Sorrowbloom
*continued from previous post*
Reluctantly, the traveler sat, more to humor the old man than to seek some great wisdom. The man of eighty winters stopped writing and sat up, gazing into the young man's eyes mournfully, before slowly beginning to speak.
“There was a young woman who once lived in this village; the daughter of a very wealthy businessman. Her name was Sophia. She was a beauty among beauties; her hair cast a golden veil about her when she walked and her eyes held the very essence of the stars within their sapphire bonds. She was very eligible and held the attention of many a suitor, but only one held her heart: a young man by the name of Reuben. Reuben was an honest man with a pure heart, who loved Sophia wholly and unconditionally. However, he was also little more than a pauper; working as an assistant to the local blacksmith. His station, compared to that of Sophia was one of vagrancy, so their union was seen to be grossly unfit. Upon learning of their affections, Sophia's father became enraged and screamed at her: “He's a worthless beggar without a penny to his name! He is beneath you and I forbid you to ever see him!” But, the heart cannot be reigned and see him she did. Many times upon nightfall, they would sneak out together and sit outside the village, underneath this very tree; gazing at the stars and sharing their affections for one another. This tree, whose name is Sorrowbloom, wasn't always the horrid contortion you see before you: it used to be lush and vibrant; a warm sight to see on ones travels….”
The old man's face waxed reflective as if he were in fact seeing the very same tree before him. His expression sullied before continuing his story:
“In time, Sophia and Reuben sought to wed. But knowing of her father's certain disapproval, they decided to elope. Sophia rushed to her room to pack what few treasured possessions she could not part with, when upon her arrival; her father's stark figure blackened the doorway. ‘What foolishness have you in your head, child?’ he roared. ‘What do you seek to do? To run away with him? What ridiculous notions he has bore you that you would disgrace your family so!’
Sophia's gentle face grew taut as she proclaimed in harsh tone: ‘I love him, father! He is my one and I shall marry him!’
‘Outrageous! I forbid it!’ her father exclaimed, stepping abruptly from the room and slamming the door behind to confine her. ‘Stay in there until your senses return!’
Her father paced violently about the dining room with the aspect of a tiger, his mind churning with angered thought. How dare she disgrace him so! Where did she get such notions all of a sudden? ….Him! That beggar, he was responsible for this! That air wasting flea-breeder has filled her head with nonsense; he seeks to take her away. That wretch knows not his place, but shall soon learn it!
And so, being a man of great influence; he called for men-at-arms to carry out his nefarious plan. He sent them to seek out Reuben, where upon their instruction; they beat him unconscious and threw him in a sack before dragging him for three days across the very border of the country. There, they rolled the dishevelled blacksmith's assistant onto the ground and warned him to never return, lest they take his head.
In the meantime, Sophia, whom had not heard from her dear Reuben since their plan to elope, was in disarray. For three days, she searched all the places they would meet, calling his name in vain. Having no success in his location, she pleaded with her father to make use of his vast resources to find him. Her father, with sunken voice and poisoned tongue replied: ‘My child, he is dead. They found his body this morning.’ Sophia resisted this new information, begging for it to be a lie. Her father simply shook his head in thunderous silence, stating: ‘I am sorry; I know you were fond of him.’ Sophia couldn't contain herself. A multitude of emotions belying sanity reeled her and she fled from her home casting a trail of tears. Her father thought best to let her be - in time those foolish notions would disappear, along with the thoughts of that no-account beggar.
But Sophia's heart would not relinquish Reuben and she continued to search for him night and day, calling like a siren to the four corners of the earth. Finally, her strength failed her and she collapsed beneath this tree, sobbing. She sat in painful reflection upon this very spot, this tree beneath which they had first shared themselves with another. And, having lost her heart, she collected a piece of rope and hung herself from its branches.
Meanwhile, Reuben was on his way back to his beloved Sophia. He cared not for the blades that awaited him; he would be with her no matter the cost. It was only on his way past the tree that the familiarity of a shining, golden veil caught his eye; flowing like water amidst the breeze. His legs reluctantly followed his gaze as he made his way to the base of the tree, his face lacking all colour and his veins chilled by the icy fluid within them. He stared into the shell of his once love and collapsed to his knees, wailing without voice. His body quivered as he reached out for her hand only to be met with a cold, lifeless handle, no different to the branches of the tree. How great was his sorrow. He wept for three days and three nights, unable to move for sorrow, the ground beneath him dampened and frail. And by the end of the third day; he too placed himself amongst the branches of the tree, forever next to his beloved Sophia.”
The man of eighty winters, lacking breath, stopped for a moment. He then sipped water from a flask and spoke again, determined to finish his tale:
“Ever since that day, the tree itself slowly became twisted and, as the tears of the lovers were drawn up into it, bore those self-same fruits of despair. Many a traveler has succumbed to gorging on their flesh, inviting sorrow into their hearts and eventually placing themselves amongst the branches here. You too, young man. You, who would taste the very essence of despair, take heed: Eat no more. For, to eat this fruit is to condemn yourself to join the ranks of those among the branches of Sorrowbloom.” And with that, the man of eighty winters lowered his head and continued writing as if no time had passed.
The young man bowed his head slightly before collecting his thoughts and continuing on his way home. Truth notwithstanding, it was indeed a marvelous story; one of a quality to be expected from a man of his years. The traveler soon arrived home to where his darling Isabelle was waiting to greet him. They exchanged their usual pleasantries and laughed as he told her of his encounter with the man of eighty winters. Sorrow indeed. He had all he could ever want under this very roof.
The next day, on his way home from yet another successful day of selling, the traveler’s stomach panged him and he once again made a detour towards the tree on the hill. Sorrowbloom, as the old man had called it. He made his way up the small hill, where the tree called Sorrowbloom cast a looming shade over the surrounding landscape. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the old man; leaned against the tree, deep in slumber. Gently, the young man plucked one of the dark gourds from a lowered branch and began to eat. He was waiting for the man of eighty winters to wake up and scold him for eating the fruit. In truth, he actually looked forward to perhaps hearing another interesting story. But the old one was sleeping the sleep of life; his breaths shallow and eyebrows twitching. The traveller playfully juggled the fruit in his hand and continued his journey home. He chomped and sucked at the black flesh of the fruit, which tasted even better than it had the day before. It increased hope in his heart and he felt as though he was walking on air. It energised him and made him smile like he had never smiled before. His heart was filled with joy at the prospect of seeing his beautiful Isabelle and he doubled his footsteps home.
His arrival was met with the same fervour it always was and the two enjoyed each others company by the glow of the fireplace. The young man cast his head back contentedly. He was happy with his lot; should he have nothing else, he would remain happy for the rest of his days. It was with this thought that he noticed something upon his tongue. A flavour. Bitter and sharp, it caused him to smack his lips and scrape his tongue against his teeth as if to shave it. Yet it would not remove itself. He got up to drink and flood the taste from his mouth. He swished and rinsed the wine that was left from the bottle they had shared that night and spat; seeking to extricate the foulness from his mouth along with it. But it did nothing. In fact, it seemed to even overpower the flavour of the wine and render it foul as well. The man shook his head in disregard. It didn't matter. Let tomorrow regard this bitter taste in his mouth; it would leave him in slumber.
When tomorrow came, the taste had only gotten worse; covering the entirety of his tongue in bitterness. He broke off a small chunk of cheese from its round and held it in his mouth. Its bitterness seemed to help negate the flavour somewhat. He kissed Isabelle goodbye and set about to his travels once again. However, this day he did not fare as well. People seemed not to want to buy from him, some looking at him with an odd expression that resembled pity. It struck him as strange that people would react this way as he was usually the kind of man that cast fanfare wherever he stepped. Discouraged and confused, he returned home where his gaze was met with yet another look; the same as the ones he had been getting all day long. But this look was emanating from his own darling Isabelle. She stared at him for what seemed like an eternity; her voice lost in wonderment. Finally, she gently took his hand to her chest and asked him with fragile voice: “Darling, what's wrong? Why do you look so sad?”
“There was a young woman who once lived in this village; the daughter of a very wealthy businessman. Her name was Sophia. She was a beauty among beauties; her hair cast a golden veil about her when she walked and her eyes held the very essence of the stars within their sapphire bonds. She was very eligible and held the attention of many a suitor, but only one held her heart: a young man by the name of Reuben. Reuben was an honest man with a pure heart, who loved Sophia wholly and unconditionally. However, he was also little more than a pauper; working as an assistant to the local blacksmith. His station, compared to that of Sophia was one of vagrancy, so their union was seen to be grossly unfit. Upon learning of their affections, Sophia's father became enraged and screamed at her: “He's a worthless beggar without a penny to his name! He is beneath you and I forbid you to ever see him!” But, the heart cannot be reigned and see him she did. Many times upon nightfall, they would sneak out together and sit outside the village, underneath this very tree; gazing at the stars and sharing their affections for one another. This tree, whose name is Sorrowbloom, wasn't always the horrid contortion you see before you: it used to be lush and vibrant; a warm sight to see on ones travels….”
The old man's face waxed reflective as if he were in fact seeing the very same tree before him. His expression sullied before continuing his story:
“In time, Sophia and Reuben sought to wed. But knowing of her father's certain disapproval, they decided to elope. Sophia rushed to her room to pack what few treasured possessions she could not part with, when upon her arrival; her father's stark figure blackened the doorway. ‘What foolishness have you in your head, child?’ he roared. ‘What do you seek to do? To run away with him? What ridiculous notions he has bore you that you would disgrace your family so!’
Sophia's gentle face grew taut as she proclaimed in harsh tone: ‘I love him, father! He is my one and I shall marry him!’
‘Outrageous! I forbid it!’ her father exclaimed, stepping abruptly from the room and slamming the door behind to confine her. ‘Stay in there until your senses return!’
Her father paced violently about the dining room with the aspect of a tiger, his mind churning with angered thought. How dare she disgrace him so! Where did she get such notions all of a sudden? ….Him! That beggar, he was responsible for this! That air wasting flea-breeder has filled her head with nonsense; he seeks to take her away. That wretch knows not his place, but shall soon learn it!
And so, being a man of great influence; he called for men-at-arms to carry out his nefarious plan. He sent them to seek out Reuben, where upon their instruction; they beat him unconscious and threw him in a sack before dragging him for three days across the very border of the country. There, they rolled the dishevelled blacksmith's assistant onto the ground and warned him to never return, lest they take his head.
In the meantime, Sophia, whom had not heard from her dear Reuben since their plan to elope, was in disarray. For three days, she searched all the places they would meet, calling his name in vain. Having no success in his location, she pleaded with her father to make use of his vast resources to find him. Her father, with sunken voice and poisoned tongue replied: ‘My child, he is dead. They found his body this morning.’ Sophia resisted this new information, begging for it to be a lie. Her father simply shook his head in thunderous silence, stating: ‘I am sorry; I know you were fond of him.’ Sophia couldn't contain herself. A multitude of emotions belying sanity reeled her and she fled from her home casting a trail of tears. Her father thought best to let her be - in time those foolish notions would disappear, along with the thoughts of that no-account beggar.
But Sophia's heart would not relinquish Reuben and she continued to search for him night and day, calling like a siren to the four corners of the earth. Finally, her strength failed her and she collapsed beneath this tree, sobbing. She sat in painful reflection upon this very spot, this tree beneath which they had first shared themselves with another. And, having lost her heart, she collected a piece of rope and hung herself from its branches.
Meanwhile, Reuben was on his way back to his beloved Sophia. He cared not for the blades that awaited him; he would be with her no matter the cost. It was only on his way past the tree that the familiarity of a shining, golden veil caught his eye; flowing like water amidst the breeze. His legs reluctantly followed his gaze as he made his way to the base of the tree, his face lacking all colour and his veins chilled by the icy fluid within them. He stared into the shell of his once love and collapsed to his knees, wailing without voice. His body quivered as he reached out for her hand only to be met with a cold, lifeless handle, no different to the branches of the tree. How great was his sorrow. He wept for three days and three nights, unable to move for sorrow, the ground beneath him dampened and frail. And by the end of the third day; he too placed himself amongst the branches of the tree, forever next to his beloved Sophia.”
The man of eighty winters, lacking breath, stopped for a moment. He then sipped water from a flask and spoke again, determined to finish his tale:
“Ever since that day, the tree itself slowly became twisted and, as the tears of the lovers were drawn up into it, bore those self-same fruits of despair. Many a traveler has succumbed to gorging on their flesh, inviting sorrow into their hearts and eventually placing themselves amongst the branches here. You too, young man. You, who would taste the very essence of despair, take heed: Eat no more. For, to eat this fruit is to condemn yourself to join the ranks of those among the branches of Sorrowbloom.” And with that, the man of eighty winters lowered his head and continued writing as if no time had passed.
The young man bowed his head slightly before collecting his thoughts and continuing on his way home. Truth notwithstanding, it was indeed a marvelous story; one of a quality to be expected from a man of his years. The traveler soon arrived home to where his darling Isabelle was waiting to greet him. They exchanged their usual pleasantries and laughed as he told her of his encounter with the man of eighty winters. Sorrow indeed. He had all he could ever want under this very roof.
The next day, on his way home from yet another successful day of selling, the traveler’s stomach panged him and he once again made a detour towards the tree on the hill. Sorrowbloom, as the old man had called it. He made his way up the small hill, where the tree called Sorrowbloom cast a looming shade over the surrounding landscape. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the old man; leaned against the tree, deep in slumber. Gently, the young man plucked one of the dark gourds from a lowered branch and began to eat. He was waiting for the man of eighty winters to wake up and scold him for eating the fruit. In truth, he actually looked forward to perhaps hearing another interesting story. But the old one was sleeping the sleep of life; his breaths shallow and eyebrows twitching. The traveller playfully juggled the fruit in his hand and continued his journey home. He chomped and sucked at the black flesh of the fruit, which tasted even better than it had the day before. It increased hope in his heart and he felt as though he was walking on air. It energised him and made him smile like he had never smiled before. His heart was filled with joy at the prospect of seeing his beautiful Isabelle and he doubled his footsteps home.
His arrival was met with the same fervour it always was and the two enjoyed each others company by the glow of the fireplace. The young man cast his head back contentedly. He was happy with his lot; should he have nothing else, he would remain happy for the rest of his days. It was with this thought that he noticed something upon his tongue. A flavour. Bitter and sharp, it caused him to smack his lips and scrape his tongue against his teeth as if to shave it. Yet it would not remove itself. He got up to drink and flood the taste from his mouth. He swished and rinsed the wine that was left from the bottle they had shared that night and spat; seeking to extricate the foulness from his mouth along with it. But it did nothing. In fact, it seemed to even overpower the flavour of the wine and render it foul as well. The man shook his head in disregard. It didn't matter. Let tomorrow regard this bitter taste in his mouth; it would leave him in slumber.
When tomorrow came, the taste had only gotten worse; covering the entirety of his tongue in bitterness. He broke off a small chunk of cheese from its round and held it in his mouth. Its bitterness seemed to help negate the flavour somewhat. He kissed Isabelle goodbye and set about to his travels once again. However, this day he did not fare as well. People seemed not to want to buy from him, some looking at him with an odd expression that resembled pity. It struck him as strange that people would react this way as he was usually the kind of man that cast fanfare wherever he stepped. Discouraged and confused, he returned home where his gaze was met with yet another look; the same as the ones he had been getting all day long. But this look was emanating from his own darling Isabelle. She stared at him for what seemed like an eternity; her voice lost in wonderment. Finally, she gently took his hand to her chest and asked him with fragile voice: “Darling, what's wrong? Why do you look so sad?”
*continued in next post*
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