The man wearing the silver rose stepped outside the cottage and closed the door behind him. The forest was quiet. Stars blazed unblinking overhead; the night air was crisp and clear. He journeyed through the woods slowly, carefully noting each beloved tree.

A rabbit peeked at him from behind a low bush. "Come," he said, and the rabbit hopped after him.

A pair of squirrels chittered to one another, then raced from branch to branch to see where he was going. The man looked up into the branches. "Follow," he said, and the squirrels leaped to the ground and scrambled after him.

A red fox lifted its brush and stood poised motionless in the path. The man wearing the silver rose nodded, gestured, and went on. The fox whirled around to follow.

One by one the animals of the forest came to see what was happening. The ones who normally slept at night were roused by some instinct. The ones already awake came, too. Feathered and beaked, or furred and clawed, they came. One by one, the man greeted them, waved his hand, and said, "Come."

They journeyed uphill, until the trees became sparse, until the ground became bare. The man with the silver rose ascended to the heath with all the animals following, and now a light was upon him. It was not the moon, or the stars; it came from the rose upon his breast, and it lit the land with a cool argent gleam. Bright it was, but not harsh, and as he moved to the center of the heath, it grew until it was like standing lightning, and still no eyes were blinded.

The man raised his right hand. The animals sat around him in a semi-circle, facing him, so that their faces, furry or feathered, were brilliantly lit, and sharp black shadows streamed away behind them. "Come," the man said, speaking past them. It was not a mighty voice, or a gentle one. It was not a command, or an invocation. It was neither permission nor supplication. It was a whisper that twisted the air, sought out every crack and crevice, carried for miles and miles into the night.

The whisper found its way into the heart of the trees below, and the great boles broke open, making a sound like a thunderclap. From inside the trees, the sylvan elves awoke from their dreams of flowing sap and slow growth. They shook aside their centuries of slumber, and their bright silver eyes turned as one toward the heath.

The whisper slid into cracks in the ground, squirmed past boulders, seeped through dirt, soaked into the bedrock itself. The stone children awoke, shook themselves, looked around with wonder as the roof of their sleeping chambers cracked. The dwarfs climbed up into the night air and journeyed toward the heath.

The whisper fell like a net on the surface of the ponds, rivers and lakes. The waters whistled and boiled as the whisper knifed through them. Naiads brushed their long, green hair back from their ears and listened. The river god rose up in a fountain of spray, and his manacles fell from his wrists. Up they all rose, and as they moved toward the heath, they were joined by the satyrs, and nymphs, and fauns.

Swiftly they came, silently, like knife-edged shadows flying through the night, and assembled in a semi-circle behind the forest animals, and as each one arrived, the silver light from the rose became stronger. It cast a glare over the entire forest below, but did not blind or stun.

The man raised his left hand. "Come," he said, and this time his voice was low rumble, like thunder in the distance, and the four lords of the winds arose and came and bowed before him.

He opened his hands. "Come," he said, and this time his voice was pure music, a liquid trill. Every heart there longed to leap forward at his call, but they knew it was not for them. Suddenly among them was a unicorn, shy and sweet, and no one knew whence it came, or how it arrived. It stepped forward daintily and leaned its creamy flank against the man's chest, its head tucked down demurely, its silver horn catching and magnifying the rose's brilliance.

The man wearing the silver rose turned and let the light shine across the heath. Far away, far below, the sea heaved restlessly against the shore. On the horizon, where the sky came down to kiss the waves, a mighty ship sailed. The elves with the clearest sight could make out the individual masts, and see a form standing still and proud at the bow. But as the light from the rose fell across the sea, everyone's eyes cleared. The animals shook their heads, the dwarfs stood on tip-toes to watch, and it was as if they had all been half-blind but didn't know until that moment.

Clearly, now, everyone saw the form standing at the prow, as if the thousands of miles separating them were just inches. They saw her face, shining gently with an inner light, as she turned from contemplating the deep beyond. She raised one arm, hand extended, and recognized them. Even the proud elves knelt and lowered their heads. The man took off his rose and beckoned to a hawk.

"Take this to her," he said. "Fly as you have never flown before, over the horizon, beyond the curve of the world, to where I cannot go, and take this to her."

The hawk took the rose in its beak and shot through the air. It seemed to them that a star flew, for so bright was the rose now that none could bear to look directly at it. The hawk flew as it had never flown before, and the rose lent it strength, for the hawk found its way over the horizon, beyond the curve of the world, and came to rest on the lady's outstretched hand.

"This you must keep," said the man, speaking to the lady. “For it is my heart, and it was ever yours." And his voice somehow carried to her.

"This I will keep," said the lady, and somehow the man could hear her. "And bear it always, so that I may remember you in the deep beyond." And she lofted the hawk, and gave it strength and guidance, so that it found its way back to the heath and took its place among the animals. And then she held up the rose, and kissed it, and turned her face toward the deep beyond, and the ship sailed around the bending of the world, out of sight, and darkness fell upon the heath.

The man stared out upon the dark and said nothing. One by one, the animals and faerie creatures slipped away, back to their nests and their holes. The lords of the winds raised mighty clouds and scattered them across the sky, so that no light fell upon the earth. At length only the unicorn was left, and then it, too, was gone, and the man was alone upon the heath. After a long time, he turned and walked slowly back toward the cottage. His steps were heavy and slow as he descended the heath, quiet as death as he passed through the forest.

It seemed to him, after a time, that he did not walk alone, though he saw no one. And it seemed to him that he could feel an arm around his shoulders, a comforting presence at his side. He found a silver rose in his hands, and he didn't know how it got there, but it seemed he had always held it. It glimmered softly in the dark, and lit his path before him, and that, too, seemed as if it had always been.

"This you must keep," said the night, not with a voice, not using words. "For it is your heart, and you have need of it yet."

The man turned at the cottage door and looked out, but saw no one. "Am I alone now?" he said aloud.

"Never," said the air. "Never again."

The man fastened the rose to his breast. "This I will keep," he said, "and remember always that I am never alone." And he went into the cottage then, and closed the door behind him, and was not alone.

Story Notes

This story is really a eulogy of sorts, written after the passing of a good friend, Julie, who called herself "Ladyhawke" online. The cottage and the forest in the story were among her virtual gifts to me. She and her grandson, Jeremy Paul (also known as JayPea), whom she raised, brightened everything they touched. I haven't heard from JayPea for years now. I trust he is growing up healthy, strong, and brave. Ladyhawke wouldn't have had it any other way.