Seen Through a Merchant's Eyes

What an oddish village this is. Right here on the marketplace, a'body is forgathered, the entire village, some blithering, some mute, others pished. At ten in the mornin'! Aye, what a sight.

A whole spectrum of customers waiting to be conquered.

Been here since the wee hours. Need to be early to set up the booth. Four-wheeled, equipped with a bonnie marquee that folds in and out, I can pull this thing a'where I please. T'was high time to check out this remote, drowsy place, test the waters for coin and keenness in me wares before they start announcing snawy train tracks and the likes.

Me wares, you ask? Why, only the most beautiful, the lushest, most radiant flowers in all of the East, dare I say Amestris! T'was me father's trade, and before him me grandfather's. Now the time has come for Tavey and I can tell ya for sure: this man will make it the age of flowers!

What could you do wrong with flowers? Nothing, that's what!

Some goving lad spooks when I yell it out loud. More and more gather to hear. The language of flowers is timeless, you must know! Timeless, mysterious, explicit yet charming. Flowers given with the right hand? That's a yes. Flowers given with the left hand? A clear no.

You can show disdain or devotion. A'body classy, old or young, poor or rich, used to have a dictionary of flower language at home. As old as the country itself.

Turn the flowers upside down and you get…?

"Rejection?" The dozy lad in the front guesses.

"The opposite!" I cry. Several people join in, as if they'd known all along, nodding to one another. Got 'em hooked is what I did. Excellent. Next up is…

"You there, young man with the tousy hair. Yeah, you. C'mere! Buy your girlfriend some flowers."

The lass winces more than the lad. People turn, stare at them.

"Central boy," I hear a lady whisper, one of those ladies carrying frilly parasols.

I ignore 'em with a broad smile. "A flower for the young lady?" I choose a white carnation first. "Innocence, sweet love, this one says. Oh, here we have gardenia. Secret love." I present both, then a third one, merely wiggling my brows meaningfully this time.

"Mr Mustang is a family guest," the lass finally says. He nods. The crowd calms their wee stramash. That's village life for ya.

The lass is glowing red like a rose. So is the lad, but I can see the flicker in his eyes and the turning gears under that black mop of hair. He's considering it.

I leave the two to dander around the market, turning to a less sonsy young man. Not awfy witty, but I can kittle a coin or two out of him for one of my specialities. A Tavey Trademark Original. I call it: the Wreath.

Aye, wreaths exist. Only Tavey Wreaths don't. They do now! Like any o' your ol' wreaths, they go round, woven from branches. Tavey's Wreaths are special, I tell you, because you can choose the size of the wreath, the ornamentation and even – can you believe it – the branch!

Say you wanted to express your affection and fidelity to your sweetheart. You can't just hand 'er ivy. Looks cheap. What you can do is buy her a Tavey Trademark Original Wreath, woven from ivy, prettied up with a rose or angelica. The best part? There are only good parts, who am I kidding, but the best best part is that any flower will look good on an artful bed of greenery.

Fern has never looked better. Daisies, apple blossoms, a sight to behold!

That dottled lookin' chap buys a whole bouquet of whatever I suggestively wiggled my brows to – his words. A few lasses bargain for trinkets, and then there's a fellow who clearly messed up big time; he can hardly carry his purchase home. I watch him stagger into the distance, tulip heads bobbing.

T'is getting late. All in all, not a brilliant score. Allows for a timeous descent to the train station. Takes 'em trains ages to arrive here. Seems like not a whole lot of people care for this place.

Me cart rumbles and clatters to a halt. Flowers enjoy rain, but me cart does not and neither do I. I'm about to go back, find a tree somewhere to keep at least a little dry, when I see her. Waiting in the rain at the godforsaken chunk of concrete that is this backwater's platform is the denty lass from this mornin'.

I steer me cart towards her. "E'en."

She turns, wipes dripping fringe from her forehead.

"Good evening." She peers at the cart, just for a second. Takes a strong will not to grin. A customer! The indecisive ones always pay most. Her footwear doesn't look like she can afford much though. "Uhm, I don't mean to be a bother."

"Nonsense! Right on out with it, lassie."

She hesitates, tucks soaked blond hair behind her ear. "I… wanted to ask if there was a flower meaning thank you, sir."

"Tavey. And there is!" I spin around and fling open the crates of flowers. Rich, earthy aroma wafts me way like a warm, wet summer breeze. "Sweet peas, pink carnation, oh, I need to stock up on hydrangeas. Lovely, aren't they?" With a flick of the wrist, I present the last beautiful puffs of blue and purple hydrangea heads. Droplets fling into the moist air, merging with the wetness of the ground.

She nods, hesitates again. "Mr Tavey, is it not strange for a girl to give flowers to a boy?"

"'Course not! The language of flowers belongs to everyone! Now, if you gave him flowers meaning friendship, that might be strange." I wink. She stares at her feet. I was right – of course I was. I know a lovebird when I see one. They pay whatever you demand! "Unless that is what you are trying to tell him…?"

"I'm not supposed to tell him anything."

"The heart is often wiser than the people around you want you to believe."

"I'm afraid I don't know what my heart says either," she sighs.

I soften me grin into an encouraging smile. A sweet thing, this one. "Have you asked it yet?"

She shakes her head. The streaks of water running down her face blur, branch every which way. I start to put up the marquee and the lass gets to work immediately, helping me erect the other side to at least keep us somewhat dry. It's not a bad place, I have to say. I shall try selling flowers at the Central Main Station next! Plenty of farewell and sorry-I'm-leaving opportunities.

"Tryin' won't hurt," I tell her as I unwrap the bare wreaths to be filled. She looks between them and the bouquets pensively, but they're not what she's pensive about.

"How can I hear what it has to say?" Her voice is so soft, I barely hear it over the constant patter of rain. Must be on purpose. A bad habit. She seems like a smart lass; she should be heard.

"If you're having trouble, go by the eyes first." I point to the smallest wreath option and she gives half a nod. I scoot it towards the smaller bouquets and ribbons for her to consider some more. "Look into the mirror, ask your heart a question."

Shouldn't be too hard. All I know is that I saw plenty in both of these young folks' eyes when they were at the market, and even now I see it when her mind is so clearly with the lad.

"So what'll it be?"

I start to point out ivy – affection, fidelity – or fern for some of that secret fascination of young lovers. Her face turns several shades of red. Edelweiss for devotion or sunflower for adoration. She looks like the loyal type – daisy, heliotrope, yarrow. Or perhaps to get the clandestine point across some gardenia. He got that message without flowers though. The wreath he commissioned was tiny but packed.

I list even more flowers that the lad bought. Interesting to see whether she'll pick the same ones. They used to call me matchmaker in me prime, is what they did. Haven't lost the affinity for it. Must admit that I'd suspected them a couple already; darn clachan folk. 'Tis a go-ahead country! Let 'em kids make their own choices.

The lass chooses yellow tulips for his sunny smile and pink roses for that gratitude and appreciation she mentioned. I weave in some lily-of-the-valley for trust and then a honeysuckle. I tell her that the meaning is the same. Maybe the lad will hit the books and find out later.

Blate, she stands there while I fix her a most jimp Tavey Trademark Original Wreath. A wee thing, maybe the smallest I ever made. When a'thing's wrapped up to keep somewhat dry, I charge her half the price (without tellin' her of course). Such a quaint lassie, all delicate like and thank-you-very-much-Sir-Tavey. Ain't nobody that polite in Central.

She leaves with the braw wreath tucked away. She was soaked when she waited, now she's yompin' herself with her clothes heavy, dark and waterlogged. I can't see the sky; if it'll let up anytime soon with the rain pourin' right down into me eyes. I can barely see where she disappeared in the woods, mist rising, at least tryin', pressed down by bucketloads of rain. Like stickin' your head out a train at full speed, it's so loud.

What a curious day. Not one of my most profitable but full of ideas. Next stop: Central Main Station.

Finally inside the train, the rain lashing and roistering on against the carriage, I lean my cheek against the cool window and smile.

Is it strange for a girl to give flowers to a boy? What a strange question to be asked by a girl waiting for a flower merchant in such an ungodly downpour…


*Google search for meaning of honeysuckle increases* xD