.

  But when he saw Olivia, the thought of his proud sweetheart went entirely out of the young man’s mind. He sat down by Olivia’s feet and started to tell her tales, for though he was a farmer, he had the gift of telling that only true storytellers have. Soon Olivia was smiling, then laughing in delight, as the tales rolled off his tongue.

  “Stop,” she said at last. “I do not even know your name.”

  “I am called Panos,” he said.

  “Then, Panos, if you must tell me tales—and indeed I hope you never stop—tell me sad ones. I must fill myself with sorrow if I am to give you what you want.”

  “I want only you,” he said, for his errand had been long forgotten. “And that is a joyous thing.”

  For a time it was true. Panos and Olivia were married and

  lived happily in a small house at the end of the village. Panos worked long hours in the fields while Olivia kept their home neat and spotless. In the evenings they laughed together over Panos’ stories or over the happenings of the day, for Panos had forbidden Olivia ever to cry again. He said it made him sad to see her sad. And as she wanted only to make him happy, Olivia never let even the smallest tear come to her eyes.

  But one day, an old lady waited until Panos had gone off to the fields and then came to Olivia’s house to borrow a cup of oil.

  “How goes it?” asked Olivia innocently, for since her marriage to Panos. she had all but forsaken the villagers. And indeed, since she would not cry flowers for them, the villagers had forsaken her in return.

  The old lady sighed. She was fine, she explained, but for one small thing. Her granddaughter was being married in the morning and needed a crown of blue and gold flowers. But, the crafty old lady said, since Olivia was forbidden to cry any more blossoms her granddaughter would have to go to the wedding with none.

  “If only I could make her just one small crown,” thought Olivia. She became so sad at the thought that she could not give the girl flowers without hurting Panos that tears came unbidden to her eyes. They welled up, and as they started down her cheeks, they turned to petals and fluttered to the floor.

  The old lady quickly gathered up the blossoms and, without a word more, left for home.

  Soon all the old ladies were stopping by for a cup of oil. The old men, too, found excuses to stray by Olivia’s door. Even the priest paid her a call and, after telling Olivia all the troubles of the parish, left with a bouquet for the altar of his church.

  All this time Panos was unaware of what was happening. But he saw that Olivia was growing thin, that her cheeks were furrowed, and her eyes rimmed with dark circles. He realized that she barely slept at night. And so he tried to question her.

  “What is it, dear heart?” he asked out of love.

  But Olivia did not dare answer.

  “Who has been here?” he roared out of fear.

  But Olivia was still. Whatever she answered would have been wrong. So she turned her head and held back the tears just as Panos wished, letting them go only during the day when they would be useful to strangers.

  One day, when Olivia was weeping a basket full of Maiden’s Breath for a wedding, Panos came home unexpectedly from the fields. He stood in the doorway and stared at Olivia who sat on the floor surrounded by the lacy blossoms.

  Panos knew then all that had happened. What he did not know was why. He held up his hands as if in prayer, but his face was filled with anger. He could not say a word.

  Olivia looked at him, blossoms streaming from her eyes.

  “How can I give you what you want?” she asked. “How can I give all of you what you want?”

  Panos had no answer for her but the anger in his face. Olivia jumped up and ran past him out the door.

  All that day Panos stayed in the house. His anger was so fierce he could not move. But by the time evening came, his anger had turned to sadness, and he went out to look for his wife.

  Though the sun had set, he searched for her, following the trail of flowers. All that night the scent of the blossoms led him around the village and through the olive groves. Just as the sun was rising, the flowers ended at the tree where Olivia had first been found.

  Under the tree was a small house made entirely of flowers, just large enough for a single person. Its roof was of scarlet lilies and its walls of green ivy. The door was blue Glory-of-the-snow and the handle a blood-red rose.

  Panos called out, “Olivia?” but there was no answer. He put his hand to the rose handle and pushed the door open. As he opened the door, the rose thorns pierced his palm, and a single drop of his blood fell to the ground.

  Panos looked inside the house of flowers, but Olivia was not there. Then he felt something move at his feet, and he looked down.

  Where his blood had touched the ground, a small olive tree was beginning to grow. As Panos watched, the tree grew until it pushed up the roof of the house. Its leaves became crowned with the scarlet lilies. And as Panos looked closely at the twisted trunk of the tree, he saw the figure of a woman.

  “Olivia,” he cried, for indeed it was she.

  Panos built a small hut by the tr
ee and lived there for the rest of his life. The olive tree was a strange one, unlike any of the others in the grove. For among its branches twined every kind of flower. Its leaves were covered with the softest petals: scarlet, gold, and blue in the spring, and snow-white in the fall. There were always enough flowers on the tree for anyone who asked, as well as olives enough for Panos to eat and to sell.

  It was said by the villagers—who guessed what they did not know—that each night a beautiful woman came out of the tree and stayed with Panos in his hut until dawn.

  When at last Panos grew old and died, he was buried under the tree. Though the tree grew for many years more, it never had another blossom. And all the olives that it bore from then on were as bitter and salty as tears.

  Far, far to the East, before the sun had settled firmly on a route, there lived a giant who walked at night.

  His black head seemed crowned with the stars. The earth thundered where he stepped. And all who saw or heard him were afraid.

  Night after lonely night the giant made his rounds. Up the mountains and down. By hill towns and valleys. Through low places and high. His footsteps warned of his coming, and the ways were empty where he walked.

  Some people said that it was his nature to walk at night. Others, older, who remembered beginnings even as they forgot endings, recalled how the giant had once walked by day. But one morning, by chance, he had seen his own reflection in a still mountain lake. He had been so dismayed by his own rough image that he had taken to the night and had walked in darkness ever since.

  One night, lost in a waking dream, the giant missed the crowing of the cock that warned of the coming sun. Instead of going straightaway to his castle, which was hollowed in a cave, he stopped by the side of a stream to drink.

  As he knelt, he heard a whisper of grass. Then he heard a soughing of wind. At last he heard the sound of early morning flowers opening.

  Turning quickly, the giant saw a child dressed in red and gold.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  Before the child could answer, the giant growled: “Don’t you know that I am Night-Walker? All who hear and see me are afraid.” He stood up against the sky and his shadow put out the lingering stars.

  The child answered, “And why should I be afraid?”

  “They say my face withers the eyes. They say the sound of my coming turns hearers to stone.”

  “I have seen and I have heard,” said the child. “But I am here still.”

  “Who are you?” the giant asked again.

  “I am Dawn-Strider. And where I come, the sun comes, too.”

  “The sun!” cried the giant, and he looked about fearfully.

  “And are you afraid of me?” asked the child with a laugh.

  But the giant did not hear. He had already started to run, leaving hollows in the ground where he stepped.

  For two nights the giant cowered in his cave and thought about the child who was not afraid. But on the third night, a night of dark shadows, he ventured out. He was determined to capture Dawn-Strider. For, in his own way, the giant had fallen in love with the child, the only being who did not hide at his coming. He wanted to carry Dawn-Strider to his cave-castle home.

  Slowly the giant walked to the stream where he had seen the child and knelt down by the bank. First with his hand he scooped out a large deep basin in the earth near the side of the stream. He lined it with the softest mosses and made a breakfall of pine and fern. Finally, he covered the hole with juniper and trailed wild grapevines over the boughs.

  Then Night-Walker lay down beside the trap to wait for the dawn.

  When he heard the grass whisper and the wind sough through the jumper, and when he heard the sounds of flowers opening, the giant knew that Dawn-Strider would soon be there. So he began to moan.

  Before long, Dawn-Strider appeared by the stream. “Why do you lie so still? Why do you cry?” the child asked.

  The giant made no answer but continued to moan.

  Dawn-Strider came over to his side and knelt down to see what was wrong.

  But as he came close to the giant, the child broke through the grapevines and juniper and fell into the hole.

  Immediately the giant leaped up and looked into the trap. Then, smiling for the first time, he reached down and picked the child up in one hand. With great thundering steps, he ran back to his castle in the cave. Once they were inside, he rolled a huge stone over the entrance.

  “Why did you trick me? Why did you carry me off to this dark castle?” asked the child when they were seated in the cave.

  “Because I want you to stay with me always,” replied the giant.

  “But if you had asked,” said the child, “I would have come by myself.”

  “Oh, no,” the giant answered, shaking his massive head.

  “No one comes to me. I am Night-Walker. All who see and hear me are afraid.”

  Then Dawn-Strider laughed, and each sound was a spark of light in the dark. “I am not afraid.”

  But the giant did not understand. For seven days and seven nights he kept the stone rolled across the entrance to his cave. And for seven days and seven nights no sun shone upon the earth. For without Dawn-Strider to lead the way, the sun did not know which road to follow and so stayed hidden beyond the rim of the world.

  Outside the cave it was as dark as within. Up the mountains and down, through hill towns and valleys, in low places and high, darkness reigned. And the world was dimly lit by the moon and flickering stars.

  Plants withered and began to die. Trees shed their leaves. The little animals huddled in their burrows. And by their dying hearthfires the people shivered, waiting for the sun.

  Only Night-Walker was happy in his cave, listening to Dawn-Strider’s light-filled laughter and watching the bright child dressed in red and gold.

  Finally, after seven days as dark as seven nights, the people bundled themselves into their clothes. They met in the courtyards and doorways of the towns or talked in the meadows.

  Some said it was a curse. Others said it was the end of the world. But then someone said, “It is the giant. It is Night-Walker. He has stolen the sun.” And everyone agreed.

  But they could not agree how they could make the giant return the sun. None of them dared face him. They believed that to look upon his face or to hear his voice would turn them to stone.

  After many cold meetings, the people decided to choose someone by lot. The chosen one would go up to the giant’s cave and beg for the return of the sun. Then he would run back as fast as he could. If he were lucky, he would not have to see or hear Night-Walker at all.

  The lots were drawn, and the short stick fell to a small child. His mother wept and his father cursed, but neither was allowed to take the child s place. “After all, it was fairly chosen,” said the villagers. So the child had to go, alone, up to the giant’s cave.

  Behind him, safely hidden by bushes and trees, yet close enough so they could watch the child s progress, were all the people.

  With his head down and feet scuffling the ground before him, the child trudged up the hill toward the cave. When he stood at last before the stone door, the child called out in a tiny voice, “Night-Walker, giant, return our sun.”

  For a few moments nothing happened. The child sighed, and started to turn back down the hill. But suddenly a grumbling was heard from the cave’s entrance, and the stone started to roll aside.

  Shaking his shaggy hair in the light of the moon, Night-Walker stepped out. He glared at the miserable child. The child was so frightened, he could not move. He stood like stone. And the people who had come to watch ran screaming and stumbling back to their homes.

  The giant looked down and picked up the child in his hand. “What do you mean by disturbing me? Don’t you know I am Night-Walker? I am the Watcher in the Gloom?”

  The child was amazed that he could still blink and twitch after gazing on Night-Walker’s face and hearing his voice. He managed to cry out, “Our . . . our sun. Give us ba
ck our sun.”

  “Bah! I do not have your sun,” said Night-Walker.

  “But you have me,” said a small voice by the giant’s side.

  “And with me comes the sun.” It was Dawn-Strider, stepping out of the cave.

  The child from the lottery looked down over the giant’s cupped hand. And when he saw another child moving and laughing by the giant’s side, he was no longer afraid. He smiled at Dawn-Strider. He even smiled at the giant.

  Night-Walker was so surprised that, without thinking, he smiled back. And as he smiled, the sun so long hidden from the world rose up over the mountains.

  The people who had been hastily stumbling back to their homes were stopped by the unexpected dawn. “The giant has given us back our sun,” they called joyously to one another, and they turned back to the cave.

  When they got to the top of the hill, they found the giant still standing there. He was smiling, with a child in each hand. The three new friends were laughing and talking—even singing in their joy.

  Now that he had friends who did not find him fearsome to look upon, the giant gave up walking at night. He lived for the coming of the sun each day. And Dawn-Strider always visited the giant’s cave-castle home first, bringing the sun there before anywhere else in the whole world.

  The giant gave rides to all the children of the village in his outstretched palms every morning of the year. And he was known as Sun-Walker ever after.

  Once, on the far side of yesterday, there lived a girl who wanted to know the future. She was not satisfied with knowing that the grass would come up each spring and that the sun would go down each night. The true knowledge she desired was each tick of tomorrow, each fall and each failure, each heartache and each pain, that would he the portion of every man. And because of this wish of hers, she was known as Vera, which is to say True.