Once Bitten, Twice Shy, Iana's Story #18

(From before, read how Iana stumbled into a dreaming, and now to see what she does next.)

Once Bitten, Twice Shy. Iana's Story #18

There was only one flower on the rose bush, a red bud so tightly coiled it looked more like a seed. There were too many thorns near it, so I didn't dare reach out and touch it. But I have to admit I was tempted. Some part of me wanted to feel how soft the petals must be. Without the thorns I would have easily plucked it right off the bush, like a sweet fruit.

I couldn't though. Fears of catching myself on the thorns kept my hands close to my body. Even in this dreaming it seems I was afraid of pricking myself. Finally I stepped away, dragging my feet. I couldn't stay there, kneeling as if in worship to a flower. I had to keep on. I thought about how Aunt Rosemary would know about the flower. I could ask her about it. She kept thick gloves and shears, perhaps I could borrow them and come back here. With thick gloves I could risk the deadliest thorns.

It was such a flower anyone who saw it it would cheered up. My Aunties, mother, father, even Joli. I wanted to show it to them. We could all watch it bloom together.

I think that's what I wanted more than anything, to see it bloom. How magnificent it would smell. Such a perfume one can only dream about.

I hurried to Aunt Rosemary's house.

My mind was so intent on this I paid little attention to where I walked. How long it took me, I can't even say. I pushed away such thoughts about how much large the garden seemed, or how the trees rose above me like giants or how impossible it was for a rose to have any kind of blossom this time of year. It was much, much to early for roses to bloom. I was driven by such a strong desire to have this flower. It ached in me, this wanting, too painful to ignore. I ran so that I might return to it as soon as I could.

Then the red warm glow disappeared behind me. The trees became bent again as a crisp wind hurled through their branches. The path returned. My feet once again fell on hard stone and the dream left me. I turned around the corner and came to a short abrupt stop before I crashed into the door of Rosemary's glass house. I blinked several times, my breath steaming in the chill air.

The glass house was a great structure, impressive for being four walls of thin glass. There was a small vent in the ceiling, and only one window from where the glass was broken once. The door inside the glass house was a sturdy old oak, and thick oak beams held the glass roof up. Both green and brown leaves and vines, ferns and great branches pressed against the glass, filling it to bursting.

Still out of breath I slipping inside the old oak door. The air was a good deal warmer inside than out, a wetness hung about me and the smell! My goodness that overwhelming smell of rich wet earth, pungent herbs, manure, all within the hot air. There wass the fragrance of fruit, both ripe and sweet. Some spoiled, overripe to the point of making me gag; a sourness and sweetness mixed amid a nutty, heady sewer. Luckily I've learned to gulp it all down so the smells faded, though some linger more than others. I kept my hand raised and my sleeve to my nose as I walked passed the pile of spoiled vegetables and manure waiting to be spread on the flower and herb beds. I took a pinch of lemongrass to help and sniffed at it to push away the rotten smells.

I didn't see Rosemary digging at her herbs, and she wasn't near the fruit trees. Besides her special apple tree she keeps others: namely apricot, plum and cherry trees. She wasn't at the trees, although I saw her ladder resting on one. She wasn't perched in the tree top either. She was much too old for that sort of climbing, but no one has yet succeeded in talking her out of it. Taking away her ladder only encouraged her to use a rope or worse her bare hands and feet. I'd prefer my godmother to stay firmly on the ground.

She must be at her worktable, I thought.

In the far corner, near the window she kept a straw bed, a small basin, a low cabinet and a large stone table for her work. As I approached I could hear the tink and clink of her working, grinding away in a mortar, perhaps. She must be tapping at the stone. I heard the drip drip of water somewhere. Aunt Rosemary kept a great big book open on her table to scratch down notes and measurements. Someday I hope she will make a smaller, more presice journal. I've tried to read her big one and found the scratchings impossible to decipher.

"Ah, good Iana. I thought I heard you coming," she said a quick glance in my direction. She leaned down to her cabinet and opened several drawers. In one hand she held a glass with a cork bottling it. "You found a bloom I see."

"Yes I -" I was taken aback. How did she know about the rose I'd found?


to be continued . . .