The Flower

A fairytale about bitterness, depression, forgiveness, and kindness.

Once upon a time, there was a tiny mountain village. At first it appeared unremarkable. A standard farming town, the livelihoods of most based on the sheep and goats that roamed the countryside. Those that didn’t tend the animals directly provided services to those who did. And thus the town continued on.

But the town did have one claim to fame, and at a second glance one could tell that the people of the town were healthier, happier, more prosperous, and more peaceful than most. You see, high in those mountains was a golden flower. And if you cut one single leaf off of the flower, and gave it to the village’s witch, she could make a tea that would cure any illness. The village did not charge for the flower, or for the witch’s services, because sick people shouldn’t have to worry about that. They still benefited from travelers staying in inns, eating meals, making purchases of hiking equipment, and occasionally paying for guides to the flower. And the town cared for the witch, because it would not do for their healer to starve. Rich travelers were also often compelled to donate to her, as the universe frowned upon taking advantage of a witch.  And thus the town continued on.

And in this town, a girl loved a boy. She was beautiful, and known far and wide for this beauty. But she was also smart, and kind, and steadfast, and hoped to marry the boy someday. She loved the kindness he showed to his animals, his dry wit, and his intelligence. She trusted in this love, and in this decision. She was a seamstress, with an expertise in wool, and her clothes were prized for their warmth and beauty. And thus she continued on.

The boy did love the girl. He loved her mind, her thoughtfulness, and her resourcefulness. But he did not trust in this love. His own doubts and fears crowded in his heart and he could not believe in her steadfastness, as he couldn’t see why anyone would love a lowly shepherd boy. 

“She has denied lords and princes for you. Have faith,” said his father.

“She has stars in her eyes when she looks at you. Trust.” said his mother.

“Her father has approved the betrothal, despite the other offers. Believe in the force of her love,” said his grandmother.

So the boy tried to have faith, trust, and believe. And when he sat across from the girl, he could convince himself of her love, and dreamed with her of their eventual life together. Alone, he continued to doubt, as the thoughts in his head got louder. He was afraid of her suddenly coming to her senses and regretting her decision. And because he did love, he didn’t want her unhappy. He kept pushing the wedding into the future because of his concerns. And thus he continued on.

One day as he was sitting with his sheep in the hills near the village, he was speaking of his fears out loud to the sheep, for they did not dismiss his concerns. 

“You have right to doubt,” said an old man. “It is suspicious that she would choose a shepherd boy over a prince. The people here are naive. Look at the evidence.”

The boy looked at the old man, whom he knew. The old man was banished to the outskirts of the village, because he was hateful, negative, and a troublemaker. The only reason he wasn’t cast out entirely is the village could not condone leaving an old man to die alone, no matter how vile. The boy knew his reputation, and had an instinct to defend his family.

“My father pointed out that she denied lords and princes for me,” said the boy.

“She is waiting for someone better.”

“My mother noticed the stars in her eyes when she looks at me.”

“She is dreaming about all the wealth she will eventually have.”

“My grandmother said the proof was in her father’s approval of our match.”

“Father and daughter are stringing you along, making you a bargaining chip.”

“What is your proof of your claims? I have listed facts.”

“Logic. If she could have a prince, why would any smart girl not do that? And she is smart, is she not?”

“Very.”

The boy knew this man’s reputation, and tried to find the hole in his argument. But he was giving voice to the boy’s own thoughts and fears. And he seemed so confident. 

“The village has cast you out for the things you say. Why should I believe you?”

“The village has cast me out because I tell the truth, and those sheep just don’t want to hear it. Truth-tellers are often persecuted, unfortunately,” he said with a sigh. 

The boy looked troubled, as he could not come up with another counter. “Well, even if you are right, what would you have me do? I cannot become rich overnight, and I cannot stop loving.”

The old man crooked his finger and gestured for the boy to come closer conspiratorially. “You know of the golden flower?”

“Of course, our village is famous for it. It heals.”

“Well, if you take more than a leaf, if you take the whole plant, grind it up, and drink a tea made from it, you will become rich.”

“But then the plant will be gone!”

“No….it’s a, what do you call it? A perennial? If you leave the root, it will come back eventually”

“Then why has no one else done this?”

“Only the old ones know, and they are too set in tradition, and too content in their little lives to consider this. Not like you, you have dreams. Now, you can’t go to the witch for this. If everyone else knew about it, we’d all be rich. And then you wouldn’t be better off than anyone else.”

“Won’t they notice when I become rich overnight? Won’t they wonder why?”

“That is the beauty of the plant. It brings wealth to you in an explainable way. A rich man’s son will fall in a well and you’ll be rewarded for saving him. You’ll take a walk in the woods and happen upon a bandit’s treasure trove. Your sheep will start to talk and make you a fortune…”

As the boy frowned thoughtfully, the man knew it was time to let his suggestion percolate. “Well that’s just my two cents. You're a smart boy. You can make your own decisions.” And the old man hobbled away, cackling to himself. 

Now, if we consider lying to mean the person knows they are deliberately telling falsehoods, then the old man had only lied about one thing. He had been betrayed in his youth, and as he never learned to forgive or let go, this betrayal festered in his heart. He truly believed all of the things he said to the boy about the girl’s faithlessness. And he was right about the flower. If the whole plant was consumed, it would guide wealth to the drinker. 

In fact, the mountain had once been covered with this flower, until all had been hunted down and consumed. When it was realized that there was only one left, and that the flower needed two to propagate, and that this miraculous source of healing was almost extinct, the village banned the practice of eating the whole plant. Consuming it became very regulated and almost taboo, so that only those seriously ill would even consider it. But this had happened many years ago, and all but the very old had forgotten this story, and the importance of the protections. 

This is what the old man had lied about. He remembered, and he knew that the flower would not return if consumed by the boy. He was an old man, and while the flower could cure illness, it could not prevent death by old age. So he did not care for the consequences for himself. And he was too full of hate to care about others. Plus, he despised that the town did not charge for the flower or for the witch’s services, thinking them naive and stupid, instead of longthinking and kind. He thought this would teach them a lesson. 

The boy loved, but he did not trust. The old man had given credence to all of his fears, while annihilating his family’s reassurances it seemed. And so, in the dead of night, for the boy was a native mountain son and could navigate the trails in his sleep, he stole the flower, made the tea, and went home to a troubled sleep.

The next day, while the boy was minding his sheep and worrying about what he had done, a beautiful and bejeweled carriage made its way down the track at the bottom of the hill. As it neared the trees of the forest marking the end of the town, brigands jumped out of the trees. One pulled a bejeweled and beautiful man out of the carriage and pressed a knife to his throat. The boy, never hesitating, took his sling, placed a rock inside, and struck the man with the knife in the forehead. He fell. The other robber’s turned, and one by one the boy took them out. The bejeweled and beautiful man beckoned for the boy to come to him, thanked him for his services, and gave him a trove of gold and gems as a gift. 

Now rich, the boy asked the girl to marry him the next week. She had been wanting to marry him for quite some time, for him to continually delay her, wanting to make his fortune. So she said yes, and a huge celebration was planned. The whole town had seen their love, and everyone was very excited. 

Now, the witch loved as well. And her love, her wife, was the village storyteller. She was one of the few who could read, and she would read stories from far away and relay them to the town. And she was much beloved, by the witch most of all. A few days before the wedding, the storyteller became very sick, with a very high fever. She writhed in pain and hallucinated. Concerned, but not panicked, the witch made the journey to the golden flower, intending to use it, for the first time, on her own family. When she found it gone, she thought of the boy’s recent luck, and immediately made the connection. For while her face had no lines and her hair was raven black, she was as old as the village itself, and remembered the near catastrophe. She raced back down to the village, just in time to see the boy and the girl stand in front of the alderman, about to be wed.

“You! You ate the flower. It's gone! You have ruined us!”

Everyone looked around in confusion. The boy paled and began to object, while the girl pulled her hands away.

The witch took a breath and began the most powerful spell she knew. “You two will never be together. You will be born, again and again, time after time, and find each other every time, just to lose each other again. You will remember each life, each moment, and remember why this is happening as an eternal torment. And this is your punishment for your greed.” And the boy and the girl disappeared. 

Now, the witch, in her anger and grief, acted rashly, punishing the girl for a crime she was unaware of. While the boy was at fault, he was misled, and knew not what he did. And so, the punishment did not fit the crime. When this happens, the universe tends to counter. So a cure was created, but left to the couple to figure out for themselves. 

Author's Note

New to this. Generally feedback please. End here or keep it going?

Reviews

[JayG]

Well, you did ask:

In this, you're transcribing yourself telling the story aloud, and that can't work. Verbal storytelling is a performance art. How you tell the story matters as much as what you say, because, without any actors to show the action, and being alone on stage, your performance is all the action the audience gets.

Complicating it further, you can't play all the characters plus the narrator. That would be silly. So, you talk ABOUT the action, primarily in overview. But ask yourself: Has anyone ever filmed a story with a camera that showed only a storyteller's performance instead of actors? Of course not. Who'd go to watch it?

Given that we have actors who can perform on the page, who would read a novel in which the only person on stage is the narrator?

Here's the deal. In our school days we learn only nonfiction writing skills. The idea is to make us useful to our future employers. Fiction-writing, a profession, is acquired in addition to that, just as any profession is. Fail to do that and all you have are those report-writing skills we were given in school. Use them and the story will read like a report.

The problem is, we don't read fiction to learn what happens. History books report that and who reads them for fun? Not many. Fiction, though, makes us live the events, in real-time, AS-THE-PROTAGONIST.

That's the bad news. The good? If you were meant to write you'll find the learning fun. And the practice is writing stories. So what's not to like?

To see if you were meant to write, check a few of the articles in my WordPress writing blog (link at the bottom). And if it seems you want to know more, hit the site I link to just below, for a free copy of the best book I've found to date on the basics of creating scenes that will sing to a reader.
https://ru.b-ok2.org/book/2640776/e749ea

So dig in. And while you do? Hang in there, and keep on writing

Jay Greenstein
https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/category/the-craft-of-writing/the-grumpy-old-writing-coach/