A Rose Grows in Trottingham
A Rose Grows in Trottingham
“But this rose is an extra. Its smell and its colour are an embellishment of life, not a condition of it. It is only goodness which gives extras, and so I say again that we have much to hope from the flowers.” –Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
I grow a rose bush in my garden.
I suppose it is not exceptional that a town florist grows a rose bush. I once heard of a town florist in the cold highlands outside Canterlot that grew an entire grove of rose bushes in her garden—that is nothing short of wizardry.
However, growing a rose bush in the northern clime of Trottingham, where I reside, is not wizardry, but lunacy. My friends have more than once asked me, with their concern plainly visible, “Roseluck, darling, why would you even attempt such a foolish thing?”
Roses are a needy species. They crave your attention, and if you dare deny it, their sick petals drop down at your hooves, cling to you, and plead with you like a spoilt little filly.
But there’s a certain magical power contained in roses, I’m sure of it. Not magic in the conventional sense of the word. The magic of rose is a magic too tangible for an earth pony to comprehend, yet too abstract to dazzle a unicorn. Roses hold a magic of love, I always say. There never existed such a thing as a miracle—all foals learn that lesson sooner or later—but I think a rose brings just about the closest thing to what we mortals envision miracles to be.
I recall my days as a young filly, when Mum and Dad quarreled frequently. Their quarrels were ceaseless, at least they seemed so to my short-term juvenile mind, until a day came that I interjected on their bickering and offered them a single pink rose that I purchased with my pocket money—I could not afford the entire dozen. “Stop fighting, Mum, Dad. Love each other,” I recall saying, with a filly-like naivete that makes me cringe in marehood.
Mum and Dad were so touched, they did not quarrel for a whole week. It was during that week I earned my cutie mark—a single, stout, thornless pink rose.
Irrespective of my natural talent that may be implied by my cutie mark, it is a formidable challenge growing a rose bush in this Trottingham weather. The rain soaks instead of waters; the breezes chill rather than cool; and the sun blinks rather than shines. Not a tree can be seen for miles, and the windswept wheat grasses seemingly faint from exhaustion. More days than not, a dreary fog hangs over the moor. In a favorable year, my rose bush yields at the most five or six miniscule flowers, or perhaps a few more that refuse to bloom fully.
One rose bush alone isn’t near enough to support my trade, of course. My flower shop—which is simply a room adjacent to my house—is filled with imported cut flowers, fresh from Ponyville or Harmonizing Heights or another exotic locale. While they may not grow here, the cut flowers are well-preserved due to our cold and moist climate.
I suppose in a milder locale such as Ponyville, a rose bush is given nothing more than a passing glance. Anypony could grow a rose bush there without even pricking their hooves once. The roses shed browned petals that litter the roads, and an old mule comes to sweep them into a dark bin. I shudder to think.
Here, on the contrary, travelling ponies see the rose bush in my garden and they gaze upon it like some garden folly or a miracle of nature. You’d think it were the crown jewels, the way they stare at it! They say it’s the only pretty thing they’ve seen in the whole of Trottingham. “But roses don’t grow in Trottingham,” they say with utter disbelief.
“Yes, they do,” I say. “This is the only one.”
I devote more time than I should to that rose bush, but only because she demands it. It takes me two minutes to fashion a small bouquet of a half dozen bright red roses, but it takes me two hours to prune the yellowed leaves off the rose bush in my garden.
When it’s waterlogged, I dig a trench around the roots to let the water drain. When a late spring frost threatens it, I light a fire and cover it with a blanket to keep it warm. Whenever a wind storm comes, and even the strongest buildings start shaking at the studs, I find myself running to the rose bush to cover it from the north wind, rather than to the root cellar to hide. You’d think I was married to it, but no—why, had it been my husband, I’d have left him to tumble in the wind. Ha!
And then there’s the changelings. Oh sure, Princess Celestia came to tell us they’ve been eradicated and that they’re gone for good. Not to put the blame on Her Majesty herself, for she may have been misled by her advisors, but no Trottinghamite in their right mind would deny the changelings still exist.
There’s a ruined castle just outside of town, where a distant relative of Her Majesty once lived two centuries ago. It is visible within a five-mile radius, poking out like a sharp splinter in the supple grassland. That’s where the changelings have made their hive.
The changelings venture out at night, and by golly do they love roses! Red, pink, white, it’s no matter to them. They come out to my garden while everypony’s asleep—I know for a fact, for I have seen bits of shed insect wings on my lawn the following morning—and they gobble the pretty, tender blooms as if they were fresh meat.
I’m not one to follow old mare’s tales—I wouldn’t call myself an old mare—but every night, I place under the rose bush a half a sprig of mint, a drop of hemlock sap, and a sprinkle of old tea leaves. And it is quite effective at warding off those barbarian creatures. This season I’ve never had more than two or three blooms eaten.
Two years ago, the Canterlot Times wrote an entire article on my rose bush once, proclaiming me a “horticultural genius” for being able to grow a rose bush outdoors in Trottingham. “Roseluck constructs partial stone walls around the bush, painted white,” so the paper read, “that shield the extraordinary specimen from the cold north wind, while reflecting the dim sunlight in the south.” Although I am most honoured by the recognition and accept their designation with gratitude, I must confess.
It seems to me what they purport to be “genius” is really nothing more than cowering from the cold north wind instead of facing it head on.
So extraordinary is my rose bush that it caught the attention of Spoiled Rich, the late Duchess of Trottingham. Several years ago, when she was still alive and in better health, she had occasion to personally visit my shop, accompanied by her retinue of guardsponies, in order to select flowers for her granddaughter’s birthday celebration. She took no interest in the cut daisies and orchids that I offered—it was the rose bush that caught her eye.
The Duchess, a widow for two decades, resided alone in Trottingham Hall, the manor outside of town. Both I and the gardener at Trottingham Hall agreed that transplanting a rose bush would not be wise for the health of the plant, so a most peculiar arrangement was made.
Every Thursday mid-morning, Her Grace came personally to my home to observe my rose bush. She was brought over by her driver, Rainbow Dash—late of the Wonderbolts, having retired as captain—then Her Grace was left to observe my rose bush. After three-quarters of an hour, Rainbow Dash returned, and Her Grace was shuttled back to the Hall.
It seems that one’s title, the words that precede one’s name, do not protect one from the ravages of time: although Her Grace was only sixty, she appeared to me at least twenty years older. Her fur, once a healthy peach color, so I’ve heard, had faded to a pale, sooty reddish-grey.
Her Grace once sat outside in her bath chair, in the garden, but her doctors feared she may catch cold due to her declining health—even with a thick blanket wrapped around her, as I suggested. So she instead parked her bath chair in the parlor of my cottage and observed my rose bush through the picture window.
That Her Grace should enter my home was indeed a privilege, and my quarters, although suitable for my needs, could not compare to the grandeur of Trottingham Hall. To this day, I have not had the honor of setting my hoof in the Hall myself, but I have been told similar descriptions of it from varying sources.
It is situated on twenty acres of windswept moor, three miles from the village limits. The entrance is marked by a black wrought iron gate, where a poor old stallion stands hunched over in a dark raincoat and demands to know the purpose of your entry. The main edifice, two hundred yards from the gate, is a Gothic masterpiece, so they say, constructed of grey stone, blackened from age. There are five storeys and seventy rooms in all, each with grotesque stained-glass caricatures in the windows and gargoyles masterfully frozen in expressions of mad hysteria.
My home, on the contrary, is decidedly simple, though well-appointed, decorated with the fineries of my trade arranged in vases. I purchased a discounted statuette of the Wicked Stygian—which I was told bears at least superficial similarity to some of the fine antiques in the Hall—and placed it in the center of the living room, so that Her Grace would feel greater familiarity as she entered my parlor.
While in my home, Her Grace was silent most of the time, and failed to acknowledge me when I greeted her or wished her farewell. If there was one thing she spoke about, it was her insistence that she observe the rose bush alone—Rainbow Dash and her other guardsponies were instructed to leave her, and I was only to disturb her in order to fill her cup of tea, should it be empty.
Against her wishes, I did not leave her, rather I quietly observed her through a crack in the door. She would remain seated in her bath chair the entire time, all but her upper portion of her head obscured by a dark woolen blanket. Her gaze would fix upon the window facing the rose bush, her face contorted into a look of scorn, as if finding fault in everything she lay her eyes upon.
Her Grace once summoned me—and I had not far to travel, for I had been spying on her—and she proceeded to impart her wisdom to me regarding the current state of coal stock. In her weak, gravelly voice, she whispered in my ear, “A good year for coal is when the miners do not rebel. The general strike last winter decreased share prices last year by twenty-three and six, but a three percent reduction in the coal tariff this year shall compensate for this.”
“Why…that is most…interesting, Your Grace.” I silently questioned the veracity of Her Grace’s statement, for she and the late Duke lived off inheritance, not any trade.
“Of course. Fill my cup tea…” She paused. Her scornful expression softened briefly as she looked at me.“…you,” she completed her sentence unsatisfactorily.
I filled her cup of tea, and afterwards she complained of indigestion. Aside from that, the remainder of the morning was silent until Rainbow Dash arrived with her chariot. It took the efforts of me and Rainbow Dash to lift her black enameled bath chair into the cabin. Her Grace seemed oblivious to the amount of effort we had exerted—she simply watched the beads of sweat fall from my face as she was lifted inside.
“Good day,” I addressed Her Grace after catching my breath and wiping the sweat off my brow.
As expected, she gave no reply. Although she continued to watch me as Rainbow Dash slowly trotted away—not quickly, for riding at full speed sickened Her Grace. She had the same vacuous countenance as she had when she asked me to fill her cup of tea.
It is a mechanism of nature, I suppose. So frightening is the prospect of death that our mind must degenerate to the point that it is indifferent to it.
There was a remedy for Her Grace’s illness that I became aware of through my knowledge of botany. In the same book that cited mint, hemlock sap, and tea leaves as repellant to changelings, it was also written that one could be rejuvenated by a mix of several rare wildflowers, dissolved in a tincture of rose petals. The wildflowers contain curative compounds which cleanse the body of toxins—such as the poison of old age. The wildflowers’ natural bitterness is eased at least fivefold by dissolution in rose tincture.
When Her Grace’s estate became aware of this remedy, her staff instructed that I make it. The wildflowers I require are endemic to Trottingham, although even here they are rare—they only survive around the perimeter of the changeling hive, where the ruined stone walls shelter them from the north wind.
Out of concern for my safety, Her Grace’s staff sent Rainbow Dash to accompany me, for she had extensive experience with combat against changelings from her service in the Wonderbolts—which she made great effort to remind me of during our hike to the hive.
“An’ I kicked that little wanker, right ‘n the arse,” she said with a grin on her face. “An’en there were ten more of them changelings what come charging at me squadron, an’ I, an’ I, gave one a left hook t’ the jaw”—she demonstrated the motion, causing me to duck for cover—“and the other one, a buckin’ kick to the wing. Nice clean job, I tell ya, Rosie.”
I scolded Rainbow Dash for her familiar tone. I despise the name “Rosie”. Mother would call me “Rosie” when she was quarreling with Father, and told me to go play and not be a bother to her.
It was a five-mile walk before we arrived at the hive. Both our eyes gazed skyward to the sharp point which was once the castle tower. Specks of purple and yellow—the wildflowers I required—dotted the base of the hive. As the sky filled with a hideous dark grey cloud, the flowers were the only dots of beauty in the entire landscape.
I took cautious steps towards the hive, with Rainbow Dash gliding close behind me. The faint buzzing of the changelings inside—like the droning of a thousand ravenous bees—grew louder as I neared it.
Upon closer inspection, I realized there was little to harvest—many of the flowers had been eaten or had withered to the point that their curative properties would be negligible. I stripped the entire area bare locating the wildflowers. It took two turns around the perimeter of the hive to procure enough for a single dose. I placed the clippings into a small canvas bag and began to gallop towards safety.
I had almost cleared the outer walls of the hive.
“Oi! Behind ya!” I heard Rainbow Dash’s grating scream.
It was too late—I heard a loud hiss, and suddenly there were two lances of pain piercing into the back of my neck. I was thrown to the ground. The venom in the changeling’s fangs is strong, this I knew well, but my imagination could not compare to the actual pain I experienced.
My breathing grew short as the poison inflamed my throat—I tried to stand, but the crippling pain had disabled my legs as well. I then felt a sharp pain in my head, and I could not even formulate a coherent sentence. The buzzing sound of at least a dozen changelings surrounded me, interspersed with sounds of Rainbow Dash panting and grunting, powerful blows, and fractured exoskeletons. The wildflowers were still clutched in my hoof—unlike roses, changelings have no appetite for them.
It was at that moment the pain I felt was replaced by dread. For my mental faculty was intact enough that I knew consuming the very herbs I procured for Her Grace’s survival would guarantee my own. The bitter wildflowers would neutralize the poison faster than death would arrive, had I succumbed.
I knew not what filled me with more dread—my own impending death, or the death of my own conscience. I deserve to live, do I not? But does Her Grace deserve it more? Does the scepter of death choose to fall based upon the words that precede one’s name?
When my vision turned into hallucinations of a dark grey stone sepulcher, I abandoned all will for noble sacrifice and stuffed my mouth with the wildflowers.
Images of Her Grace’s pale sickly body—sitting in that grey stone sepulcher—emerged in my head as I chewed.
Murderer.
Murderer.
The hallucinations remained for several minutes after I chewed.
As the antidote took effect, I realized that Rainbow Dash had rescued me, and we were flying fifty feet above the ground.
“Y’ all right, Rosie?”
I was in no mood to admonish her. I simply nodded my head as my headache subsided, and my breathing relaxed.
The image of Her Grace sitting in the sepulcher continued to appear, even as the hallucinations faded.
We landed on the road, a safe distance from the hive, which was still buzzing loudly in response to our intrusion. Although Rainbow Dash had not been bitten, her skin was scraped and cut in several locations, and she quietly bled into the trodden mud.
Rainbow Dash winced as she tried to step on her injured hoof. “Argh blimey, guess I’m not the fighter I used to be.” She sighed, her eyes downcast. “C’mon, Rosie, let’s get ya outta ‘ere.”
Even darker grey clouds rolled in, and the cold north wind intensified. As I trudged down the seemingly unending road back into town, it occurred to me that I had forgotten to cover my rose bush. I was too selfish to run to its rescue.
I reported to Her Grace’s staff that I had failed to procure the herbs for the remedy. “I could not find any—and we were pursued by a swarm of changelings, and had to vacate immediately.” I made Rainbow Dash swear to withhold the entire truth from her superiors.
Her Grace’s staff showed little sympathy for my injuries, but they were not insistent that I make a second attempt, for it was clear by then that no remedy could delay Her Grace’s fate by more than two-thirds of a month.
Although, as I was told, Her Grace was greatly saddened that the remedy could not be made, and her condition had worsened as a result. For a fortnight after receiving the news, she was too ill to even speak or move from her bed in the Hall.
I nearly drove myself mad during those two weeks. I spent my evenings locked in my bedchamber, ashamed to expose my face. The times I spent out of doors, I spent imbibing whatever town gossip that gave hints as to Her Grace’s condition.
Oh, how I feared her death! By the thirteenth day of Her Grace’s ill health, I was prepared to report my crimes to the police. “Murderer, officer. I’m a murderer.”
It was on the fourteenth day that a renowned doctor from Canterlot travelled to the Hall to visit Her Grace—so said my friend Daisy, who works at the Hall. He injected Her Grace with some stimulants, and she was responsive once again. After four weeks, Her Grace resumed her weekly visit to observe my rose bush. Rainbow Dash arrived with the chariot promptly on Thursday morning, much of her blue fur still obscured in bandages.
It was to be her last visit.
Her Grace could not tolerate the light coming from my parlor window, expressing her protest by closing her eyes and babbling incoherently. I covered it with sheer curtains, turning the rose bush outside into a blurry, multicolored figure. After I had parked her bath chair, I returned with the tray of tea and biscuits I had prepared.
“Your Grace,” I announced as I entered.
“Who?” she stared at me, a vacuous expression on her face.
“You. You are ‘Your Grace’.”
“No. No, my name’s Spoiled. Spoiled Milk. Who are you?”
For a few seconds, I was at a loss for words. “I…I’m Roseluck. Roseluck, Your Grace.” I knelt before her.
“Oh. Okay.”
I returned about ten minutes later to refill her cup of tea. She had no appetite for biscuits. Her fixed gaze at the rose bush, or rather, the blurry apparition of it, remained unchanged. It was silent once more, until Her Grace’s eyes widened, as if a dormant memory had been reawakened.
She pointed outside with her bony hoof and said, “That’s your rose bush, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is.”
“It’s pretty.” She smiled.
“Thank you, Your Grace.” I knelt once again.
Her question in response was interrupted by a long fit of coughing, which I made several attempts to help her relieve. It was of little help, and her already limited energy had been depleted as a result.
When it was quiet again, she gazed upon the canvas bag lying on the end table—the canvas bag which was to contain the ingredients for Her Grace’s curative. She noticed that the bag was empty.
“I’m sorry, Your Grace.”
“Who?” she repeated.
Although it was clear that she had little comprehension of the significance of the canvas bag, it was enough to trigger a fit of hysteria in her. Her breathing became labored, filled with thick fluid, and her heart began to fail her. I did my best to mimic the medical knowledge of a doctor, but to little avail. Oh, how terrible it was as I watched the life drain from the pitiable creature in my parlor chair, whilst I felt the healing of the wildflowers surging through my own veins!
The feeling was soon replaced by the guilt of a murderer.
Hoping to free my conscience, I offered her a tranquilizer, though so violent was her hysteria that she would not take it. Lavender, daisies, or a bouquet of orchids were of little help to both problems.
It was a single dethorned rose, cut from my rose bush, that calmed her once more.
Relief temporarily masked the murderer’s guilt once I offered her the rose. So frail she was that she clutched it with two hooves, and pulled it close to her. It was a young rose, having bloomed only yesterday—its sweet fragrance filled every corner of the room. As Her Grace reclined in her bath chair, a warm smile emerged on her face, and she closed her eyes.
The murderer refilled her cup of tea, and Her Grace drew her last breath.
Author's Note
My prompt was:
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Comments are appreciated. Thanks for reading!
