The Rose and the Stone

High up on a cliff a large stone slumbered. The wind passed by this day, gathering up to itself the small specks of soil the stone rested upon. On their way they went with the wind, each beginning a new journey, enough of them that the sleeping stone was dislodged from his bed to begin one of his own.

Rough and tumble he fell. Down the craggy slope, past a green carpeted knoll, coming to rest along a small ridge. Jostled from his long, deep sleep, the stone awoke to find himself hanging part-way off the ridge, casting his shadow down onto the field stretching away not far below him.

The land about him was filled with tall grasses that whispered about the new arrival as the wind swept down amongst them, and they said that surely the wind must have brought him. The wind was tricky and mischievous, always sending the grasses swaying and dancing about.

Scattered around were small shrubs that kept mostly to themselves and did not seem concerned with the goings-on around them. Too, he saw those who were his brothers, nestled-in among the soft soil. He could tell they were resting, sleeping as stones are wont to do, so he let them be.

Off in the distance, a lone tree stood, a watchful pillar towering high above the grasses. It waved to the stone in greeting with its many boughs, but was too far away for speaking. The only other tree in sight resided a short distance up the slope which the stone had tumbled down. She was close enough to be heard, yet the cool shade of her shadow did not quite reach the stone. She welcomed the stone to his new home on both her and her daughter's behalf, since her daughter was too far out to be heard. She recounted to the stone the story of their separation.

A wily squirrel had come by one day and plucked her seedling child from the ground beneath her shaded branches, and then he ran off with her. The tree was disheartened, for so often this was the fate of her children, and this particular seed had been the last left to her for the season.

But when a hawk gave the squirrel chase and frightened it into the shrubs, the squirrel had dropped the seedling, in the midst of the field on the very spot where she now stood. The squirrel forgot about her daughter in its search for shelter and safety, and left her with the pleasure of watching her daughter grow over the years. Though they would never truly meet, the wind was sometimes kind enough to carry their words along to each other despite the distance.

When the tree concluded, the day had grown long, and so, too, had her shadow. She lamented that she could not share her shade with the stone, as even at its greatest length it did not reach him. But the stone assured her that the sun had never bothered him, and, in fact, he quite liked to watch the game that the sun and the moon played, always chasing after each other across the sky. And for many days the stone did just that until, as always, the novelty of it waned.

Just so the days passed, and the seasons changed. The stone had contemplated returning to his restful slumber, but something caught his eye. One of the shrubs, unassuming at first, was in bloom. And what beautiful blossoms they were, deep reds and bright pinks. They tittered and laughed amongst themselves, stilted upon their thorny stems. “Roses,” the tree on the slope called them, and she said they always thought very much of themselves.

Indeed the stone could see why. They were by far the most beautiful sight in the region. They swayed in the breeze and stretched themselves up to bathe in the sunlight. Few of them deigned to speak with others, but some of the grasses and awakened stones seemed to get on well with them and enjoy themselves in their company.

The stone very much wished to speak to them, but, once again, the distance made them too far away for him to be heard. He cursed his luck and decided he would wait for the wind, next time it came through, and ask it to perhaps carry his words along to the roses.

But the wind was fickle and enjoyed mischief and teasing. For many days it played it's game and left the stone frustrated. The tree on the slope tried to console him, telling him that it was simply the nature of the wind. It would eventually come around. It had moods, much as the rest of the world, and was sometimes capable of great acts of kindness. It only took time, which the stone had plenty of.

Taking these words to heart, the stone embraced his own nature and was determined to be patient. Each day he asked the wind's favor, and, whenever he was teased or ignored, he simply strengthened his resolve to wait.

In the meantime, the stone filled his days with observing the splendor of the roses. They were very beautiful, but he found that their aloofness detracted from their beauty. As he'd seen before, however, there were a few that seemed amiable enough. Which is why it hurt to see how time treated them.

As the sun and the moon chased each other endlessly across the sky, the roses bore the cruelty of the elements’ full force. The wind, in its wicked moods, tore the petals from their blooms. Heavy rains pelted them, snapping their stems. The sun, in its bright glory, scorched their leaves. And time itself wilted and aged their appearance. New shoots and new blossoms would rise to replace them. Many, he could tell, were bitter, and they resented the new arrivals and their beauty. Others were accepting and shared the wisdom they had gathered as time had passed. But even these new shoots would fall prey to time. And still the wind would not hear him.

The stone grew fraught with grief. If only he could offer his strength, provide shelter and shield them from the ravages of time and the cruelty of the world.

Finally, sullen, the wind one day heeded his words. Perhaps the wind was lonely as well. Nevertheless, it carried his words to the roses. But the roses did not respond. For days he waited, knowing the wind's fickleness. Frustration led to sadness. When it seemed he should never speak with the roses, the disheartened stone chose to slumber. Maybe, when next he awoke, things would be different. Perhaps he'd even be somewhere else. He bid goodnight to the tree on the slope and slipped into a dreamless sleep.

The stone was not then aware of what went on around him. He did not witness the wind's fury when, one day, the roses had angered it by proclaiming themselves to be the most beautiful things in existence. The wind, who was well-travelled, had been quick to use cutting words to rebuke them. But they had ignored it and, instead, had poked fun, saying that the wind was simply jealous and would forever be alone. For there was no other like the wind, always to-and-fro, here and then gone, and never in one place for long, as was the wind's nature.

The roses knew not how they had wounded the wind, and they were taken aback when, for their insolence, the wind brought storms with driving rains that produced floods, while also lashing at them again and again with the air. The wind's fury called down lightning to instill fear, and the tree in the midst of the field was struck. Such a cacophony of sound and violence was enough to wake the stone once again. This time to be greeted by a scene of carnage and grief.

When the wind's anger abated, it blasted through the land once more, delivering a final blow, before heading to some place far away, not disposed to return anytime soon. As the sunlight broke through the parting clouds, not much was left to be seen of the roses. Stems broken off at the ground, leaves and petals scattered about... There was much weeping and many lamentations. Others had suffered from the wind's tantrum as well.

The tree on the slope wept, not for her own broken branches, but for her daughter in the midst of the field. Though she still lived, a jagged scar now ran along her trunk, and one of her largest limbs--blasted from its place--now lay forlornly on the ground beside her. Grasses had been washed away, or buried in silt, much like some of the surrounding stones. The hardy shrubs trembled at the memory of the wind's ferocity and counted their missing leaves.

Alarmed, the stone tried to console the tree on the slope and asked what had happened. She told him of the roses and of the wind's fury, and the stone was very sorry. Especially for the roses, for he knew there were those who would not have spoken to the wind in such a way. And now they were gone….

But the tree assured him that they would be back. Their roots ran deep, and they always came back, eventually even forgetting what the wind had done, as this was not the first time this had happened.

But never had the wind hurt others so, and she worried for her daughter. The stone worried too, wishing there was more that he could do. He took some small comfort in the grasses that lay in his shadow just below where he rested on the ridge. Though battered and worn, they thanked him for the shelter he had provided for them during the storm. They had fared much better than some others. The stone only regretted that he could not have shielded the tree in the midst of the field and, of course, the roses themselves.

. . .

The days passed, and the land renewed. The stone kept the tree on the slope company. She seemed very distressed since the storm, worrying very much for her daughter. The stone did what he could to comfort and reassure her. But as the days went by, he could not deny that her daughter was not well.

She no longer waved to them as much, as though her boughs had grown stiff. Her leaves turned brown and fell away far too early in the season. Her bark lost its color, and soon, her twigs and branches grew brittle and dropped to litter the ground around her. This went on until, finally, one day the tree on the slope sobbed that her daughter was no more…. The endless winter had come for her far earlier than was fair. And there she still stood, a husk of her former glory, broken, dry, and brittle, with a prominent scar running the length of her trunk. Dead.

The tree on the slope stopped talking to him after that. Or to anyone, for that matter. It pained the stone to see her so dejected and resigned. But he could not coax her to speak. And soon, to the stone’s dismay, she began to take on the same aspect of her daughter. First her leaves withered and fell, followed by limbs and branches. She lost her color, and finally it seemed as if her grief had weakened even her roots. For on one sad day, the tree on the slope fell, unable to hold herself up any longer. Her roots tore free of the earth, and she came crashing down to rest nearby the stone. There she lay almost touching him, and he knew she was gone.

The stone's heart hurt….

Now he was alone. The grasses in his shadow tried to comfort him. But they were simple beings, and he often found their company tiresome. Perhaps it was time to slumber once more. Perhaps this time he should not wake….

The stone considered this for a long while. Long enough for something wonderful to happen….

One day, just as he thought he had come to a decision, the grasses in his shadow shouted at him excitedly. They talked over each other so that he could scarcely make out that they wanted him to see something. Parsing their jumbled natterings, his attention was drawn to a slender stem that now resided within his shadow alongside the grasses. Atop the stem sat a blossom, only just-opened. And with a voice sweet as nectar, a rose greeted him!

The stone replied with a laugh, for looking about he could see that things had changed. Too focused on his own worries, he had failed to see what was going on around him. He might as well have been asleep, after all!.

The land had recovered. The roses were back, and the poor tree in the midst of the field had lain down to rest, like her mother. But the stone could be sad no longer. Beauty had returned, and here was a rose he could speak with. Whether on purpose or by mistake, the wind had placed a spark of beautiful life within his shadow.

The stone introduced himself and expressed his joy in meeting the rose, telling her of how long he'd waited for such a meeting. The rose was flattered and shy, so he relented and instead told her the story of how she came to be here, and of how he had arrived as well. The rose was saddened by her sisters’ behavior, and by their punishment from the wind. And also by the tale of the trees... But the stone encouraged her, saying that from the chaos and pain, new life and beauty had been born. It was the way of things. And now here, too, was a rose that brought the stone happiness.

As thanks, the stone made a vow to the rose, promising that for as long as he was able, he would protect and cherish her, and that she would benefit from all that he could offer.

The rose was very gracious and agreeable, and they spent many days talking and enjoying each other's company. The stone took pride in the protection he provided for her. When it rained, the stone shielded her from the heavy drops, while she was still able to drink deeply from the water soaking the earth. When the sun travelled across the sky, she received its warm rays in the morning and evening--the perfect amount--for in the heat of the day, at the sun's highest point, the stone provided shade, sparing her the scorching heat.

Only the wind, when it returned, was a force he could not stop. He begged the rose's forgiveness, for he felt he had failed her upon seeing the wind fly through, snatching at her petals and leaves. The rose, unconcerned, laughed her sweet laugh at the silly stone, and showed him how much he did for her already. Too much, in her opinion, and besides, when the wind came from behind the stone, there he was to break its stride and provide her with a gentle breeze.

The stone, placated, merely asked what use a stone had if its qualities and nature could not be used by others. For here his beautiful rose gave him purpose, and what good could he otherwise do by simply waiting and sitting and sleeping?

In answer, the rose, having grown taller in recent days, reached up to brush a soft kiss across the stone's rocky exterior with a feigned sigh of exasperation.

In this manner their days together passed, in happiness and companionship. But it soon became apparent that there was one other force the stone could not stop. Time…

As time went by, the rose witnessed the fate of her sisters, that of withered leaves and wilted blossoms. How the wind and rain, the sun and time, wore them down. And though the stone sheltered her from the worst of these, she knew that she would share their fate.

One day the stone noticed her worry and asked what was wrong. With sadness in her voice, she warned the stone that eventually her beauty would wane, and he would no longer want her. The stone, upset, rejected this notion, angry that she believed he thought so little of her. He pleaded with her to understand that the beauty he cherished was far more than just her appearance. The rose doubted him, but was pleased with his words, and so brushed away his worry for her, as well as her own, with soft kisses.

Throughout their remaining days the stone made a point to compliment the rose. He often reminded her of how much better she had fared than her sisters, and how proud he was to have been there to help her, letting her beauty shine for all to see. For, indeed, she was the most beautiful and long-lasting of them all. Even the shrubs took notice. The rose was always flattered, and she repaid the stone for his kindness as best she knew how, doing her best to bring him happiness and companionship, as he did for her.

The day came, however, when the rose's leaves began to turn brown, and her petals fell away. The stone saw, and was pained, but even when all her petals were gone, and the last leaf fell from her yellowing stem, he told her of the vibrant, beautiful rose that he still saw.

The rose, her voice soft, told the stone how glad her heart was to have known him and to have shared their days together. She lamented that there were no new shoots to take her place, so that he would always have beauty in his life. But now she was tired and wanted to rest, much like the stones.

To this the stone said, “I have loved you, My Rose. You have filled my days with joy and happiness that I did not know I could possess. All things end; even the stones. I will always have beauty, for I will always have you. My heart is full, and I give it to you.”

The stone did not know if the rose heard his words. She did not respond.

The stone's heart hurt….

Already he longed to speak to her again, to feel her kisses, to hear her laugh. The stone was overcome with a grief so intense that his very body fractured and cracked, a manifestation of his pain, becoming the very visage of his heart…. once full, now broken….

Not long after, the stone decided to sleep. A wakeful misery, filled with memories and loss was not appealing. Not without his rose. The stone found refuge in his unconscious retreat. For unlike all times before, he experienced a dream-filled slumber. And there he found the rose waiting for him.

Forever after, the stone did not wake. The wind, the rain, the sun, and, finally, time...all eventually had their way, even with him. But until the last grain of sand, that had once been the stone, flew away in the breeze, he dreamt.

He dreamt of them together. The rose and the stone….