Rosemary Bluebell Read online

  “I don’t really know, I’ve only heard tales about it,” Clove replied. “I don’t think the flower even exists.”

  But Rosemary was no longer listening. Instead, she sprinted back to where her father lay.

  “Maybe it finally will,” Rosemary said, grabbing hold of her father’s necklace. She looked upon her father’s pendant and hummed a tune. This time the tune was fixed and unfaltering:

  Educate the mind

  And the body becomes a vessel with hidden

  treasure

  Educate the heart

  And the spirit becomes the soil with a hidden

  measure

  Rosemary felt like her mind had entered a dimension of a not fully developed yet potently distinguished memory. In the memory, her mother wore a necklet of precious stones and a jeweled diadem in her hair, her face also backlit by a source of peculiar light. Rosemary had been told of how handsome her mother was, but at that point in time, her mother was strikingly beautiful. Rosemary gazed at her mother with intense curiosity. Camellia radiated such an abundance of life that Rosemary felt mesmerized.

  “You know what love would try to avoid, my dear Rosemary?” Camellia said. “It would avoid getting tired.”

  “I guess I’m not lucky enough,” Rosemary said, scarcely able to contain her feelings for her father. “Luck was never on my side. Both you and my father are gone now.”

  “Sometimes it’s love and not luck that supports you through thick and thin, Rosemary,” Camellia said, looking thoughtfully at her daughter.

  “You believe in love, whereas I believe in luck, mother,” Rosemary said. “I know you’re telling me that my father is a mountain of love, but that didn’t stop my temptation to leave everything I own behind.”

  “He might not have appeared to be a mountain of love to you,” Camellia said with a smile etched on her face. It looked enlightened in substance. “But your father is a mountain regardless. Stay close, no matter the differences.”

  “What are you trying to say?” Rosemary asked. Her mother’s angelic appearance gave Rosemary the tenderness to request for information.

  “You like the wind so you choose to stand at the top of the mountain where the wind breathes freely,” Camellia replied softly, almost in hushed tones. “I like the water so I choose to stand at the bottom of the mountain where the rain drops accumulate. It doesn’t matter where we stand in this life you’re given as long as we are close to the source—the mountain.”

  Rosemary longed to be taken to a place where she could feel that she was close to something real. She also craved for a voice that was mellow and cheerful. She wanted to be given hope, and her mother’s voice did just that. She made everything sound reasonable.

  “You may wonder why you are experiencing this at this moment,” Camellia said. “It’s because stepping away from society’s rush and turmoil enhances the perspective of the mind, my dear one.”

  “I feel so comfortable. It’s like I was preparing for this ever since you left us.”

  “This is a never-ending connection. One question remains to be answered: Do you want your father back?”

  Rosemary moved her head to say, “Yes.” She finally had come to the understanding that her father was not a selfish person. Rather he was a generous person, a generous person awake in a selfish time.

  “Why are we so different?” Rosemary asked. “Why can’t we all have a single mindset?”

  “Don’t allow the contrasting factors in life to displease you, Rosemary. It’s the contrasts that life enjoys because they make it seem colorful. Do you want to be color blind to this fact, my beloved daughter?”

  Camellia was a genius of contrast and conflicts. She probed them and separated their countless strands, and now her daughter had finally valued their hidden meaning. Rosemary’s metanoia served as a garden through which a diverse number of trees were planted for her to enjoy the multitude of fruits. Rosemary was about to become engagingly expansive and uninhabited, but it came with a price. Rosemary was being deprived of her supernatural power as a consequence of her action.

  “Leave your mark to bloom, for true success is attained when you do so,” Camellia said, as she faded into a bloodless circular light and was gone with the soft, magical wind.

  Rosemary’s memory drowsily melted away till she became conscious that, with soft encouraging words, she was calling Aster to wake up. Aster responded by gently pinching his daughter’s cheek and gaping at her guileless face, which was about to be veiled in the tears of her sobbing. How much I have missed the perpetual upward curl on the corners of your lips, he thought. He caressed one side of her face, and Rosemary was very shaken to feel her father’s touch and to be mindful of the fact that hands can also show deep affection. Her lips took on a downcast, wistful smile, then she allowed herself to cry and her tears instantly beaded down her face.

  “I am not expecting a plethora of effusive compliments,” Rosemary said.

  Aster had a piece to speak to her from the bottom of his heart. She did too, and they both knew it by the look of each other’s eyes.

  “Your childish flightiness made me take on a very difficult and dangerous assignment,” Aster said in a lulling voice while studying Rosemary’s pale cheeks, a result of all the troubles she had encountered. “I took it so that I could have the chance to tell you that I promise to be patient enough to witness you blossom into a shapely and goodlooking princess.” His voice rose with passion.

  The wind grew steady, and the sun was gulping down the puddles of water caused by the melting snow. The plateau was clearing out its whiteness, and the rocks appeared from underneath the sheet of snow. Everything around Aster’s men, including the air, vibrated just like their hearts.

  Wisteria and Valerian invited everyone to the castle to spend the night, and the next day Rosemary, Aster and his men prepared to return to Pandemville. The ground tolled under their feet and a bird rent their space with a mirthful cry every now and then. Rosemary breathed in deeply the fresh morning air.

  They arrived at an open space made up of crumbly rocks. It was the edge of the flat area, because from there on, the ground sloped downwards, towards a low forest populated with spindly trees and striking limestone outcrops that gave the terrain a disorderly look. Aster surveyed the one direction. The sky and the horizon were easily visible, but no man could be seen. He turned towards Rosemary, who was staring at him intently. She felt something rise in her throat. The sun was rather high in the sky and was beginning to beat down on their heads.

  “I’m thinking of placing the pendant back in your mother’s valise,” Aster said. His voice was calm, and Rosemary felt herself release a breath. “You have to promise me to keep that valise close to your heart.”

  “I promise,” Rosemary said.

  The clear weather enabled everyone to view the purple mass of the mountain range. The space opened onto a forest. Pandemville was on the other side of the forest. Rosemary felt a sort of ecstasy before the vast familiar expanse, now almost white under its dome of blue sky. The mere thought of going back home gave her an amusing out of body experience.

  ***

  Days melted to weeks, and winter turned to spring, while the alluvial soil recovered its rich brown color. Pandemville’s countrymen knew that their fields were soft enough to cope with tomatoes, cucumbers, lettuce and mint.

  “Check this out, Rosemary,” Clove said. “I finally wrote something poetic.”

  I ask for directions to find the plane where I

  can gather my words

  for this beatific plane is every poet’s dream

  Rosemary clapped her hands together in mock applause. “Not bad,” she said, while Aster unconsciously smoothed his beard. They all sat amid richly colored hyacinths swaying among the trees as if euphoria had engulfed them because of the charm and liveliness of Aster’s castle.

  “What have you written, Rosemary?” Aster said.

  “It’s a short sentence, nothing much really,” R
osemary said.

  I’ve conquered parts of my Self;

  I stand on a peak with a flag by my side,

  overlooking the fields of tomorrow.

  Now I’m aware that future plans

  have been written since the beginning of time.

  “Outstanding,” Clove said, smiling serenely.

  “I dedicate my writing to Bay,” Rosemary said. “I’m giving this to him when he pays us a visit along with Calendula.”

  “This reminds me of something,” Aster said, pulling out Bay’s sketch from underneath his robe. “Your friend Bay wanted to give you this.”

  “This is my Stathalie!” Rosemary exclaimed, examining the drawing. “But I’m going to call it Aline now, it looks like an Aline right?!” she said, showing Clove.

  “Looks fascinating,” Clove said.

  “Just as fascinating as Jonquil’s business taking off like a bird,” Rosemary said.

  “We’ll have to arrange a gathering and invite everyone you’ve met to spend their summer here in Pandemville,” Aster said. “You’d be done with your school year by then. Now go take a bath and get ready for bed. Clove and I have to discuss the construction of Pandemville’s apothecary center.”

  “Thank you, papa,” Rosemary said.

  Aster missed his daughter’s innocence in her creations. It was a bonding of tribute and sagacity that reminded him of his wife, all the more sensational for being portrayed through magical genius and expressiveness. He had sensed within his grasp some piece of enlightenment crucial to his reality, only to feel it slip away each time Rosemary’s last flower morphed to dust. Rosemary’s magical creations resumed their existence but merely as memories to everyone, and little was anyone aware of the remainder of the magic back in Dona Hill’s forest.

  The wolves frequented the cedar and pine forest and the ancient shrine that was far from human intervention. Dona Hill’s coniferous forest was like a green fog resonant with the howls of wolves and the smells of cool origins. A flower grew on every side of the ancient shrine, a flower with tens of petals and three pollen stems that glowed in the dark. Its petals were royal purple, the same color as Rosemary’s favorite flower—the peony. Its petals were not like those of a daffodil’s where they were all spread apart. Rather they overlapped each other, and its stem was yellow as the sun with an inverted heart in the middle pointing towards the heavens; whereas its leaves were as blue as the sea.

  Acknowledgments

  I pray at least once everyday for my family and acquaintances. I am blessed to have them in my life. They inspire me to write passionately, and fill my heart with everything bright. I am so grateful.

  In addition, it is an honor and utmost pleasure to mention Mr. Michael Mirolla and all the beautiful people at Guernica Editions. Their effort and advice are priceless; the very best.

  Last, but not least, I thank Aline and Richa for reading the pre-edited version of this. Both of you do know that you were my backing and signified divine favor.

  About the Author

  Having had a passion for writing as far back as childhood, I am a firm believer that Truth may not be perfect, but its beauty is. I am impressed by the impact writing has on people and the conclusions they come to in life. There is always room for a tree to grow, and I am keen on developing into an ardent writer rich in energy and forbearance. Being a lover of transcendental philosophy and poetry, I strive to adapt my particular thinking to modern trends while using my creativity as a vessel to amplify my voice as a published writer.

  Did you know that creativity has an intuition? It’s called inspiration. Follow me on Instagram and Facebook and become inspired! It’s kinda genius …

  https://www.instagram.com/hadiatallah/

  https://www.facebook.com/had1atallah/

  Printed in October 2018

  by Gauvin Press,

  Gatineau, Québec