This is a love story, and it must be hand delivered. Potentially, it could be presented with a small, red, glass phial.
Once upon a time, in a land not far from here, on a day not dissimilar from today, a boy stepped from his house and began a quest. He was looking for rose seeds to give to a girl in his village.
His country had a custom: a day when lovers exchanged flowers as markers of affection.
The flowers were called "representations of love" and each person sought to buy the biggest and brightest bouquet. In his village, the arrangements were often complex, containing many rare and wondrous flowers.
The boy, though, was poor and could not afford a bouquet as lavish or bold as the one he imagined for the girl. He had saved enough money for a single rose, but was loath to buy such a simple and lonesome arrangement. There were other flowers cheaper, but a law in his country required each bouquet to contain at least one rose. The flower peddlers who visited knew of this law and the price of roses was kept artificially high.
The boy had fretted away many days and nights wondering what he could possibly do. He had not slept a wink in all that time.
Finally, with a single day to spare, he had fallen asleep. Exhausted, he'd slept unusually deeply, and had experienced a vivid and disturbing dream. He'd dreamt of a single rose in a tall and clear vase. The rose was sublimely beautiful, but, as he watched, it began to wilt and die. The boy woke with tears in his eyes and knew for certain that he couldn't spend his money on something so fragile. A cut flower, robbed so clearly of its life, was no marker of his affection for the girl.
But the rose had been undeniably beautiful. At the height of its life, it had been, perhaps, the perfect gift. And the law clearly stated that a bouquet must contain at least one rose.
The boy was confused and remained uncertain what to do.
It was while eating his morning meal (a rustic soup of carrot and pumpkin, served with a portion of homemade bread) that he realized the solution. The bread was covered in poppy seeds and one such seed had become lodged in his teeth. The solidity of the kernel had astounded him. And this, combined with images from his dream, brought to mind the possibility of rose seeds. If he could give her rose seeds, he imagined, they would be the perfect token of his affection.
That day, the town was filled with a great many flower peddlers, their bold bouquets arranged in lavish presentations. The entire village was swathed in floral decadence. The boy surveyed the scene for a while, before approaching a flower seller and starting to look at his collection.
"Might I interest you in some flowers," asked the flower seller, a short fat man with a strange hooked nose.
The boy shook his head.
The man looked indignant. "Then why are you standing at my stall?"
"I wish to ask you a question," said the boy. "I am looking for rose seeds and I was wondering if you had any?"
The man squinted at the boy. "What," he asked. And the boy started to repeat his question.
Before he could finish, the man raised his hand. "Stop," he said. "Whom do you take me for? I am a flower seller, not a seed merchant. I am a creator of bouquets, not a horticulturalist. I have in my possession some of the world's finest flowers, delicately grown by able gardeners and brought here from all across the globe. There are a thousand roses, right before your eyes. And yet here you are asking me for seeds."
"But," said the boy.
"Be gone," said the man.
And the boy walked off, in search of someone who might be better able to help him.
Soon, he found another flower merchant, a youngish woman with curly blonde hair. She smiled at the boy as he approached her stall.
"May I help you," she asked.
"I am looking for rose seeds," said the boy.
The woman shook her head. "I don't sell seeds," she said, and the boy looked at the floor, scared that he had offended yet another flower seller. But the woman continued talking.
"You need to find a gardener," she said. "There is one living quite near here. If you knock on her door, I'm sure that she'll be able to help you. Let me give you her calling card."
The flower seller handed the boy a rectangular item with the name and address of the gardener written on it. He stared at it for several moments, before thanking her profusely.
And then he set off to find the other woman.
When he knocked on her door, there was no reply. The boy was despondent, but then he saw that she was working outside, so he called to her through her fence. She came quickly to see who was there.
"I was given your name by a flower seller," said the boy, "I am looking for seeds."
"I have many seeds," said the gardener, and she opened her gate and let the boy into her garden. "What kind of seeds are you looking for?"
"Rose seeds," said the boy.
At this, the woman's eyes appeared to widen.
"Rose seeds!" she exclaimed, and it seemed that she would fall over backwards. "No one has ever asked me for rose seeds before."
"Do you have any," asked the boy.
"Roses are grown from bushes, which are sourced from other roses. Nobody ever asks for rose seeds."
"I would like to buy some," said the boy.
"I'm afraid I don't have any," she replied.
The boy was confused and wondered for a second if she was joking. He frowned. "But surely you must," he said at last, "You're a gardener. Don't you grow roses?"
"I have never needed seeds to grow roses. As I said, they're grown from cuttings."
The woman was growing bored of the boy's questions.
The boy, however, continued: "But who grew the original roses," he asked, "There must be such a thing as rose seeds."
"I'm sure there must be," said the woman. "But I have never seen any. People don't need them. What would you want with rose seeds, anyway? You can easily buy roses in this town."
The boy closed his eyes and thought of why he wanted rose seeds. "It doesn't matter," he said, and let his head hang low. He thanked the woman for her time, and started to walk back into town.
As he passed through the market, he was confronted once more by an army of flower sellers. The scents and colours of their floral fanfares felt like a personal affront. Having failed so completely in his quest, he wondered if perhaps he shouldn't simply spend his money on a rose. He fished around in his pocket, searching for change, and began to approach the nearest florist.
But, as he drew closer, he remembered the darkness of his dream, and he recollected his tear-soaked face when he'd woken in the morning, and he knew that he couldn't make the purchase.
At this, he started home. Perhaps he could apologize to the girl for his lack of flowers and hope that she understood. He sighed and closed his eyes. He felt like a criminal.
The walk to his door took an inordinately long time. His steps had little enthusiasm and he grew more and more downhearted with every passing yard. It was almost dark and the shadows were very long by the time he neared his home.
As he turned into his street, he noticed a black caped figure standing in the road. Hunched over as he was, and carrying a long-handled sickle, it was easy for the boy to imagine hooded form to be the living incarnation of death. Drawing closer, however, the figure revealed himself to be a wizened old man.
"Boy," said the man, "I have been watching you this day."
The boy continued walking. He was in no mind to talk to crazy people.
The old man called to him as he passed: "Stop," he said, "I have seen you on your quest. I have watched you trying to find rose seeds to give to the girl in your village."
The boy paused. "How do you know about my quest," he asked.
"I know many things," said the man. "For instance," he said, "I know where you can find rose seeds."
"Oh really," said the boy, "And where might that be."
The man ignored the boy's sarcastic tone, and replied with perfect neutrality. "I have some here," he said.
"Where?" said the boy, for this day had been so laden with disappointment that he did not believe a word of it.
The man dipped his hand inside his cape, and pulled from his pocket a small glass phial.
He handed it to the boy. "There are some in there," he said with pride.
The boy stared at the object in his hand. It was an oddly shaped, bright red container. It was too dark to see clearly what was in it, so he held it up to the dwindling light and peered at it more closely.
"It's empty," he said, after a short while, "There's nothing in there."
The man put a finger to his lips. "Shush!" he said, "Be careful what you say around them. Rose seeds have very sensitive souls, which is why they make such beautiful flowers, but they are well aware of what you say, and it can affect them deeply."
"But there's nothing in there," said the boy, again.
The man raised his eyebrows. "It is a little known fact," he said, "that rose seeds are invisible. Not even the horticulturalists know this, because they grow all their roses from rose bush cuttings."
The boy shook his head.
The man ignored him and continued his explanation. "The roses that they grow are hundredth generation copies. Tainted, all tainted. Even the most beautiful flowers are usually fifteenth or twentieth generation. There are few people in this world who have ever seen an original rose."
"But you are one of them?"
"I," said the man, gesturing with his sickle, "am a rose gardener. It is my responsibility to repopulate the planet with first generation roses. I choose to do this sparingly, because there are so few people around who deserve to see a first generation rose."
"Oh," said the boy, wondering if the accusation was being somehow levelled at him. He imagined himself to part of an increasingly cruel practical joke.
"But," said the man, "I think you might deserve to see one."
The man said this so earnestly, that it was hard for the boy not to believe him. "Really," he asked.
"Yes," replied the man. "I want you to keep the phial. And I want you to plant those rose seeds. Though, I don't think you should do it tonight. You are far too emotional, right now. I think you should wait a few days, and then plant them in your garden. Then, I assure you, they will grow into flowers of unimaginable beauty. Until then, you must keep them well hidden, in the darkest place you can. You must plant them in equilibrium."
The boy nodded. "Thank you," he said, for he believed what the man had told him. But then he felt sad. "But sir," he said, "what about today? I was hoping to find these rose seeds to give to a girl in my village. Now that I have them, it seems that I can't in fact do this."
"I am aware of that," said the man, "but in order for these roses to grow, you must keep them safe and hidden. The seeds are sensitive. Given away in haste, there's a risk that they could die."
The boy rubbed his face. "But, that's not fair."
"This flower has both thorns and petals."
The boy closed his eyes. He was silent for a few seconds, wondering why it should be this way. Finally he spoke: "Well in that case," he said, "I don't want them."
"But they are the most beautiful flowers imaginable."
"And yet I cannot give them to the girl I love."
The old man sighed. "You cannot give her the seeds. Why are you in such a hurry to do it all today?"
The boy became angry. He felt cheated once more by the world. "Because today is all that matters," he said. "Because today I want to express my love for another person. Because today..."
"But soon you will have most amazing roses in the world," said the man, "And then you can give them to her at your leisure."
"And they will still be roses. And they will still wilt and die in their vases. And they will never express the way I feel."
The man shrugged his shoulders.
"Then give her the phial," he said. And he began to walk away.
But then he stopped and turned to face the boy. "But tell her how you found it," he said, "I suppose there's a slight possibility that she'll find your gesture sweet."
And with this the man departed, leaving the boy alone to think.
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