The smell of daffodils

The smell of daffodils

„Just tell me!”

“No!”

“Why?! I have waited long enough! You always say you will tell me when the time is right, but it never is!” she yells and looks at me, eyes filled with expectation. I hold her gaze, adamant, and seeing it, she grows sad. She takes a deep breath before she says, “Please, I need to know. I am old enough to hear. Whatever it is, I need to know.”

I look at her, not at all grown like she claims to be. What are her fifteen springs to my hundreds of years on this earth? She is barely an infant in my eyes. How can I tell her what she wants to know? I hesitate, as always, but recognize the firmness of her stance, the seriousness behind her mild and begging eyes. She will leave me now if I do not tell her. She will leave me, and I will be alone again. I cannot bear the thought, and before I realize it, I sit down, and my voice fills the silence. 

“I have lived a hundred lifetimes – I have told you that.” She nods and sits as well, on the floor at my feet like she used to when she was younger. Gods, even younger than she is now. I do not know how I survived these years with her as fragile as the seashells she likes to gather so much. One careless sweep and she would be gone before she even had a chance to be. She leans against my legs, calmer now, and I bury my fingertips in her long gold curls. “I have lived a hundred lifetimes, and all the years start melting together after such a time. I do not remember most of them – they are all blurred and simple. Me and the garden, for as long as my memory can reach.

“In the beginning, there was no one here. Nobody knew I existed, and I liked it that way, I suppose. It was lonely, of course, but not as much as you think it would be. I had not known what being with someone meant then, and so how could I have sensed that I was missing something I could not have known existed? 

“It was peaceful then, quiet. I would wake up with the sun rising against my face and go to sleep with it hiding below the horizon. I had my rituals and flowers, each season lovelier the more I cared for them and learned their ways. I do not remember how long it lasted. I suppose there is no way I could have counted the years. I have not noticed time passing because no one ever told me to. 

“One day, people started to knock at my door and ask for shelter. I never refused, and they never made me think I should. They told me of the world outside my stone walls, and I could not help but be mesmerized by their lives. I learned about their boredom and happiness. Their guilt, sadness, anger, grief. I had not heard of these emotions before, and they fascinated me more than anything I had ever done or seen.”

She is still and focused – I can sense it even without seeing her face. She swallows everything I say, for she has not seen nor heard of all these things herself. Not entirely, anyway. Only pieces I have mentioned when I let my guard down. She is like I had been before these people started to come, only younger and more impetuous. She would burn herself with no hesitation just to feel the fire on her skin.

I continue.

“They never wanted anything except for food and a place to sleep, and I have always had more than enough for myself, so I gave it to them. I never asked for anything in return, but they did not understand it. They were grateful, and in their world, they had to pay for gratitude. In their world, nothing came free.

“They had nightmares, too – I learned that soon after they arrived. Horrible ones, filling peaceful nights with horrors. I watched it all at first, idle, but then I grew closer to them and could not bear their suffering. That is when I turned to my garden.”

She tilts her head towards the window, and we both look at the flowers behind it. 

“Why did they have nightmares? Are your dreams the same?” she asks, and I realize another difference between who I had been and who she is now. I had not known nightmares before these people came here. She knows them far too well. There are barely any nights when she does not hear my screams.

I consider what to tell her. She is patient, kind. I never told her about my dreams, and she never pressured me to.

“Yes,” I say, then pause. “In a way. Not exactly, but my nightmares began when theirs appeared. I suppose they are woven together now, and no matter what I do, I will never be able to untangle them.”

She waits for me to say something more, but there is nothing more to say.

“I understand. What happened next?”

“Well, they kept coming and going, of course. And I gave them all I had to give. I eased their nightmares with my infusions; learned how to heal their wounds and various conditions. They had a home here, and the rumor spread. 

“And then they suddenly stopped. The house was empty, and for the first time, I felt this emptiness with all its intensity. I stumbled around in the garden, the mountains, the seaside, looking and gathering my herbs, flowers, and roots. Lonely seasons went by, and all I did was mix and collect, perfect my recipes and sharpen my knowledge. In some way, I thought that once I learned enough, they would be back and let me help them again. I could not understand why they went away. 

“I got my answer one winter afternoon. That is when I met your mother.”

She straightens immediately, her fingers tense and awaiting on top of her crossed legs. Now is the time for me to be careful. She will pick apart every word that comes out of my mouth.

“She was captivating, you know. Fierce and striking like a storm. She knew what she wanted and was not afraid to ask for it.”

Like you.

“She told me about her kingdom and her husband – your father. He was a cruel man. He abused his people and her, and soon, he would abuse you. She was pregnant, you see. When I met her. With your birth inching closer day by day, she knew she could not stay by his side. One day, she overheard someone talking about me and my home – by then, a childish tale to all of them, crushed under his power. Even so, she decided to search for me. It was her only hope. She wanted a good life for you and your kingdom, and I was the only chance for it to happen.

“She asked me to prepare something that would stop him. Poison. I would have lied if I said that I did not know how to do it. By then, I had learned all that was to learn about this art. I had my hesitations, but she stayed with me till you were born, and after she regained her strength, she told me what he had done to all of them. We watched you sleep and cried over scars on her hands and what she spoke of. None of the nightmares I had heard of compared to that. And so I gave in. I prepared the deadliest potion I knew – the one with mountain roots, seashells and daffodils.”

She flinches. At the sound of the ingredients? Maybe. We use them often to keep our home free of insects and bring order to the garden when the spring arrives. Perhaps at the sound of her name? I will never know.

“I gave it to her in the morning when she decided to leave, wishing her luck. I told her she could stay with me, but she refused. She needed to come back for her people. But when she took you in her arms, she grew fearful.”

‘You need to take her, please. He will kill me and then her if he finds out what I am planning. You need to help me. I have asked too much of you, I know, but please. Take her. Just until I return.’

I close my eyes, trying to hide the memory away.

“She asked me to take you and watch over you until she returned. I did. But she never came back. And I took care of you like she–”

“Why?” She stirs, but I keep my hands against her head. Her body loosens again when she feels their steadiness. “Do you think she failed?”

“I have no way of knowing that, my child.” A lie, plain and simple, as all things are. “I know she would have come for you if she were alive. And she did not.” And another one, even easier than the last. “Have you heard everything you desired to?”

“No,” she says, and I hold my breath. “But there is nothing more you could tell me that I wish to know.” She moves away carefully, cautious not to trap my fingers in her hair. She stands up, strong and tall, and beautiful. She could rule that kingdom if she wished to. But nobody told her to. “I am tired now. I will need to lay and rest with the words you gave me. Thank you for trusting me with them. Mother.”

I blink away the tears and nod. 

“You deserved them,” I answer and lift my hand towards her. She kisses it and lets me place it on her cheek. “Sleep well, my sweet one. I will see you at sunrise?”

“As always,” she says and bows, then goes to her room.

When the door closes behind her, I stand up too, slowly, then leave the house and head to the shore far away from her gentle ears. There, I taste the part of the story she will never get to hear. 

“Your mother returned some time after. Tired but carefree. Happy. She said she had done it. You were safe. You could return to the kingdom and take your rightful place. She asked where you were, and I showed her. She took you in her arms and said she would never let you go again. Then she turned to me.

‘I wanted you to know that I named her after what you did for us. Daffodil. Not after my grandmother, like I said, but after you. I will never forget what I owe you, and that way, she will always remember, too.’

“I looked at the child in her arms then, small and tender. My beautiful little Daffodil. Something rose in me that I could not recognize. Anger? No, it was not what I was feeling. Sadness? Not this either. Something bitter and heavy. Something cruel saying: you have something I desire but cannot have. 

“Or simpler.

“You have something that belongs to me.”