The Blood of Flowers Read Online Free PDF

said to my mother, remembering the lamb kebab I had seen grilling near the bridge.
    She untied the corners of a dirty piece of cloth and looked sadly at the few coins remaining there. "We must bathe before seeking out our family," she replied. "Let's eat the last of our bread."
    It was dry and brittle, so we endured the emptiness in our bellies and lay down to sleep. The ground was hard compared with the sand of the desert, and I felt unbalanced, for I had become used to the gentle tipping motion of my camel. Still, I was weary enough from our long journey to fall asleep not long after putting my head down on the straw. In the middle of the night, I began dreaming that my Baba was tugging on my foot to wake me for one of our Friday walks. I jumped to my feet to follow him, but he had already passed through the door. I tried to catch up; all I could see was his back as he advanced up a mountain path. The faster I ran, the faster he climbed. When I screamed his name, he didn't stop or turn around. I awoke in a sweat, confused, the straw prickling my back.
    "Bibi?"
    "I'm here, daughter of mine," my mother replied in the darkness. "You were calling out for your Baba."
    "He left without me," I mumbled, still caught in the web of my dreams.
    My mother pulled me to her and began stroking my forehead. I lay next to her with my eyes closed, but I couldn't sleep. Sighing, I turned first this way, then the other. A donkey began braying in the courtyard, and it sounded as if he were weeping over his fate. Then my mother began speaking, and her voice seemed to brighten the gloom:
    First there wasn't and then there was. Before God, no one was.
    My mother had comforted me with tales ever since I was small. Sometimes they helped me peel a problem like an onion, or gave me ideas about what to do; other times, they calmed me so much that I would fall into a soothing sleep. My father used to say that her tales were better than the best medicine. Sighing, I burrowed into my mother's body like a child, knowing that the sound of her voice would be a balm on my heart.
    Once there was a peddler's daughter named Golnar who spent her days toiling in her family's garden. Her cucumbers were praised for being crisp and sweet; her squashes for growing into large, pleasing shapes dense with flesh; and her radishes for their fragrant burn. Because the girl had a passionate love of flowers, she begged her father to allow her to plant a single rosebush in a corner of the garden. Even though her family was poor and needed every morsel of food she grew, her father rewarded her by granting her wish.
    Golnar traded some vegetables for a cutting from a rich neighbor's bush and planted it, uprooting a few cucumber plants to make room. In time, the bush pushed forth extravagantly large blossoms. They were bigger than a man's fist and as white as the moon. When a warm wind blew, the rosebush swayed, dancing as if in response to the nightingales' song, her white buds opening like a twirling skirt.
    Golnar's father was a liver-kebab seller. One afternoon, he returned home and announced that he had sold the last of his kebabs to a saddle maker and his son. He had bragged about what a good worker his daughter was--not a girl who would fall ill at the rancid fumes of tanning leather. It wasn't long before the boy and his family paid a visit to the liver seller and his daughter. Golnar was not pleased: The boy's shoulders and arms were thin, and his small, beady eyes made him look like a goat.
    After some tea and an exchange of compliments, the girl's parents urged her to show the boy her garden. Reluctantly, she led him outside. The boy praised her healthy vegetables, fruits, and herbs and admired the rosebush's beauty. Softening, she begged him to accept a few blossoms for his family and cut several long stems with her shears. As the two reentered the house, their arms filled with white blossoms, their parents smiled and imagined them on their wedding day.
    That night,