On Goldenrod

The most beautiful flowers tend to bloom their brightest in the gray fog of a downpour. Have you seen the dew play across the petals of the red rose or trail down the torso of the goldenrod and flush the yellow flowerlets with a kiss to the roots? The deep green, rich umber, and steely gray sound of rain resonated throughout the forest and across the brown rooftops of the hamlet of Vena.

A poor young woman – whose wavy brown bangs were obscured by the sopping summer hat she wore – had finally entered the awning of one of the smaller houses. She eased the book she had been clutching to her chest into one hand and slipped the woven basket at her elbow, filled with damp fruit and the aforementioned goldenrod cuttings, into her other.

Alexander did not get the door when Melissa knocked. He was busy. He was about average height for a man in his late twenties, though the waterproof boots he always seemed to be wearing often caused him to appear larger than he really was. His brown eyes had a deceptive allure, like those of a young dog, but were always darting away from the speakers as if looking for something in a game of fetch. He was one of those young men around which a number of important obligations seemed to spring up constantly. 

Melissa entered.

“I got caught up in the storm-line,” she said as she closed the door behind her, muffling the sound of the rain.

“I think I have everything ready to go,” he said.

“Oh, are you sure you want to go out? It’s really pouring out there.”

She caught the look he gave her through the reflection of the window as he continued chiseling at the block of wood in his hand. Melissa set the basket down at the doorstep.

“Watch the bear trap,” he said.

“Right.”

“I’m going to head out at dusk. James said they came to him around midnight, which should give me plenty of time to prepare. I’ve already factored in the effects of the rain and have everything in its place. Eh-” Melissa had walked to embrace him from behind, slipping one of the wet blooms of goldenrod into his left-breast pocket.

“Please, be safe.”

“What’s this,” he asked, fingering the plant gingerly.

“Just a little good luck charm”

“Melissa, it’s very sweet but it’s not – I mean, that pocket had my instructions written in it. They’re completely drenched.”

“They would have been drenched anyways as soon as you spent a second outside,” she said, withdrawing, “I don’t see what the fuss is about.”

“I was going to review them one last time before stepping out.”

“Maybe it would help if you told me your plan? I can re-write it if you like.”

“No, no – I need to finish the totem and I could use some peace.”

“Damn it, what is with you Alexander?”

“What do you mean.”

“This – all of this. This is the last time I might ever see you and you’re so cold.”

“I’m just stressed.”

“You’ve been stressed for months.”

“It isn’t going to be the last time you see me. It should be fine.”

“Like James is fine? Because I don’t call that fine.”

“We’ve been losing our herd for months,” he finally turned on his stool to look at her, “it’s time we did something about it or we’re going to be kicked out.”

“I don’t care if we’re kicked out, I just want you to stop obsessing over a lunatic fairytale.”

“It’s not lunatic. He came back with a bag of pure gold and powerful new legs.”

“Yes, the legs of an ass and half the mind of one too. He can barely string two clauses together.”

“He’s never been great with words, he probably thought it was a worthy sacrifice.”

“And what are you willing to sacrifice? You know, I’ve been talking to Caroline about all this, and she says–

“What? What does Caroline say?”

“She says that it’s about time I break off the engagement.”

“Well that’s ridiculous.”

“Why? You haven’t listened to me in any part of this ‘plan making’ and every step of it is more risky than the last.”

“I’m doing this plan so we can live in a place that doesn’t have mold infesting the walls and wolves picking off our only source of livelihood. I’m doing this so we can be comfortable somewhere where the fireplace hasn’t caved in and where water doesn’t freeze inside in winter. We can be rich and happy in an important city instead of suffering and poor in the middle of nowhere.”

“I see it now. You’re doing this so you can make a name for yourself, screw whatever I think. What makes you think you know what’s right for us? I’m perfectly happy living here for the rest of my life. Alex," she pleaded, "why isn’t this enough?”

Alexander pulled the goldenrod and the dripping square of paper out of his breast pocket and smoothed it out on his worktable.

“I’m leaving tonight, and I’ll be back tomorrow morning to see you.”

“I told Caroline she was wrong, you know.” He turned back towards her in time to catch the hat bobbing out, the door shutting behind her. 

“Wait! Where are you going?” He was out in the rain, and it was turning his dark clothes black.

“Out, I can’t do this anymore.”

“What, so you’re leaving?”

“You and your grandiose plans, I hope when you finally break under them that you aren’t too broken to go back.”

“I just want to give us something to reach for.”

“And what you reach,” she was crying, “what you reach for will burn you. Please, just give this one up and we can think of something else.”

“I relied on you for this. I can’t believe you would back out so close to the end.”

“Here.” She stifled her tears. “Here. Take it, take it.” She threw the book at him, and the pages spilled out over the ground, drinking the mud. “I hope it’s worth it.” She turned away, hunched and holding herself, as she walked away through the rain.

Alexander stood for a moment, reaching out towards her as if to speak or pull her back.

“Wait.” He said, crouching down to the book to pull it out of the mud. She looked back for a moment, her weeping hat framing her round face in tired gray. She did not go back. 

—

The book was an old grimoire with a legacy dating back over four hundred years. It had belonged to an obscure ancestor of Melissa’s, but one with enough relation that she had been able to ask it as a favor from her uncle. He had asked his cousin who in turn had requested it from the General’s private collection. Now it was weeping wet onto the worktable: 

Faery – Ask not for favors lest the fey irritates. Disagree not lest the faery angers. Fear lest your guard drops.

A later addition was penned in the margin: In every interaction, beware of the pathos you evoke in the fairy. You are a blip in an infinite void, and the infinity may stifle you if it finds you unpleasant. Appeal to the fairy’s sympathy and hope that it is in the mood to have one. Your greatest weapon is the truth–a fairy cannot lie.

His plan was simple. What had been written on the paper before the goldenrod had soaked it went something like this:

1. Enter the dale.
2. Set up the bear trap.
3. Wait for the moon.
4. Bring the knife as insurance against predators.

You can do this. Pain will pass but your pride will last eternally. James’ legs were healed to the point of functionality. You can do this.

That last part, he thought, had been the more important section; a reminder in case he lost his nerve.

He brushed everything on the worktable into his bag. There was a tense thrumming in Alexander’s stomach as he inspected the cottage for anything he might be forgetting, though truly it was an introspective sweep. His eyes momentarily reproached Melissa’s basket of fruits with a steady gaze. He left.

The trek through the forest to the base of James’ Fall, as the cliff was now known by locals, was through an obscure mist that left the “safe” route he had so carefully planned difficult to follow. It was strange to embark on the journey through the embalmed darkness which obscured even that which was at his feet, alone except the occasional accompaniment of the downy owl’s coos. 

He set up the bear trap. Rummaging through his bag for the totem, he encountered something wet and gripped it, crushing it between his fingers. He looked up. 

The light of the moon could only shiver through the thick clouds, barely promising its apex. He would have to take a risk. It was better too soon than too late anyhow. All he needed to do was step–

“What are you doing?”

“Ahh-” he tensed his shoulders and put his hands in the air in his surprise, spinning wildly. “Who’s there?”

“What are you doing?” croaked the owl again.

“I-I-”

“Ah, rejected love,” it said in its deep slur, yellow eyes fixed on Alexander’s hand.

“Y-yes, my fiancé has left me. I was planning- I was planning to take my life in the forest.”

“What is the bear-trap for?”

“I was going to step in it.”

“Symbolic?”

“Uh, yes.”

“Well now, go on then!”

“What?”

“Do it!”

Disagree not lest the faery angers

“I am not sure I can anymore.”

The owl’s feathers ruffled impatiently.

“Do it.”

Alexander looked at the bear trap and felt his stomach drop to the soil. The fangs of the trap were dark with a promise of pain. He took a breath.

“I’ve changed my mind,” said the fairy. Alexander nearly stumbled into its jaws anyways as the fairy rumbled an eerie laugh. The fairy had changed forms. He now appeared like a young man, tall with porcelain skin and cherry-red lips. He seemed to have no weight, his laughs not even causing the branch on which he sat to quiver. His neck and wings were adorned with black starling feathers which caused his pale skin to pop out of his face like the moon.

“Come,” he said as he fluttered down, “You are my date to the equinox festival.”

“Oh-” The fairy sized him by the hand. Alexander went from the base of James’ fall, passing streams of leaves and ribbons of mist, skipped like some smooth pebble across a mirror lake in which the moon seemed to have been imprisoned and at such speed that the wind should have cut him but somehow instead simply pulled through his hair and clothes like a gentle caress. Vena, the dale, the trap; they were all lost somewhere behind.

—

Alexander and the fairy were standing in a flower field which balanced the reds of poppies and the pinks and whites of peonies against a deep, blue night and the gray, curved blade of the sickle moon.

“Can you dance?”

“No, I never learned.”

“There is no better time than today!” And the two at once began spinning in perfect synchronization to the music of a chorus of Dryads who twisted vine-like bodies around the branches of a central oak tree.

“Even the flowers know how to dance. It is one of the most natural things to do.”

Ask not for favors lest the fey irritates.

“If only I had had the privilege of growing up on a rich estate so that I could learn these things.”

“Bah– and you probably want immortality too,” the fairy’s smile had sharp teeth, “A good dance à la campaign holds a special place in my heart.”

“Surely – if this is anything to speak for it, it must in mine too,” he agreed quickly.

“If that is true then you have learned all you need to know.” Alexander spun away from the fairy with increasingly clumsy steps as the fairy’s arm gracefully curved out. He stopped to catch his breath.

“What do you think of the flowers?”

Alexander stooped down to look and paused. He spoke slowly: “Where I come from peonies of this beauty are worth their weight in gold, as they are imported from overseas. Unfortunately, I am only a poor shepherd, and my herd has been attacked by wolves – I cannot afford any such beauties.”

“They are beautiful, aren’t they? But they are worth more than their weight in gold. Look at how they dance in the shifty wind to the great wedding of day and night, rising… tipping their fragrance to the air. They are dancing partners bowing to each other.”

“What a lovely idea. But the wind seems to bow them all in the same direction.”

The fairy sighed, “It’s like they’re inviting the moon to a dance. You should join them.”

“You do not want to accompany me?”

“I wish I could.”

“Well,” he said, eyes focused on the fairy’s face, “I would prefer to stay with you than to go on my own.”

“You are only here for the night and will have to return to your old world sooner or later. You should enjoy yourself. There is food and flowers, music and dance, wine and romance.”

“I do not look forward to returning, my world is like a living death. There is mold in the walls of my cottage, and it is too small for me to live comfortably.”

“And you have lost the love of your life, a terrible tragedy.”

“If only I had something I could give her to win her back… but I know of nothing in my power to give.”

“I can tell that you seek something dearly. But it is not love you are wanting. Come,” he said. He beckoned Alexander towards the globed peonies, and then with a smooth, sickled motion of his hand, he cut them. He stepped through the bushes of peonies, and they withered before his gray hand.

“What did you do that for?”

“They’re only flowers. Ah, look! You haven’t seen the poppies yet.”

“No,” he replied, staring at the empty sky where the bushes had been, “I haven't.”

The poppies were arranged in neat rows with a small footpath made from rough stones stretching between the isles. Alexander picked one from the flowerbed to examine its leaves. The petals were layered like velvet, with a golden glow of pollen at the center surrounded by a halo of black hairs. A wind rippled through the rows and sent orange flares spiraling into the air.

“Come,” said the fairy laughing, and he flung Alexander into the air over the red flowers, where he levitated, clutching the wind-soaked poppy to his chest and hooting with laughter.

“My! This is amazing! How can you…?”

“The poppies are some of my favorite flowers.”

The fairy danced between the rows, spinning Alexander around until the wind died and he slowly sank back to the ground. For a moment, Alexander had forgotten why he was there.

“Tell me, what is it that you really want?”

“I want? Why do you ask?”

“It has been a pleasure,” the fey said, smiling with his sharp teeth, “to get to spend time with you. Unfortunately, tonight must come to an end.”

“So you are sending me home?”

“Yes, with a gift.”

Fear lest your guard drops… Your greatest weapon is the truth–

“What is the catch?”

“There is none, you can ask for anything within my power to give, and I will give it.”

A fairy cannot lie.

The wind picked up and plucked the poppy in his hand, each red arc separating and floating away, behind, towards the sickle moon.

“I want – well – I want the power to make the world a better place, to leave a lasting impact.”

“It is done,” the fairy said.

The smell of rain-fresh dirt rose from the ground as a sudden darkness enveloped Alexander. The song of the Dryads melted into the distance. The colors and flowers sloughed away as if ink from a page in water. A single cherry-red petal followed him through, laughing and smiling.

“But I can never give you back what you’ve lost,” echoed the woods.

The goldenrod began to release a sweet scent of decay.