Sage Rosemary and Thyme - an old Latin project of mine (don't even ask how it relates...) I'd be happy to hear your opinions!
She found it beautiful. The coloring she found poignant, the fabric thick, woven with skill and care. Its rich red tone, its incomparable craftsmanship, its fine embroidered edges… they awed her into submission with their dazzling artistry. Never before had she seen a cloak of this refinement, but now, this was the only cloak she wished ever to see. Forget her plain, coarse black mantle… it was this perfection only that she wished to don in rain, sleet, snow. Just twirling, the masterful cloak billowing out around her, she felt like a princess, as if in donning the coat she'd done the equivalent of putting on a glorious golden crown.
It didn't belong here, amongst all of this rubbish and garbage. It wasn't supposed to exist with the sole company of a filthy three-legged chair, and a broken mirror. They were dingy items, cast off once they'd been seen enough and grown sick of.
It was almost disgusting that something so classic and timeless as this red cloak should be stuffed among things that had lost their petty and ephemeral allure so long ago. Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.
"Maman," Rosemary held the cloak to her shoulders using her fingers as an imaginary broach, "isn't it simply lovely?" She spun closer to her mother haphazardly, watching the red hem fly through the tepid air like a leaf on the breeze. The fabric fell so perfectly...
Rosemary's mother shook her head and sighed - vanity. How was it that vanity appeared in children so young? It was as if humans were all born with Narcissism, and it only took so long for it to show up, regardless of the teachings of a dutiful parent. Regardless of religion, or that didactic and pious tone their minister always took on. And here Rosemary was, clutching a garish red coat to her throat and spinning to the point of extreme dizziness. It was laughable, really. But that wasn't the point.
"Rosy."
Rosemary looked up, a silly-looking smile stretched across her face. Mockingly, still holding the red fabric around her shoulders, she stated simply, "Maman," and continued to grin up at her frowning mother.
"Do you remember last week's sermon?" It was difficult to be tough on a little girl, but Rosemary's mother was managing admirably - she'd crossed her arms, and begun to tap her foot in that typical way that only mothers can ever do properly which implies disappointment on the verge of incredulity. As Rosemary began to squirm under The Look, her mother smiled inwardly - score.
"Maman! You know I don't like it when you make me feel guilty..."
"Well, if I didn't have to... what was the sermon, again?" Rosemary was such a difficult child. At least she'd slung that wretchedly flashy cloak over her elbow, though. God forbid the child be seen around town wearing that...
Rosemary cast her eyes towards the ground. "Vanity is sin," she muttered. Looking up, she took on a louder tone. "A red coat isn't vanity! It's just pretty! Just because something's nice doesn't mean - "
"Rosy, no. Your coat is perfectly satisfactory; red is a pretentious color. Someday you will see the truth in what I've said. For now, however, it is time to go." She knew what would happen - Rosemary would whine and throw some sort of tantrum, but in a few days, the whole ordeal would be smoothed over. And presto - the end. The gypsies would leave, and life would return to normal.
After paying for the herbs she'd originally come for, Rosemary's mother took her by the hand, interrupting protests of, "Maman! Maman!" and together they walked home, Rosemary sulking when she wasn't complaining, dreaming only of the lovely red cloak that she'd left behind.
Rosemary walked up to the gypsy camp in the dim twilight. She knew what was good for her, what counted as vanity or sin, much better than her mother ever could. The pretentious heed her mother lorded over her with annoyed Rosemary immensely, and it was not because of beauty-inspired adoration, but rather deep-rooted resent and spite for something she could not control that Rosemary had decided to rebel. She'd gone back, carrying the coins with her for the purchase of that enthralling red cloak that she'd come to appreciate so much earlier.
Hooded and dressed in solemn black, and clutching the bright red cloak in one hand, Rosemary handed the coins to the gypsy man, who was bedecked in ostentatiously colored garments and bells that jingled both merrily and menacingly when he moved. He took her money quietly, pausing only to give a gap-toothed smile. It was a Machiavellian smile, laced with ulterior motive and sinister intrigue, but Rosemary, as young and naïve as she was, could never have read into it. Indeed, ever the well-brought up young lady, she did not even shudder, but merely took a step back, frightened for no reason comprehensible to her.
Alarmed by the whole experience and unknowing why, Rosemary retreated into the night, simultaneously unclasping the plain brooch at her throat and donning the red cloth.
It didn't seem so spectacular now that it was round her shoulders. In fact, it seemed downright ordinary – it was a disappointment, really. Rosemary had been looking forward to enjoying the spotlight, enjoying her own Narcissism. But now, it just seemed… well, plain. It didn't even do such a wonderful job of keeping her warm – the cold night seeped painstakingly through what she'd thought of previously as faultless weaving, and she could feel something of a chill coming on.
Rubbing her arms for a bit more warmth, Rosemary looked up to the sky. The full moon beamed down on her cold-kissed cheeks, and she smiled beneath the glory of the white stars.
They were the wolves. A pack, a cohesive unit, combined for the sole purpose of working together to bring down large game. For feeding themselves, in a world where no one but them ever helped to achieve their goals. The goal they'd all united in achieving – existence.
Existence. It seemed so simple. You ate, you slept, you lived. It seemed as though existing was just something that happened regardless of trying. Unless you did something absolutely and importunately stupid, you would exist, and keep existing.
Not the case.
Existing took work. Hard work. The Pack hunted almost nightly in order to barely exist. The Pack – it had to be meticulously organized. Someone had to watch the waterholes. Someone had to watch the pups. More had to hunt, and beyond that there were more tasks. There was always more; time was never plentiful. Winter was either coming, or it was there. People were always encroaching on territory, or hunting down Pack Members who'd killed sheep simply to Exist.
Yes, they'd existed a long time. And no, they would not ignore the scent of blood in the air.
It was unique smelling, all of them admitted that. It almost smelt old, but at this point, it didn't matter. Whatever it was had been wounded severely, and The Pack would find it. It would only be a matter of time.
A Member was on the outside of the town when the scent came clearly and exponentially stronger. He surveyed the area, took its measure, marked it for future reference, and disappeared into the wood for reinforcements.
The Member didn't notice how curiously the smell emanated from a garishly colored article of clothing rather than the young girl wearing it.
Rosemary was shivering now, and on the verge of putting on her old coat; maybe she could make this small concession to Maman, if only in her mind. Maman was right about a lot of things…
But not this! The little voice in her head chided her. What had happened to her defiant spirit? If a little bit of cold was enough to distinguish it, so let it be distinguished!, it said.
Picking up the pace a bit and regretting her petty decision made in want for some sort of vengeance, Rosemary hugged the red cloak closer to her skin, hoping that it would retain at least a little more heat so that she might not freeze too much before she got home. She imagined her face –
What was that?
Rosemary stopped in her tracks, her alarm turning quickly into terror, like tin into gold.
It had been a wolf.
She knew that much. She wished she didn't. She was too cold to run, too scared to avert her eyes from the wood long enough to put on her old and trusty black coat, and too overrun with mind-numbing emotion to think.
And then, she saw shadows emerge from the wood.
Rosemary, A Child
So t'was the tale of a young-ish girl,
Who, in vain and in red, loved to dance and to twirl
And, upon seeing a cloak, dyed in blood
Unknowingly released the events of a flood
The tears of her mother, abundantly shed
Yield engraved epitaph, which the young have oft read
So young of Narcissus, it was love, and not hate
For herself that led Rosemary to spell
Words of Fate.
R.I.P.