The Fields of Lisbon

Originally published in Cochran’s Corner, 2003, and then in The Storyteller, 2004.

A quiet whisper swept through the fields of Lisbon and the flowers leaned in to listen. It wouldn’t be long before Isabella, the girl in the cottage with the red-tiled roof, came out to play.

The flowers knew her by name, of course, for they had watched her grow. Isabella had taken her first step in these fields, holding on to the tall stalks for support. She had reached for a butterfly and stumbled three steps to touch its wing.

Isabella spoke her first words to the flowers, and when spring came she gave each new flower a name.

She was always small, and thin like a sapling, just the right size to pet the tall flowers, but never so big as to have to stoop to pick one.

When the sun rose, she would creep out to play and when the sun set, she would be carried home by her mother. The flowers never saw any other children play with her but men with small bags the color of midnight visited often.

Isabella called the rabbits and the flowers of the fields her sisters, and whenever a rabbit was found dead she would hold a special ceremony with the flowers, and she would pick one to stand guard over the lost rabbit so that even in death, it would have company, always.

When she could, Isabella brought her books into the fields and read stories to the flowers, kissing and stroking their petals goodnight before her mother came to take her away again.

And like Isabella shared her stories with the flowers, so the flowers told stories about Isabella.

Two of the flowers, named Rosebud and Cottonflower, told anyone who would listen that they had seen Isabella cry and that she had told them a secret.

Of course, all the flowers wanted to know the secret. But Rosebud and Cottonflower refused to say, and in the end it was decided there was no secret.

As Isabella grew taller, she became thinner, and her skin became like the color of thirsty grass. As the seasons continued, whole days passed when not a flower saw so much as a hair of her. On these days, though there was no wind, a rustle would pass through the fields of Lisbon and the flowers would lean in to listen.

Where’s Isabella? They would whisper to one another.

Only Rosebud and Cottonflower would bow their stalks and sway their petals. The secret has come, they would tell one another.

* * *

Today, the sun has nearly crossed the sky and yet Isabella has not come out to play.

Flowers nearest the cottage whisper to the others, Men are going in and out of the cottage… some are carrying a large box…

A box? some of the flowers ask.

An older flower, near the winter stage, whispers, Ah yes, a box. I remember… my cousin was planted over a box…

The flowers nearest the cottage urge the others: Two men have tools to dig us out… Quick… Hold on tightly with your roots…

Isabella’s mother leads the way, taking care not to trample Rosebud or Cottonflower, Pink Lady or Dandy Sweet. Her cheeks are wet though there is no rain.

At the heart of the fields, where the fewest flowers grow, a small hole is dug out.

Who’s been taken? the flowers whisper, rustling discreetly. Has anyone been hurt?

No, those closest to the hole reply, the box has been lowered into the hole… the earth replaced… the flowers are being replanted where they were before.

Well, what is it? the new flowers demand, what’s all this fuss about?

Isabella, Rosebud answers. She told me that one day she would join us.

Yes, Cottonflower adds. She told me that she would be my sister soon.

Isabella, the flowers sway, our little Isabella.

Her mother places a small stake into the ground and rain from her eyes helps the seedlings grow. Flowers crowd around the newly-turned earth and Cottonflower is picked to stand guard, planted over the box so that Isabella will have company, always.

And as spring approaches, a new bud will rise, and dance in the breeze, whispering so gently among the fields of Lisbon.