Early in the morning, she was woken by the piercing ring of the alarm clock.
Petunia stretched her arm out from under the blanket and smacked the clock to turn it off, then rolled onto her back and stared at the log ceiling.
What had she been dreaming about?
The dream, startled by the metallic ring, slipped away like sand through her fingers, leaving behind only rare grains of memory.
She thought…
she closed her eyes — that made remembering easier.
She thought she had dreamed of a white city, spread freely amidst green fields.
Beyond it, in a stubborn attempt to reach the sky, rose a sheer cliff, and a winding staircase, carved directly into the rock, led to its summit.
In the spacious harbor on the river whose waters flowed to the sea, waves rocked snow-white ships, and a giant colossus stretched out its arms in welcome to the vessels.
Strange…
for some reason this peaceful picture, permeated with calm and serenity, this vision of a golden age, echoed in Petunia’s heart with terrible longing, and an involuntary tear rolled down her cheek.
Petunia opened her eyes, wiped away the tear, and unthinkingly licked her wet finger.
Salty.
Like the sea she’d never seen.
“I need to write that down before I forget,” she said, tried to get out of bed, and collapsed back with a groan.
By the feeling, her entire body had turned into one solid knot of pain.
Shoulders, arms, back, legs — every cell screamed in pain and begged for a respite; and at the thought that there were no respites on a farm, and that today she would surely have to not only water the garden but probably also weed it, even her bones began to ache.
Petunia waited a moment, encouraging herself, then slid to the floor and, clenching her teeth, strained to stretch, from her heels to her hands.
The gym teacher had said such an exercise should be done standing by a wall, but this would do.
Petunia couldn’t get up right away.
When her muscles had stretched a bit and the pain became at least tolerable, she awkwardly turned onto her stomach, rose onto all fours, and carefully arched her back like a cat.
Well, the cat she made was probably lopsided and not very good.
But after a few repetitions, it got enough easier that Petunia managed to get to her feet and repeat the stretches by the wall, standing on her tiptoes and carefully reaching for the ceiling.
“I’m not doing anything today,” she promised herself as she loosened her joints.
“Not a thing.
Just water the beds and check for weeds…” She sighed.
There were definitely weeds.
For some reason, they always grow more eagerly and faster than proper plants.
After her warm-up and morning routine — which included watching TV — it was time to get to work.
As yesterday’s forecast had promised, the day was sunny and bright, and Petunia tied a kerchief around her head.
The promise of luck she’d received from the fortune-teller today planted an expectation of some miracle.
The memories of that strange dream receded into the background and soon faded, and Petunia completely forgot she’d planned to write about it in her diary.
She immediately grabbed the watering can and also a hoe, hoping to find more “gifts of nature” on the way to the pond to diversify her meager diet.
But, alas, nothing caught her eye except the occasional clump of sedge.
Of course, she’d read in books that people ate some mythical roots, digging them out of the ground at any time of year, but for some reason, those books didn’t give young farmers instructions on what those roots looked like or how to find them.
But the biggest surprise came from the garden.
Still a few steps away, walking from the pond with a watering can full to the brim, Petunia spotted something green against the black soil and clicked her tongue in frustration.
Weeds were sprouting.
She knew it.
But as she got closer, she stopped in bewilderment.
The beds were literally covered with tiny fresh green shoots poking through — little sprouts stubbornly pushed upward, tossing aside clods of earth that were enormous from their perspective, and reached for the sun.
Petunia might have dismissed them as weeds, but all the shoots were arranged far too evenly for chaotic invasive growth.
As evenly as she had tried to plant the seeds.
She dropped to her knees and, in disbelief, touched the nearest sprout.
Its delicate, touching little leaves — not yet even fully unfurled from the little nub they had once been — brushed against her fingertips, feather-light like butterfly wings, and trembled in the gusting wind.
“Unbelievable…” Petunia said in a dubious, unpleasant tone.
But reality was realer than real.
The seeds she’d planted yesterday had already turned into the first shoots.
In just one night, they had sprouted and gathered enough strength to show themselves to the spring sun.
And she hadn’t expected the first seedlings for at least a week.
In the best case, maybe five days.
Petunia suddenly laughed.
Cheer and joy at the sight of the beds swelled inside her.
At this rate, she would grow her first harvest much, much faster!
She watered the beds generously, using the watering can twice as she had yesterday, and said to the young plants as a parting word: “Grow big and healthy, okay?” The tiny green leaves seemed to sway after her, as if promising they would try and would definitely grow up big and healthy.
After admiring her little garden once more, Petunia went to look at the greenhouse remains in daylight.
And it was far worse than she had imagined.
Everywhere were shards of broken glass and fragments of the frame.
She could only wonder how on earth she’d managed not to hurt herself crawling around on her knees in that wreckage.
And, unfortunately, she saw no way to restore the greenhouse.
None at all.
Even if she had the right tools, she had absolutely no idea where to even begin with such a hopeless project.
Petunia had had another idea when she walked toward the greenhouse.
She’d hoped to find more leeks among its ruins, or maybe something else that had once grown there and survived by chance.
But she didn’t see another single familiar dagger-shaped green leaf.
What she did see, however, was something else.
In the rock slope behind the greenhouse, something was dark.
Petunia walked around the ruins and, behind a tree that had grown so conveniently it blocked the view from almost every direction, she discovered a small cave.
She crept closer and listened.
Not a sound came from inside.
Petunia’s inherent adventurousness whispered for her to poke her head in and check what was there, while her rational side strongly advised her to at least arm herself with a flashlight — it was surely dark in there — and besides, hadn’t she wanted to go to the city?
Like, yesterday?
After several minutes of agonizing deliberation, with a short break, the rational side won.
And only because she really wanted to get to the city.
Petunia swore she would definitely explore the cave as soon as she had free time, and hurried home.
She shed her work clothes and pulled on her nicest dress.
With puff sleeves, a white belt at the waist, and a skirt just below the knee.
She got out her summer shoes and the expensive nylon stockings she’d bought with her first paycheck.
Too bad there was only the little mirror in the powder compact.
Petunia powdered her nose, ran a pale pink balm over her lips, and managed to examine herself in the mirror piece by piece.
She was satisfied with what she saw.
Her hair could use a wash, but a tight bun looked lovely on her head.
The compact went into her purse, the purse onto her shoulder, and Petunia practically skipped off the porch.
She cast a quick glance at the mailbox.
The flag was down, meaning Mr.
Corey hadn’t written to her today.
She wondered — if she put a note in the box, could he receive it?
Mulling over various little things, like what she should buy if the city had a store, she walked out through the farm gates and headed down the road in the opposite direction.
Passing the path to the coach stop, she waved at the coach.
The carriage stood in the same spot where it had stopped, and its door was still open, just as Petunia had left it.
The roadside sign reading “City of Rivendell” kindly indicated the direction she already knew.
The distance wasn’t marked, and Petunia logically assumed it couldn’t be far.
Unexpectedly, after a couple dozen steps, the heels of her shoes began to clatter loudly on stone, and she was surprised that the dirt road had turned to stone.
The slabs paving the road had probably once been white, but now looked yellow from dust and sand, and green grass stubbornly grew in the gaps between them.
Here and there, the paving stones were cracked, sometimes even into very small pieces, and Petunia understood that nature was confidently reclaiming this place.
If the townsfolk didn’t keep up, the road would soon be completely overtaken by vegetation.
She shifted her gaze forward and saw the city entrance.
Like at the farm, it was framed by an archway.
But whereas on the farm it had been just three logs arranged in a pi shape and bordered by a hedge, the city arch was made of snow-white stone, decorated with intricate carvings, and flanked on both sides by sheer cliffs.
Petunia blinked in confusion.
She had just been walking down a road among hills, and now suddenly — mountains?
She turned around.
Behind her, the stone road abruptly transitioned into a packed dirt track, and the mountains gave way to green hills.
As if someone had taken two completely mismatched landscapes and stitched them together by some unknown means.
It sounded incredible, but she couldn’t describe it any other way.
Petunia even looked for gigantic stitches that must surely have connected the two spaces, but she was suddenly overcome…
No, she decided she must not look at the archway from this angle.
Something in the seamless seam where the two spaces met made her head spin, and for a second it seemed to her as if the world was splitting in two before her eyes.
She quickly turned away, blinked, squeezed her eyes shut, and shook her head vigorously.
“That’s really not England,” she whispered, and a childish delight filled her from within, driving away the discomfort.
Well, if she wasn’t supposed to look at it, she wouldn’t.
Some things were better left a mystery, weren’t they?
Petunia shook herself and headed toward the arch.
Coming closer, she almost reverently ran her hand over the carvings.
The work was so fine that it seemed unthinkable for such an incomparable work of art to stand in the middle of nowhere.
The city beyond the cliffs must be truly fantastic!
She tilted her head back to see the top.
At the upper part of the arch, the patterns flowed naturally into some kind of inscription, but no matter how hard Petunia tried, she couldn’t read it.
She simply didn’t know the letters carved into the stone, though some of them looked similar to the letters of the alphabet she was familiar with.
After looking at the inscription a little longer, she slowly passed through the arch and headed forward, toward the bright spot at the end of the rock corridor that beckoned to her.
The stone road grew whiter and newer with every step, and following it, Petunia emerged onto a small semicircular platform.
And the sight that opened before her knocked the breath out of her.
Below, just beyond carved stone railings, lay an abyss, at the bottom of which a turbulent river churned foaming waves like white-maned horses.
A thin, precarious bridge stretched across the chasm, and beyond it… Petunia gasped convulsively, because without oxygen her lungs were already bursting.
Without taking her eyes off the scene before her, she slowly walked along the railing.
She nearly missed her step — when she put her foot forward without looking and found a step — but steadied herself.
She went down the narrow staircase leading to the bridge, and only then stopped.
On the far side of the chasm, surrounded by a lush green sea, rose a snow-white palace.
Carved towers stretched toward the sky; broad roof slopes gleamed in the sun.
A covered gallery ran along the cliff face, and from beneath it a waterfall-like stream burst forth, flowing from somewhere on the mountain that loomed behind the palace.
A short sound escaped Petunia’s throat.
Whether a moan of admiration or a cry of delight.
Embarrassed by her involuntary reaction, she coughed.
And fell silent.
Suddenly, it became perfectly clear that during all the time she had been admiring the beauty before her, she had heard no other sounds but the rush of water and the rustle of leaves.
And her own voice.
It seemed the fairy-tale city had been dead for a long, long time.