The Clockwork Toymaker and Other Fables

The Rose

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.