The Valley of the Flowers
Once there was a valley, a valley nestled so deeply in the mountains that everyone had forgot it was there. If you looked closely at the red earth that covered the ground you might see the traces of carts, imprints from the shoes of peasants who had used the valley as a trade route once, but no one had crossed the valley in many years.
In the valley lived a boy and his grandmother. They lived a simple and solitary life, each day setting out from their home to collect food from the plants that grew on the surrounding mountains. They were all the company they ever needed, and would laugh and tell each other stories long into the night.
Only, one winter the boy’s grandmother grew sick, and tired. Having spent many years on this earth, she understood her time to be up. Not wanting the boy to be lonely, she called him over to her bed, and presented to him a single brown seed, and a small clay pot. “Care for this flower,” she creaked. “As you would care for me.”
In the spring, the boy planted the flower, and watered it every day. Quickly the flower grew tall, bright and green. However, when summer came, and the boy expected it to bloom, it would not. The flower would remain as a sealed bulb at the end of its stalk until the fall, where its leaves would fall off one by one, and a single seed would drop back into the pot, where it would produce a single flower next spring.
Year after year the boy watched this happen. He could not figure out what he had to do to get the flower to blossom. He tried moving it into an area of more shade, then of less shade. He tried watering it every day, and then watering it once a month. He read it poetry, sang it songs, ignored it completely – but nothing worked. As the boy grew into a man, he would spend more and more time each day thinking about his defective flower. It was in one of these pensive moods, perched on a rock, that a piece of paper fluttered down from out of the valley and struck him in the face. The paper contained a picture of a field of flowers, most magnificent flowers, flowers the man knew to be kin of his.
After seven nights of restless sleep, plagued by over grown branches, blossoms and heavy petals that would fall and crush him, the man understood what he had to undertake. He resolved to leave his home, for the first time in his life, to seek out this valley, where perhaps his flower could grow happily.
Collecting his meager belongings, and fashioning a make-shift harness for his flower pot, the man set out.
The man had traveled for seven days and seven nights, stopping when he was tired and eating when he was hungry, when – nearing dusk, he saw a glow cast from a hill in the distance.
As the traveler neared the source of the light, he began to hear sounds unlike any he had heard before. An immense clanking, scraping, groaning, creaking. As he approached what he imagined to be a town, he moved through a forest of large metal pillars. Starring up, he saw that the pillars were attached to giant machines that gouged into the rock, scraping, banging, tearing the mountain side apart. As he approached the source of the light, a doorway cut in the rock, he saw a man, standing at the opening with a helmet, lantern and shovel. The traveler introduced himself, and asked the miner if he knew of the valley of the flowers. The miner shook his head, and said, “I’m sorry. I can’t help you. I don’t know anything but this shovel. Perhaps you should ask my foreman, he knows a lot more than me.” At that moment, a loud whistle chimed, and on cue a flood of workmen with uniform helmets, lanterns and shovels appeared as if out of nowhere. The river of men poured through the doorway, sweeping the traveler along with them. The torrent wound its way down ladders and passageways, into the heart of the mine. Rounding the corner, they came to a large room where hundreds of other men were chipping away at the rock, placing it in carts and trundling it down a dark tunnel. The clanking and groaning and scraping was louder here than anywhere else, and though the man tried to get someone’s attention, no one would pay him any heed. They moved quickly and methodically from one task to the next, and no one noticed the outsider.
Finally the whistle blew again, and all the clanking and groaning ceased. The machines stopped whirring, and all the men sat down, without saying a word. Picking his way through the silence, the traveler found his way to a gentleman with a clipboard who was obviously the foreman of the operation. Garnering his attention the man told his story, and asked if the man knew anything about the valley of the flowers. He shook his head, and said “I’m sorry. I only know this quarry, I know nothing else. Perhaps you should speak to my boss, he is in charge of all 6 quarries in this operation, he might know.” Pointed in the right direction, the traveler picked his way through the mine to a until he found the door the foreman had spoken of. Knocking politely, he was admitted into an office so cluttered with graphs, charts, papers and other documentation, he didn’t know where to sit or stand.
He was greeted by a gruff man, short and stocky who demanded, “What do you want?” The traveler began to tell his story from the beginning, about the flower on his back and the valley of the flowers he sought. When he was done, the manager looked at him, with a bewildered look on his face. “Look at these charts,” the man boomed. “Do they speak of flowers? Do you think a man like me has time for such things? It’s a waste of time if you ask me. And so are you for that matter. Good day.”
Dejected, the traveler packed his flower back on to his back, and trudged off. He wandered until he could no longer make out the creaking and scraping of the mine and drifted off to sleep.
The man did not awake until the sun was long over the hills. Eating a light breakfast, he packed his things and set off again. He had not walked more than five minutes when he heard a great commotion overhead. He heard music, shouting, peels of laughter. Looking up he saw an immense floating ship, suspended by hundreds, thousands of balloons. The ship was high in the air, partially obscured by clouds, but the man could swear he saw people dangling off the sides, and flipping from one mast to the other. The traveller was about to shout up to the people on the ship, to ask them what they were doing when, just as he opened his mouth, a rope ladder unfurled from the sky and landed dangling in front of his face. A small sign, written in neat script read “Revelers Welcome,” and a small arrow, pointed upward, indicated that one should follow the ladder to its termination. Egged on by his curiosity the man grasped the ladder and began to climb.
One foot after the other, the music grew louder, and the shouting more raucous, until the man found himself standing on the deck of an immense ship, painted in the most fantastic colors. The man marveled at how the ship managed to stay afloat (if one can use the word “afloat” in a context without the sea), for it appeared that every member of the ship was engaged in a most massive feast. Meats, pies, and culinary concoctions of every sort weighed the table down so much that it bent in the middle, drooping low to the deck. The few members of the ship who weren’t seated around the table could be found hanging from the highest points of the riggings or sprawled out on the deck. They juggled, contorted, stilt walked and flipped from place to place to the delight of the revelers.
“Don’t just stand there, pull up a seat.” A booming voice snapped the man out of his awestruck stupor. A large man grinned at him, as he pulled out a chair. The traveler, not wanting to be rude, sat down. Immediately, his plate was piled high with the most delicious food, and a goblet filled with the most magnificent wine was placed in his hand. The man quickly forgot his mission and was overtaken with the feast. He ate and drank and laughed with the men until late into the evening. It was only when the sky had darkened and the men began to yawn did he remember the flower on his back, and his quest. He asked his newly acquired friend if he knew of the valley of the flowers. The sailor replied, “I don’t, no. But tomorrow, I can take you to the navigator, he must know, he has flown over these lands hundreds of times.”
The next day the man woke late, his head still fuzzy from the night’s revelry. The sun was directly above by the time he poked his head out above deck. To his chagrin he saw that the circus had already begun, and that the noon day feast was already spread out on the table. Another crew member drew him a chair and sat him down. His plate was piled twice as high as the day before, and the wine began to flow. He sought out his friend from the night before, to ask him the whereabouts of the navigator. But his friend shook his head, “Tomorrow, tomorrow,” he replied, “The feast has already begun. Here take a drink and admire the performance overhead.” The traveler sighed, and settled into his seat.
The next morning, though the man went to great pains to wake himself when the sun was still very low in the sky, the same thing happened. Already the feast was spread out, and already the crew members were assembled around it. When asked, the large man, replied in the same manner: “Tomorrow, tomorrow.”
The third night, the man made sure to wake himself before the sun had even risen. He quietly climbed to the deck, to survey the scene. He saw the remnants of last night’s revelry - dirty dishes, the empty carcasses of roast birds, overturned chairs. But not a soul on deck. He wandered along, and found the ship completely deserted. He wondered if the crew had not decided to desert the ship in the night. Just as he was growing concerned about the prospects of a large ship flying through the sky without any crew whatsoever, the sun began to rise. As the first rays of sunlight hit the deck, the traveller began to hear the murmurs and laughter of the revelers. As he looked back to the table, all the chairs had been righted, the dishes cleaned, and slowly but surely, the crew began to materialize, as they had been left the night before. The food too began to appear on the table, faintly at first, but growing in vividness, and scent. Looking up, the man saw a trapeze artist appear in mid flip.
That day, when his large friend pulled out a chair and invited him to take a seat, the man said nothing, shook his head, and moved towards the ladder. Only, the ladder was nowhere to be found. Returning to the table, the boy asked what had happened to the ladder he had used to climb up to the ship. His sailor friend grasped him by the shoulder and sat him down with a grin. “What do you need that ladder for,” he asked. “You’re already up here.” The whole of the table burst out laughing at this miserable joke. “Not to climb up,” the traveler picked his words carefully. “To climb down.” “To climb down?!” Mimicked the sailor, “Bwah ha ha ha!” And all of the ship joined him in his chortling. “Why would you ever want to leave?!” The whole crew fell over in tears, bellowing with laughter. Someone slid the traveler another glass of wine.
His course of action was clear. Later in the meal, once people had become drowsy with drink, and were distracted by a ballerina performing high atop the crows nest, the traveler snuck away to the side of the ship, and taking one deep breath stepped off the edge. Plummeting through the air took a great deal longer than the man had expected. He passed through clouds and sunk past birds high in the air. He was just beginning to regret his decision to jump when his fall terminated in a fortuitous, if wet, splash.
Coming up for air the traveler found himself in the middle of a swiftly moving river. The river carried him quickly downstream, and before long he approached a town
town rising up on both sides of the water. The two towns were completely indistinguishable, mirror images of one another save for two facts. Firstly, on the west bank of the river the town’s clock tower flew a flag with the image of a waxing moon emblazoned on it. On the eastern side, the clock tower flew a waning moon. More immediately apparent was the fact that the western town bustled with the movements of hundreds of people, while the town on the east was dead and lifeless, without a single person to be seen.
The man dried himself off and pushed his way into the western city, past fruit stands, meat vendors, shops hawking strange tonics and musical instruments. The man was overwhelmed by the life and vitality of this place.
After asking many questions of many villagers, he found his way, late in the afternoon to the town’s flower shop. The shop was a small store front, which looked out, through the back windows onto the river, and the ghost town behind. The traveler was greeted by the store owner and his wife. They were kindly people, and offered the man a simple, but nutritious meal. Over the fruit and simple grains, the man told them his story and asked them if they had heard of the valley of the flowers. “Oh yes,” said the man “Many beautiful flowers. We have collected flowers from there for many years. Many beautiful flowers.” “So you know where to find them then?” The man nodded. “Tomorrow we will pay a visit to the map maker’s and draw you directions to the valley. You can leave in the morning.”
Grateful, the man readied his things, and prepared to leave at dawn the next morning. Seeing his journey nearing its end, he felt a calm over take him as he stared out the window at the moon, just turned full, reflecting on the river’s water. The man settled into a deep, restful sleep.
Now, many strange things happen under the full moon, but in this particular city, on the banks of this particular river, particularly peculiar things take shape. Indeed if our traveler had not been sleeping quite so soundly, he might have awoken to see all the townsfolk assembling on the river banks, as they did twice a month (once on this bank and once on the other). Where, all at once, they would embark on boats and madly paddle to the other side, exchanging in the process, hats, cloaks, wives, mustaches, professions, hopes and dreams. Reaching the other side, each townsmember would take up his new position in a new town, identical to the last in every way save for the particular position of each individual in the strange clockwork of the town.
When he did awake early the next morning, expecting to hear the hustle and bustle of the city up and at work, the town was silent. Stepping through the doorway, he made his way down the stairs to the flower shop. The flowers all still stood in their vases, but not a soul could be seen, either in the shop or out on the street.
Wandering through the city the man was bewildered. The whole place felt like a ghost town. He walked in silence, afraid of shattering something should he so much as speak a word. It was as if everything had been rendered dead and weightless in the night. It wasn’t until he heard a cry from the other side of the river did the man snap out of his trance, and for the first time cast his gaze to the other side of the water. There, the city that had been dead and silent the day before was bustling, alive with people. Wandering down to the water, the traveler found a single row boat sitting on the dock, waiting for him. With some effort, he eased himself in to the boat, pushed off and crossed to the opposite bank.
Disembarking the boat, the man found himself to be in an exact mirror image of the town on the other side, the brickwork, the peeling paint, even the graffiti scrawled on the sides of the buildings were identical, only reversed. So it was without much effort that he found himself back to the shop that had housed the flowers on the other bank of the river. However, pushing open the door, he found himself standing not in a florists, but a butcher shop. Yet behind the desk stood the same husband and wife who had offered them his hospitality last time. At least, they were almost the same. Though it was as if the two had switched bodies, it was now the wife who stood wide and tall, and the man who was thin and wiry. Nor did either of them give the traveler the least inkling that they had met him before. It was only after an awkward silence did the woman in the apron demand “Can I help you?” The traveler stammered and explained about his travel and their dinner the night before. This was not met with any more success. The two glared and shook their heads in bewilderment. “Never seen you before,” said the man. The traveler apologized, and left the store without another word.
The city held a double air of at once being intensely familiar and at the same time utterly foreign. As the traveler made his way through the streets he continued to stumble upon places he and been before, but not quite. Where he had encountered a maker of exquisite violins on the windward bank he now found a dentist. On the bench where he had seen a wino passed out, he now found the same man, elegantly dressed, smoking a pipe and reading a gold-leafed book. The two lovers he had seen leaning over a railing on the water, now could be seen to exchange money in a mysterious business transaction.
It was late afternoon before the man began to tell his story anew and search out the flower shop he knew to be hiding somewhere in the city. By the time night had fallen, he had found his way into a strange loft space, where, low and behold were flowers of all shapes and sizes. Though the man and woman looked to him for all the world like strangers, they were delighted to see him, and had his place set for the meal. On the table by his place, the map was rolled up and ready.
As the meal was reaching its conclusion, the flower seller cleared his throat. “Before you go,” he began. “There’s something you must know about the valley of the flowers.” His wife gave a slight cough and looked up from her plate. Ignoring her look, the man continued. “The valley is very fertile.” He explained. “You must be very careful what you do in the hills as you near the valley, for anything you do in that land, anything you place in the ground will grow and grow.” The traveler nodded, though he wasn’t sure he completely understood the flower seller’s words.
In the morning, he packed his few possessions, thanked the couple for their kindness, and set off, following the map into the mountains. The seasons were turning and it got quite cold up in the higher passes, the man huddled and braced himself against the mountain winds. The traveler was very careful to keep his belongings close to him, he placed every piece of trash he created back in his bag, not wanting the ground to sprout cheese wrappers or gigantic crusts of bread. He wasn’t sure exactly what would happen if he did not heed the flower seller’s warning, but he wasn’t prepared to take any chances.
The flower seller had explained to the traveler that he could find the valley of the flowers between the peaks of the two highest mountains, and what started as optimism on the traveler’s part quickly turned into despair. It seemed that every peak he climbed revealed another, yet taller, mountain beyond it. Scaling that one he would find still another peak, more jagged and ominous than the last. Nor could he tell, from the mapmaker’s simple parchment how many peaks still remained. As the days passed, doubts took root. Perhaps he had taken a wrong turn and was headed in completely the wrong direction. Would he even know the valley should he chance upon it. And the nights grew colder and colder. The traveler grew more and more despondent. He felt he was so close to attaining his goal, and yet had never felt further from it. On the seventh night, the traveler all but gave up. He had traveled well into the night attempting to climb to the summit of this latest spire. Reaching the top he threw his things down on the flat peak, exhausted. It was too dark even to see beyond his nose. Almost without thought he began rummaging around in the dark to collect wood from the surrounding hillside to build a fire. He had suffered through cold for six nights, not wanting to disturb the land, as the flower seller had warned, but such words meant nothing now. He might die in these mountains, he thought, but not tonight, and not by freezing. His eyes heavy with exhaustion, he watched the flames raise their hands to the sky. In the fire that flickered under the stars the traveler saw glorious flowers unraveling themselves, spelling out some intricate message. He was asleep long before the fire had died to smouldering embers.
Awaking in the morning, the man found himself surrounded by the most majestic vista. In every direction, he saw the peaks of hills below and the valleys that lay between them. It was only after he had turned around twice did it dawn on him that he stood atop the highest peak in the land. And looking down, towards the east, he saw the valley outlined on his map. Only, where the map depicted a valley lush and green, this valley was shrouded in a grey smoke, and here and there glowing patches of a deep orange could be seen. Then the smell hit him – it was unmistakably the scent of burning wood. Scooping up his things the man took off down the path, his legs carrying him as fast as they could. He all but tumbled past charred branches, burnt out stumps as he ran down the mountain. Here and there a small fire still burned. Where yesterday there was nothing but green plants carpeting the hills, here he found nothing not scorched by a fresh fire.
The ground was still warm when he reached the base of the valley. The smoke having dissipated somewhat, the man took stock of what lay around him. Instantly he knew, without a shadow of a doubt that this was the valley of the flowers. He had looked at that weathered and creased picture so many times that he could not but recognize the place, even in its altered state. It was also now, too late to do any good, that he understood the gravity of the flower seller’s cryptic warning. “…anything you do in that land, anything you place in the ground will grow, and grow….”
An immense feeling welled up in side the man, he felt the urge to scream, to break something, to dash everything to pieces. He felt as if the charred twigs were laughing at him. To have come this close, this close, and to come away with nothing. Less than nothing. Not even his dream remained intact. This was the place he had searched for, and it too lay parched and fallow.
Torn into tiny pieces, the picture he had cherished for so many nights and days looked weightless as it was swept away on the wind. He tore too, from his back, the flower pot. Hurtling it as hard as he could at a near by rock he smashed the small clay artifact to pieces. The flower that had traveled so many miles, sagged under the weight of the impact, and one by one each of the unblossomed petals fell off, and spilled its single seed into the blackened earth.
All of a sudden the man was overtaken with an immense heaviness. A tiredness that wrapped itself around him so tight that he felt it in his bones. In the man was left no will to fight it, no urge to make the return journey to the home he had left, no desire to be reunited with any of the strangers he had met along his quest. All he wanted to do was sleep, a sleep deeper and more total than any he had known. Curling up, on the still warm ground, the man closed his eyes and plunged down to the depths.
Yet all was not dead under the man who lay there unmoving, unconscious. Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, things began to stir. Where the seed had fallen in the earth, a small stalk sprung forth. Then after some time, another, near his head. Followed by another, and another. Soon the stalks were taller than the man himself, and each stalk bloomed the most magnificent blossom, in the most magnificent colors. And as the man slept, all around him the flowers grew and grew and grew and grew…
