FLOWERS ACROSS THE VALLEY

 

When the sun shone upon the isle of Faloria, the landscape rang an anthem of color. It shouted a message that you can only begin to comprehend when you open your eyes as wide as you know how.

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Faloria was divided into two shires. “What’s a shire?” the children may ask. Well, a shire is the fairy tale version of a community; and this is a fairy tale, so Faloria was divided into two shires — two beautiful shires. The shire on the west was called Perdushire, and the shire on the east was called Pardoshire.

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Perdushire was known all around because its citizens made the most stunning silk flowers in all the world. And they decorated everything — everything — with their silk flowers, so that everywhere you turned, you were greeted with a radiant splash of color. There were silk flowers in every house, in every restaurant, and in every workplace. There were silk flowers on every mailbox, silk flowers on every streetlamp, and even silk flowers in all of the trolley cars.

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So, all of Perdushire was a canvas upon which an exuberant rainbow danced everywhere you looked. But, there was something peculiar about that visual spectacle. That was just it: it was only visual. If you or I were to have visited the isle of Faloria and strolled around the streets of Perdushire, our noses would have been puzzled. There would be none of the sweet tang in the air to greet us when we took that deep breath that we always take when we see lots of flowers. We would be struck not as much by the brilliance of the color, but rather by the loneliness of the color. But, to the people of Perdushire, the absence of aroma didn’t seem particularly odd. For, all of the flowers they had ever known were of the silk sort — the silk flowers of such great craft that every vista in Perdushire pleased the eyes. And, the people of that western shire were proud of their floral handiwork.

 

On the eastern side of the island, Pardoshire had a completely different kind of beauty. There, the eyes feasted not upon a lavish and varied spectrum, but upon the delicate, diamond-bright blossom atop the emerald blades of the Pardoshire grass. The simple white and green of that Pardoshire grass sparkled in the sunlight, producing glimmering stars all across the ground, which quietly hinted at much more than any man-made assortment of color ever could. And those tiny blooms on the grass breathed into the air an ever-present fragrance sweeter, yet more peaceful, than honeysuckle.

 

All of the ground in Pardoshire was covered with Pardoshire grass. And, it was said, when a divot was dug in the Pardoshire grass, it would quickly fill itself in with fresh new blades. There was no sense making sidewalks and streets, because as long as the sun shone upon it, the grass stood strong and upright — even when trampled by foot or wheel. The people in Pardoshire loved to spend their evenings and weekends walking barefoot across their vast meadows, breathing the calm yet energetic bouquet of the ground.

 

The people in Pardoshire believed a legend which said that many moons before their age, the magical Pardoshire grass had covered the entire isle of Faloria. But the time came when the people thirsted to create their own blossoms — more varied than the blossoms of the grass. They had forgotten that the tiny white petals upon the grass, when they gleamed in the sun, reflected the entire language of color. The story continued that as the people began to teach themselves their floral craft, they gathered momentum in the excitement of making something on their own. As they began to cover all the surfaces with their colorful creations, they failed to realize that the perfume of the grass blossoms was slowly disappearing from the air. And, the grandiose silk flowers began to stifle the grass — stealing the rays of sun to reflect the colors of the silk instead.

 

Some of the Falorians, according to the legend, saw that the flower-making was slowly destroying their enchanted grass. These began to separate themselves from the flowermakers, and they committed themselves to preserving their treasured grass fields. Eventually the preservers of the grass gathered on the eastern part of the island, and they laid down a line of logs all the way across the middle of Faloria, declaring that the false flower-making would not encroach upon the eastern side of the line.

 

As the ages passed, the rain waters washed around the long line of logs, and slowly carved a deep trench down the center of Faloria. Eventually, by the time of our tale, the logs had long sense faded into dust, but the trench had grown into a wide, muddy gullet — known to the people of both shires as the Marsh Valley. It was the only part of the island that did not look like it belonged in a fairy tale, and it formed a seemingly impassable separation between the east and the west. To cross the muddy, mossy, Marsh Valley would be a nasty business — too nasty, certainly, for the peoples of Perdushire and Pardoshire, who were so concerned with beauty.

 

As time carried on, the folks of Pardoshire gazed in pity across the valley toward the people of Perdushire. Surely life could not be truly satisfying when lived without the sweetness of the grass blossoms upon the breeze, without the glistening of the morning dew shining in the day’s first light. And alas, the Pardoshire people were correct — to live without these things certainly would be to miss out on a great daily reward. But, it was simply impossible for the people in Perdushire to understand what they could be missing. Everywhere they looked, they saw the bright reward of their own talents, streaming in diverse colorful flavor. Life seemed just fine in Perdushire, and when they looked across the brown expanse toward the other place, they saw only green with a hint of white.

 

So, the people of the eastern shire convinced themselves that it was of utmost importance that the people in Perdushire must somehow be told about the splendor of the grass. But how?

 

After much study and debate, it was decided by the ladies and gentlemen of Pardoshire that the message of the magical grass could most easily be communicated by erecting a great sign upon the eastern ledge of the Marsh Valley. The great west-facing billboard would, they decided, contain messages to shout out the glory of the grass toward the people of Perdushire. So began a long-lasting tradition. The message would change once every fortnight. Why every fortnight? Well, the leaders of Pardoshire had decided that every great fairy tale must contain at least one purely British word.

 

The switching of the message in the sign became a ritual for the people of Pardoshire. They would all gather on the first morning of the fortnight, and breathe together the splendid aroma of a breezy morning. Eagerly, they would wait to see what message the billboard painter — the Messenger, they called him — would brush in bright green characters across the face of the sign.

 

“Pardoshire grass: So cool. So smooth.”

 

“It’s not just greener on the other side. It’s whiter too.”

 

“It smells great in Pardoshire!”

 

“got grass?”

 

As the messages would appear on the sign, the Pardoshire folks would nod and pat each other on the shoulder and say things like, “By George, that’s the truth!” and “Ya know, I’d wanna be here if I were those people across the valley.”

 

But the people in Perdushire would see the regularly-changing messages on the giant sign just on the other side of the boggy swath, and they would generally raise one or both eyebrows and say, “humph” or “whatever.” Then, they would turn around and enjoy the color all around them.

 

Meanwhile, the Pardoshire sign ritual became more and more refined. It was generally agreed that one was not to speak at the message-painting, until the message was finished, and then only to offer one of the traditional affirmations of the message. One time, a man named Jora was sent away from the meeting in disgrace when he commented upon how the sun seemed to be revealing some beautiful new colors across the valley in Perdushire that morning.

 

The citizens of Perdushire grew to resent the Pardoshire billboard. They could see the grass from across the Marsh Valley, but they couldn’t see why Pardoshire was so proud of it. (You see, the greatness of that grass was only realized when you stood within the glades, and saw the sparkle of the blossoms in the sun and felt that fragrance fill your inside and sensed the coolness of the blades between your toes.) And so, the marketing strategists of Perdushire came up with a plan of their own. They installed lights all across Perdushire, so that the cabaret of color was visible not only in the sunlight but through the night as well.

 

This approach certainly intimidated everybody in Pardoshire. How could they compete with the twenty-four-hour color? Soon, they too installed lights throughout the eastern shire. But the lights were not effective in communicating the deep value of the grass, because even the people of Pardoshire had to admit: the visual beauty of the grass was only evident when it was reflecting real sunlight. So, the people of Pardoshire began to
feel bitter. The messages of the great sign began to bear a different tinge. The green letters seemed less often to actually mention the grass.

 

“Lights or no lights, silk flowers are just fake.”

 

“Silk flowers don’t even have dew in the morning.”

 

“Silk: it’s made by worms.”

 

These messages certainly stirred up the westerners. The daily conversations in the coffee houses of Perdushire would often include mention of the desire for Pardoshire to simply break off and sink into the sea. It became more and more rare for the people of Perdushire to even glance eastward at the billboard. (On a side note, you may be interested to know that this was the point in history when the silk flower craftsmen figured out how to make those little simulated beads of dew on their silk petals.)

 

Yet, the general sentiment in Pardoshire was that the giant messages must be accomplishing their purpose, however unclear that purpose may be. Some of the Pardoshire people would share congratulatory stories among themselves about people from Perdushire who had traversed the Marsh Valley to come live in the meadows of the magical grass. Still, no one ever saw the muddy boots that must surely accompany such immigrants.

 

Things continued in this vein for a great long while. The ugly Marsh Valley came to visually represent the bitterness between the shires on either side.

 

And then, at one fortnightly message-painting, the sour saga of the shires took a surprising swing.

 

That morning, the Messenger was wielding his green paintbrush slowly across the face of the sign. “SILK STI…”…

 

And then, there was a zinging sound, followed by a pegging thump. There, right between the T and the I on the sign — barely missing the painter — was planted an arrow. And tied around the shaft of the arrow were full, round blossoms of purple and yellow. All of the folks in that Pardoshire crowd, their jaws gaping, stood in stunned silence. Then, after they all quietly scanned the scene and saw that no one was hurt, the Messenger composed himself and reached down, took hold of the arrow, plucked it out of the board, and snapped the shaft in two. He dared not admit to the crowd around him that he couldn’t help but notice the vibrance of those purple and yellow blooms. He dropped the arrow and its decorations from the sign platform to the ground below. Two men in the crowd angrily picked up the litter and cast it as far as they could into the muddy gorge.

 

The Messenger refocused and began again to slowly scrawl out his next green letter. “N…” Zing! Thump! Another arrow, this one ornamented in orange and red blossoms, lodged itself into the left side of the N. Again stunned, the crowd gave in to their urge to turn and search out the source of the arrow. They could see, standing upon the peak of a promontory point at the far side of the Marsh Valley, a man bearing a tall, wooden longbow. Across his back, he carried a quiver full of brightly flowered arrows. Around the archer, there began to gather a crowd of people, looking back and forth between their new champion and those who gazed in anger and in fear from beneath the eastern billboard. That crowd grew as word of the events quickly spread. Soon, all of Perdushire was there, on the western ledge. And, on the eastern ledge, the ritual Pardoshire gathering had given way to a silent, nervous anticipation.

 

“Admit it to yourselves!” The archer broke the silence, as he yelled with deep voice to the easterners. “You know those colors are splendid!” The people of Pardoshire, daring not look in each other’s eyes, responded in an automatic, disorganized, contradictory grumble. The grumble of the crowd died down, but the faces of the Pardoshire folk were flush. And then, from the east, there came the oddest response of all.

 

“Yes! Those are wonderful, brilliant blossoms!” The heads on the eastern ledge all turned at the same time, and all gasped. The last thing they ever expected was such an admission from within their own shire. But, there, walking boldly toward them was Jora — the same man who had been sent out of the assembly long before for his unorthodox observations. As he approached, he carried upon his shoulders his young son.

 

Jora and his son seemed to be glancing straight through the crowd, oblivious to their condemning stares. And, as the two approached the Pardoshire gathering, Jora’s pace only grew faster and more determined. The crowd could see that Jora’s boy had white grass flowers resting upon the top of his ears. When he reached the billboard, Jora continued on through the throng. He stepped confidently over the edge of the grass, and started down the slope into the sticky valley. The masses on the eastern and western edges could hear Jora’s shoes as they squished through the sludge. Before long, he had reached the bottom of the valley.

 

The archer upon the western ledge reached back toward the top of his quiver, and then slowly dropped his arm back down to his side. The people of Pardoshire began to whisper among themselves, “What in the world is that madman Jora doing? Doesn’t he know the people over there are going to devour him? And the danger he’s bringing to his own child! Has he no value for life?”

 

But Jora continued through the boggy mess and up the slope on the other side, headed straight toward the archer. Everyone on both sides of the Marsh Valley stilled into a wondering anxiety.

 

And then, Jora came to within yards of the archer. There, he stopped on the upward incline. He stood in his muddy shoes, looking deep into the eyes of the archer, with his son still upon his shoulders. Slowly, he bent his knees and crouched, helping his son down onto the slope before him. Then, to the horror of all those viewing from the eastern ledge, Jora’s son began to walk slowly toward the archer. The archer dropped his bow to
the ground, and his quiver slid down to the end of his arm.

 

Jora’s son stopped there before the archer. The people of Perdushire stood there all around and behind the archer, in disbelief at the boy’s presence. And then, the boy reached his arms up and around the waist of the archer and gave him… could it be?… yes, he gave the archer a firm hug.

 

Jora’s son embraced the archer tight, resting his head upon the archer’s belly, and the archer’s quiver fell from his hand to the ground atop the bow. The archer stood in a stiff, shocked peace.

 

Then all eyes widened in even greater disbelief, because upon the muddy western slope of the Marsh Valley, just below where Jora’s son and the archer stood, there immediately and magically sprouted a patch of emerald green grass. And, at the tips of the blades, there opened up countless tiny, delicate, diamond-bright blossoms. And the archer’s nostrils opened wide, as he inhaled grace for the first time.