Lysandra

Lysandra was five years old when she first heard the legend of the red rose. Her Nana had gathered her and the twelve other children who lived in the neighborhood and told them the story of the red rose in what was supposed to be a bed time tale.

Lysandra's Nana Gloria had never told conventional stories for chidren, and sometimes the parents of the other children she regaled with stories at night time scolded their children, pulling ears and smacking bottoms, and warning them never to sit in at one of Gloria's story telling again.

It was from Nana that Lysandra learnt that not all love stories ended in happily - ever - afters. Some knights in shining armor, some dashing princes were actually nothing but notorious rakes in disguise, and they left the beautiful damsel - in - distress heartbroken.
It was also from Nana that Lysandra learnt how babies were made. They were not formed in their Mama's belly by the good wishes of loved ones -- even that had sounded silly to her in the past. Nana had also not shielded her from the murmurs.
'she's filling that little girl's head with darkness -- she would probably grow up to be her mother all over again.' The butcher's wife had said.
'It's unnatural how such a little girl loves to listen to gory tales -- she does not even get frightened.' The local school teacher had pointed out once, and Lysandra could only wonder if the woman had not seen the many children who fought for the closest spot to her Nana during one of her many story telling nights. The nights when the moon lit up the sky, and the hot weather drove many people out of their dreary little houses to sit outside -- the night's Nana's rheumatism did not attack her too much. Those nights were the good nights, and Lysandra did not allow any pettiness or rudeness from the adults in her neighborhood bother her then.

Even though she was bonded with the other kids in her love for her Nana's stories at night, during the day, the other children avoided her like a plague. Once in the past, when the when children had tried to play with her, the got a spanking so strong from their parents that even Lysandra felt sorry for them and avoided them herself in order not to cause them further harm. For some reason she could not understand, it was as if the parents of these children felt that prolonged exposure to her presence might contaminate them.

At first, she had thought it was because of her school performance, and she had put in all her effort, making sure she improved her school performance till she was doing better than all the children in the school room in all; language and arithmetic. And yet, the tongues continued to wag. 'what unusual intelligence she has -- and what unusual eyes!'
It was actually part Lysandra's fault, and partly because of the unusual color of her black eyes that the adults in Eganshire ended their observation about her with talk of her eyes. She had taken to starring right into their eyes to let them know she could see through them, through their petty observations about her to the very core of their cowardly soul. They were simply frightened of anything, of anyone that was different from them.

At first, Lysandra had felt satisfied when the adults, unable to hold her gaze had averted their eyes in shame, but then, they had simply added the talk of her unusual eyes to the list of verbal weapons they hauled at her, and Lysandra had felt defeated -- like she had become her own nemesis.
Lysandra was generally therefore not one that frightened easily, so it should not have frightened her when her Nana told her the story of the red rose -- a story that was by far not one of her most frightening stories, but yet it did.

She had heard tales where little children were lost in dark forests and eaten up by gory monsters, or spirited away in their sleep to become half human, half beasts, cursed to prowl the night as wolves. She had heard tales of small towns like Eganshire, where an annoymous killer murdered the people one by one, and when the killer was later found out, it would be someone everyone least expected. Those stories had Lysandra frightened of shadows for a little while. She had even heard stories of demons summoned from hell by an innocent wish spoken in anger which came to torment the lives of the heroines -- Nana's stories were always about strong inquisitive heroines. The demons tormented the heroines by carrying out their wishes, and killing off their enemies -- or those they had in anger considered to be their enemies -- in the most gruesome way, taunting them with their very own words and warning them to be careful what they wished for in future. Those tales had made Lysandra learn to control her tongue, especially when she was angry.
She had heard all these tales, and the goosebumps they had raised on her tiny little arms had not ladyed for long, so it was strange that after hearing the story of the red rose, Lysandra had felt the impact for life.
The very night Lysandra had heard the story was a remarkable one. Exhausted from the days chores and school work, she had fallen asleep quickly, only to be woken by a rabbit that had run across her belly in its bid to get outside. Nana had always made sure that the house was squeaky clean, and that the trash was taken out every night before they slept, in order to keep out the rats. As a result, the large rats that prowled the streets of Eganshire hardly ever entered into their home, let alone rabbit.

She had followed the rabbit out into the open, only to find the night birthed by a very strange orange glow. Lifting up her eyes, she had looked up to see the moon. It looked all wrong, like it was trying to free itself from some power that fought it, and it was orange.

Terrified, she had run to meet her Nana where she sat telling stories to the neighborhood children as though there was nothing unusual about the night.

The strangeness of the night had to have affected Nana too, she stretched out her arm for a hug, making room for Lysandra to fit her tiny frame into her side. 'Why Lysandra, I did not want to wake you. You seemed very tired.'

Her Nana never called her by name, except when the former was very angry, which was not at all a common occurrence. Lysandra had once chanted her name to herself twenty times, just to hear her name, since her Nana rarely used it, and the rest of the adults of Eganshire -- even her school teacher preferred to call her nothing at all. Her Nana always called her child, or my heart, when she had been very good.

For Nana to call her Lysandra now, and still appear perfectly happy with her, even offering a hug, and acting as though she had not noticed the strange moon was in itself

frightening, and Lysandra who had been frightened that she must have woken up into a dream land had pointed out these things to her Nana, her Nana had done something unusual. She had blushed.

'Oh you noticed the moon! That is how a new moon is birthed.' She had explained with a flick of her hand, and then urged Lysandra to find a place to sit, a tad too desperate to hide her blush.

Wanting to restore normalcy to the night, Lysandra had taken her seat -- a large leaf placed on the floor, just in time for her Nana to start a new story. Perhaps if she simply listened to Nana tell her tales, until each child got carried off by their mama, and her eyelids drooped with sleep, so that she too got carried off to bed by her Nana. Perhaps then, she would wake up the next morning, ready to face another busy day, and the eerie feeling she was getting from this night would be nothing but a vague memory.

'Normally in winter, roses don't bloom,' Her Nana began her story.