THE LOVELY VIOLET

Once upon a time...

In the land of Aayushi, there grew a flower of the most astounding grace; a violet more comely than a girl. 

It is true, not even the princess, whose name was Princess Marguerite, - a very charming girl indeed, - could match for loveliness this little violet. But, while the beauty of the princess was lauded far and wide, not a soul in the kingdom had remarked upon the lovely violet!

Only a wild boy, who lived all by himself, deep in the forest, had come to see the flower. Only he had learned her rare and perfect grace. Many times, he visited, and often dreamed of bringing others, too. Alas, he was frightened of the people in the town, and much preferred the company of beasts. In any case, the boy was mute and, even if he could have spoken, those who knew of his existence never would have listened, for they all believed him mad.

Markel was his name, although he did not know it, and there was no one left to tell him that. You see, when he was just a tiny child, his poor mother had fallen deathly ill, and Father had not returned from seeking medicine in town. Markel, who was faithful, kept his mother's body warm, using blankets just as Father taught him; though it had long ago turned cold and brown and dry.

He waited for the kind man, never doubting that he would return, remembering those parting words, "I will return, but keep her warm,". Still, he could not recall the name by which father called him - and, indeed, the only names he knew were "Mama" and "Papa". These he studied to himself sometimes at night, keeping them close as though they were, apart from the animals, his only friends. And so they were.

Now, the boy would surely have perished, if not for the assistance of a tutelary spirit, invisible to him; a satyr named Silenus, who led him secretly to where the crystal waters flowed and the good berries hung on twigs. How he found them was a mystery to him, and it could not have occurred to his mind that there was anyone on earth - or in another world - to thank.

Naturally, the boy was lonely, but, more than this, he was quite sensitive. So much so, that, even the softest animals sometimes seemed coarse to him. Hence, the friendship he was keen to share with them was always somewhat lacking. Then, one day, he spied the lovely violet.

For months, the little flower had grown tenderly beside an ancient stone, no larger than a lion's paw, in a field of shining-emerald-green. She, too, was lonely, and eager for a friend. Often, she would whisper to the stone, who only would rebuff her:

"You'll wither soon," replied the stone, "and I am tired of making friends, just to watch them die. Why don't you go bother the grass?"

But the grass was stupid. It had nothing much to say. Nothing but "Ooooo!" when the wind blew it one way - and "Weeeee!" when it blew the other.

Early one morning, while the boy was out exploring, he suddenly was taken with a bolder mood. (This was Silenus, inspiring him, although he never knew from where such inspirations sprung.) He decided to venture into the field of shining-emerald-green, much closer to the town than he had dared in several years to come.

And there she was.

He saw her at a distance; a shade of purple, far softer than the berries he had seen.

Loveliness. A feeling he had never known. Not nearly so acutely, anyway. Perhaps, before the dawn, watching the pale moon sink above the mountain's silhouette, he thought, he may have felt a similarly tender thrill. But, no! That was nothing. Nothing like this.

"Mama," he seemed to hear inside his head, and wondered at it for a little while. "Mama," the voice inside him said again.

"What's that?" the violet perked.

She could not see him, but such soundless voices, somehow, she could hear. And her inquiry gave off a perfume he could almost taste upon the air.

It was then that Markel really swooned, for the beauty of her scent was more than he could bear. He lay down beside the lovely violet, as if under a power not his own, and gazed upon her lovingly, - and then he wept.

To this she responded in kind; her petals shimmering with subtle, violet shades which she herself did not suspect were hers. Oh, what blissful waves of meaning! What was being? Oh, to be alive!

Suddenly, she seemed to know his name, and sent it out, upon the breeze, written invisibly in scent.

To him it came as memory.

"I am Markel, I recall!"

The sound of his own voice, which had so long been mute, came unto him as a surprise more striking even than his name.

My friends, my friends, do not be astonished so soon! For I have yet to relate the greater miracle, which is the real reason for my tale. Presently, I shall tell you why this incident has long been passed down, through the aethers, from the souls of former bards, to the one who tells it now.

At the mention of his name, our flower was transformed! Instantly, metamorphosed, from a lovely violet into the most exquisite human lass! A creature of the softest skin, the sweetest glow, the kindest eyes, the dearest lips, which even angels must be brought to envy in their sacred rounds. And, too, her memory was stirred.

"I was your mother once," she spoke, more sonorous than harps upon a cloud. "Now you have awakened me: I am your love!"

It was then, the boy recovered all his wits. His mother had died, and father had perhaps been killed, so many years ago. But here was one more suited to his need, whom he would never, ever leave.

So they embraced.

Alas! Before their arms could tighten on each other, the girl returned to flower form, and the boy fell to the ground, with arms around himself. Oh, no!

He tried to cry out, but his voice was gone. Silent, just as it had been before. Only the memory of his name remained, but, then, a moment later, this was also lost. And, with it, all his wits.

A single tear ran down his cheek.

The violet shed a petal, too. 

That was their first encounter. Although there have been many meetings since, not once has the lovely violet ever taken human form again. Indeed, she has not changed at all. 

And never will she die.



~ FINIS ~