by Brigid Lowry
THE WRITER
The writer is sad. The world contains so much tragedy: tsunami in Samoa, floods in the Philippines, earthquakes in Indonesia, a friend with cancer. It feels selfish to just chug along, enjoying her life. However, surrendering to total misery doesn’t seem appropriate, either. Life, while you have it, is for living, surely? This human existence is a precious thing, not to be squandered. There seems no point dwelling in misery, so the writer decides to go on a cheery outing. It is one of the small pleasures of her life that two of her favourite things — the beach and the library — are right beside each other. Outside the library, two teenage boys sit talking, perched in the branch of a tree. The writer’s spirits lift when she sees this simple happy thing: ‘Two boys were sitting in a tree outside the library,’ she jots in her notebook. It’s a lovely simple sentence, and the writer knows just where it will go: in her book.
A ROSE PETAL
CHAPTER
GLORY AWOKE, WITH no idea where she was. As she sat up, bewildered, the events of the previous day came flooding back in a jumble of remembering. The sun shone in the window as if nothing unusual had happened, which seemed to Glory most extraordinary. Miss Oleander stood in the doorway and, seeing the girl was awake, she came in with a tray on which sat a posy of daisies, a plum, and a bowl of chopped bread, sugar and milk.
‘Breakfast, My Dear.’
Glory’s eyes filled with tears at this kindness. When she was sick, her mother would prepare a tray of soothing invalid foods, such as baked milky puddings and lemon-honey water. Oh for the comfort of that life, which seemed so far away and long ago now.
Miss Oleander put the tray on the stool beside the bed and handed Glory a scrap of clean rag.
‘Here, dry your eyes. I’ll make us some tea.’
The food tasted delicious, as did the delicate liquid Miss Oleander poured from a silver pot into cups of finest pale green china.
‘Rose petals, cornflowers and orange peel. A summery blend, do you like it?’
‘Very much, thank you.’
‘So, yesterday brought more than you bargained for?’ Miss Oleander’s deep blue eyes were kind yet serious.
‘Indeed it did. I am frightened and confused. I learn that I am cursed to die, but then another thunderbolt arrives and I am offered a chance to live, for which I must thank you. Yet I know nothing of medicine nor magic. I don’t know how to save a life, nor do I have any knowledge of any life that needs saving, other than my own.’
Glory’s voice was desperate. Miss Oleander took her time before answering.
‘A day such as yesterday will never come your way again. Yet come your way it has, like an unbidden tempest, as you say. Fear and confusion are to be expected, Child. However, whether you can understand it or not, things are unfolding exactly as they should.’
‘How can you say so? I have been caught in a sticky net; one not of my own making. I am terrified by these strange machinations. Why should I be happy about my situation?’
‘One would not expect you to be happy, but equanimity will serve you well. The past can’t be undone but the future holds infinite possiblity.’
‘So, what should I do?’
‘You should get up, and bathe, and return to your duties. Events will unfold by themselves, you will see. You don’t need to worry away at them like a rat chasing mustard seeds. When the time comes, you will know what to do.’
‘How do you know? I do not mean to be impertinent, but I don’t wish for dainty soothing words. If the future is mysterious, then how can you predict it and reassure me thus?’
‘You’ll have to trust me. Or rather, trust emergence, and the power of good to triumph over evil. I cannot see the future, not exactly, but I have some insight beyond those who have no arcane powers.’
Glory could think of no suitable reply. She looked into Miss Oleander’s eyes, and the benevolence she saw there brought her a flicker of hope, though she was still in turmoil.
‘Another plum?’ Miss Oleander offered.
Glory was glad to be back amongst ordinary things. On a summery morning, in a world of plums and ball gowns, surely no harm could befall her?
‘No, thank you. It was a delectable breakfast but I’ve taken sufficient. Shall I go to the princess, then?’
‘Yes. The ball nears, and there will be much to attend to. Perhaps you will visit me again soon. You’ll find I am here whenever you need me.’
When Glory returned to Princess Mirabella’s chambers, she was greeted in a friendly fashion by a barefoot princess, dressed in a dusky-pink organza gown.
‘The queen has told me of your plight. It is most alarming.’ Mirabella looked up from the leather-bound book with snakeskin binding that she had been reading.
Glory gave her a wan smile. ‘I am trying not to be too alarmed. The apothecary believes the circumstances of what I am to do shall appear to me in due course, and that there will be a good outcome. She advises me to take each ordinary day as it comes. So, here I am, Your Highness. Ready for duty.’
‘It’s good to see you alive and well. When you were missing, I was most distressed. As for Miss Oleander’s advice, it sounds reasonable.’ The princess tucked her feet into her rose velvet slippers and went to the window. ‘Who would have thought that this very palace was the site of magic? I’ve become curious about the occult, and have been reading about spells. I wonder if I should attempt one myself? This book is full of devotions, divinations, purification rites, and enchantments. On St Agnes Eve, for instance, it’s possible to dream of whom you will marry if two girls make a Dumbly Cake together, using eggshells as spoons, though the spell will be broken if either girl speaks.’
‘I would prefer to stay away from magic of every kind, Your Highness, if you please. I’ve learnt it may lead to ill-fortune as easily as not . . .’
‘Perhaps you are right. Some of these love spells are wondrous intriguing though. Take a red rose. On the petals, write the name of the person you love, then dip the petals in fresh spring water gathered in the dawn. Throw the petals outside the house of the person you love.’
‘Do you think it would work?’
‘It does seem a little fanciful. This one sounds more believable. Take ten strands of your hair and two dozen hairs from the head of the person you wish to marry.Thread the hairs together while chanting these words:Tambour Chamber Marriage Kabana Kabuki Tuba. Burn the entwined hair. Perhaps I might use this spell to enchant a husband, if I find a prince I like.’
‘If I may be so bold, Your Highness, I thought you had no wish to be married.’
‘True,’ Mirabella admitted. ‘Though if one did wish to marry, it would be best if one’s love were reciprocated. My father has been extolling the virtues of the two sons of King Gilbert, whose kingdom is very wealthy. Apparently, the younger one, Prince Leonard, is handsome, and charming in every way, but his heart may already be taken by another.’
‘And his older brother?’
‘My father says Timothy is more likely to fall for my charms. He is a fine man, witty, gallant, and expert in falconry. A shame he is not as handsome as his brother.’ Mirabella’s eyes twinkled.
’Tis the first time I’ve seen her cheery, Glory realised. ‘A pity. A fellow should be easy on the eye.’
‘I agree.’ The princess fell silent. Her thoughts turned to Arlo, who was very easy on the eye, indeed.
‘Has your ball gown been altered to your satisfaction?’ asked Glory, remembering her duties. ‘It hasn’t been delivered, but surely by now it’s hemmed. Please fetch it, then I will try on my entire outfit. I’d like to ride this afternoon, so you could set out my riding outfit as well.’
‘Certainly.’ Glory made her way to Madame Star, the dressmaker, smiling tentatively. Strange magic afoot, indeed, that Princess Mirabella should be so mellow.
The Reader
› It’s been a pretty good week. I got ninety-two per cent for my essay: Saving the Planet One Penguin at a Time. Mum finished knitting my rainb
ow-striped beanie. I like it. It looks cool. Next, she’s going to knit a tea-cosy shaped like a house, for her friend Lillian, who’s an architect. At school, Dylan and I have been kind of avoiding each other, but she hasn’t thrown any crap at me. Life is heaps more relaxing without the D = Dire factor. It’ll be interesting to see what goes down with Ms G on Thursday.
THE WRITER
The writer is not the person she’d hoped to be, which was someone elegant and serene. She writes four and a half sentences but doesn’t like them much, so she visits her friend, instead. The friend, intelligent and intense, asks what the driving force of her book is. The writer rambles on about a fairy story . . . and the WF suggests some fine ideas, but somehow they don’t seem right. It’s hard to know what should go in her book and what should not. The writer farewells her friend and strolls by the river. How come she keeps forgetting the same simple truth? If she worries about it, the writing gets harder. If she fills her life with the fun stuff, creativity follows. ‘Easy is right. Begin right and you are easy. Continue easy and you are right,’ as Chuang Tsu said.
A CHAPTER
CONTAINING
TEA-LEAVES AND
SUGAR-DUSTED
INSECTS
ROLF USUALLY DID what bossy Mrs Blossom asked him to do, but today he couldn’t face potatoes that required peeling and cabbages that needed shredding, so he told a small yet effective lie.
‘My stomach isn’t right.’ He squeezed up his face, put one hand on his belly, and raised the other to his throat, as if both pooing and spewing were imminent.
‘Good Lawd, Lad! your timing is most exceptional inconvenient!’ Mrs B was both exasperated and distracted. she was boning a quail (never an easy task) and with the hot flushes she was having that morning it was even more bothersome.
‘I can’t really spare you, but take a break if you must. Go to the apothecary for a concoction to settle your innards, and come back t’kitchen when you’re able.’ Mrs Blossom returned to her pale, dead quail.
‘Thank you, Ma’am.’ Rolf scooped some sugar into his pocket, and scooted out the door and across the courtyard. Making sure no one was watching him, he sneaked through the blue door to his favourite hiding place.
Rolf loved the potting shed, with its neat seed beds and calm greenery. It was one of the few spots where he could find solitude, because he shared a room with Arlo, and there was always chatter in the busy kitchen. He pulled a few weeds out from amongst the radish seedlings, then shifted flowerpots until he unearthed a dead cricket. He stuck it in his pocket, where it joined a beetle carcass and three deceased flies.
Rolf made his way stealthily out of the potting shed, past the raspberry beds and through the oak trees to the stream. He sat down on a rock, carefully dusted each dead insect with sugar, and waited. Before long, a frog arrived, as he knew it would. The young man sat quietly, watching the frog eat. His thoughts had been very muddled of late. He was worried about Glory, and this perplexed him more than anything he’d ever experienced. Up until now, his life had been a quiet one. Born on the royal estate, he had lived as a child with his parents in a cottage nearby. Rolf’s father had been head gardener at the palace, and his mother worked as a chambermaid. Sadly, they’d died of scarlet fever when he was ten. It was a miracle, everyone said, that the skinny boy had lived. The palace had become Rolf’s home after the death of his parents. Mrs Blossom made sure he was fed, but, in the main, he had raised himself.
He had always felt a profound affinity for the natural world. It contained everything: bright and shadow, movement and stillness, beauty and horror. Rolf relished the tranquillity of being alone in nature. He never tired of observing the habits of birds, frogs, bees, and other insects. They were his main companions, and he felt no need to control or participate in their tiny worlds — just observe, enjoy and learn. But now! A red-haired girl with a moondust smile had arrived, and Rolf was not used to the new thoughts that wandered around his noggin on unruly paths. Novel feelings and sensations arose in his body, some pleasant, some alarming. The young man sat quietly, watching the stream flow. So peaceful. Yet, at any moment, a storm could bring sudden wild currents. As in nature, so in life. Glory was in danger, possibly mortal danger. Rolf would do anything to help her, but he felt powerless over the strange forces at play. He sighed and kicked a rock, scaring the frog back into the water. Then he reluctantly made his way back to the kitchen. He hoped Mrs Blossom wouldn’t ask if he’d seen the apothecary, because he wasn’t willing to fake illness to Miss Oleander, whose dark eyes knew everything and more. Luckily for him, Mrs Blossom was engrossed at the kitchen table, having her teacup read by Lonely Jack, the wandering minstrel.
‘That’s right, Madame. Turn your cup counter-clockwise, three times, now tip it upside down.’ The gypsy scratched his lank black hair with thin brown fingers, a gold scarab ring glinting.
Mrs Blossom tipped the white china cup upside down onto the saucer.
‘Now turn it up t’right way again, and make a wish,’ the gypsy instructed.
Rolf didn’t hold Jack in much esteem. The scrawny fellow turned up once or twice a year with fancy wares to sell, songs to sing, and fortunes to tell. Everyone knew he was a shonky pedlar. There were floor sweepings in his black pepper, brick dust in his nutmeg, and his ribbons had already been worn, but his songs were jolly enough, and the gossip he carried from town to town earned him a cup of tea and a bite to eat wherever he went. Cooks and wives of the house greeted him cheerily, for every woman loves a fortune teller.
‘Are you all right, Lad?’ Mrs Blossom glanced up.
‘Much better now, thank you. I visited the outhouse, and I seem to have come right.’
‘Well, give your hands a scrub, then do the same to the potatoes. I’m busy here, as you can see.’
The cook turned away, keen to learn what her tea-leaves held. Lonely Jack didn’t hurry. He took the cup and studied it slowly, turning it back and forth to look at the patterns from every angle.
‘Ah,’ he pronounced solemnly, drawing out the moment in a theatrical manner.
‘What is it? What do you see?’ Mrs Blossom asked eagerly.
The fellow is such a fake, thought Rolf. He’ll merely say what she wants to hear. It’s plain trickery, that’s what it is.
‘I think . . . yes, I see boats. Small boats. A boat can mean a journey. Are you planning a journey, Fair Lady?’
‘I’ve not left this county since I were a girl, and I don’t intend to. There’s quite enough here in this very kitchen to keep me busy.’
‘Interesting. Well, then, are you expecting visitors? Boats can signify visitors from far away.’
‘Lawd, aren’t you the one? That is most perpikashus, for the king and queen are hosting a ball, on the full moon, just four days away. High-ranking gentlemen are coming from near and far, for the princess is to choose a husband.’
‘Ah,’ pronounced Jack, as if he’d just learnt something of great import.
Everyone knows that, Rolf thought. The scallywag will have heard all about it in the tavern. How could Mrs Blossom be so foolish? What nonsense will he spout next?
‘But there’s more,’ Jack continued ponderously.
‘’Tis a bottle, see, here? I thought at first it were a duck, which has an entirely different meaning, but no, I think you’ll agree, Madame, it is a bottle, which concerns one’s constitution. Has your health been deficient of late?’
‘Good Sir, you are completely correct.’ Mrs Blossom’s bosom bounced with amazement and enthusiasm. ‘I’ve been ever so poorly these last months. I can only muster the energy of a feather duster, some days, and I go from hot to cold and back again for no apparent reason. It is most disconcerty, and interferes with me work something chronic . . .’
A bottle, that would be right. Maybe if you stayed away from the bottle, your health would improve all by itself, Rolf commented inwardly.
The pedlar took a more sympathetic approach. ‘Well, Dear Lady, I advise you to visit the ap
othecary, in that case, for you can never be too careful in these delicate matters. I have heard that — for women who are not, shall we say, in the first flush of youth — a herbal tonic can produce results most efficacious.’
‘I shall do as you say. Indeed I thank you. Here, this is for you.’ Mrs Blossom fossicked in the pocket of her apron until she found a silver coin amongst the buttons, corks and rumpled kerchiefs. The pedlar smiled his sly smile and turned to Rolf, who was hard at work scrubbing the rather ancient potatoes.
‘How about you, Young Man? Would you care to see the future? I’d be happy to read your palm, or your teacup, before I go on my way.’
‘I think n —’ But before Rolf had time to refuse, Mrs Blossom answered for him.
‘Don’t be bothering with him. Our Rolf is a man of science, he don’t believe in such things, plus he don’t have a coin in his pocket, do you, Lad? There be only a dead beetle or a old peppermint in his trouser pocket, I think you’ll find. Hurry yourself up, Boy, for I need them potatoes, and chop them carrots while you’re at it. ’Tis time I got back to work and all; the joint won’t cook itself.’
Lonely Jack made as if to go, yet he lingered in the doorway until Mrs Blossom took her cue.
‘Here, take some walnuts and a slice of my lardy cake. Now, be on your way, Good Fellow.’
‘You look beautiful,’ Glory told Mirabella, and it was true. The green silk gown clung to the princess’s body, accentuating the curve of her waist and her rounded hips. The sapphires and diamonds of the Magic Blossom Tiara twinkled and glinted, the green dancing slippers fitted like a dream.
‘All I need now is jewellery. I found nothing suitable in my casket, but I’ll ask Mama to choose something from her collection.’ Mirabella stood by the window, gazing out, trying not to feel sad about her future. ‘Hey, you! Wait!’ she cried in a rather unseemly manner. ‘Glory, run down to the courtyard. The fortune-telling pedlar known as Lonely Jack is about. I want to see him. Fetch him, if you please.’