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There was once a merchant who set out with his wife on a pilgrimage to Mecca. Their daughter, though, they left at home, with an Arab slave girl to keep her company.
One evening quite late, the merchant's daughter and the Arab girl were singing and laughing and dancing about in the upstairs apartment. By accident, the Arab girl knocked over the oil lamp, leaving the young ladies in darkness.
?What should we do?? said the merchant's daughter. ?It's too late to rouse the servants.?
?I'll go out and find a light,? said the Arab girl.
?But we're locked in!? said the merchant's daughter.
?The window's open,? said the Arab girl.
So they knotted some bed sheets together and lowered them from the window. Then the Arab girl took a basket and climbed down.
She walked down the street till she came to a restaurant still open. The customers had all gone, but a handsome young man was in the kitchen, cleaning up and preparing for the next day. On the table were dishes piled high with kebabs, dolma, pilaf, and baklava.
?May I come in?? said the Arab girl prettily.
The young man, who owned the restaurant, cast an eye on the lovely young lady. ?Please sit down!? he said.
As the two of them chatted, the young man moved closer and closer to the Arab girl. She was almost in reach when she asked him, ?What's in those huge crocks??
?One has olive oil, one has clarified butter, and one has honey.?
?Honey?? she said. ?What's that??
?Surely you've had honey before!?
?Never! Please give me a taste.?
?I'll have to go out again,? she said.
?How dare you come back!? he demanded. ?Do you know what I'll do to you now??
?Well, well!? said the young man, with a smile. ?What a fine idea!? He came close to embrace her.
?Not yet,? she said. ?First we must eat and drink.?
?Then please come to the door,? said the young man, in an old man's voice.
?We're locked in,? she said. ?But you can climb to the window.?
A few days later, the merchant spoke again to the Arab girl. ?I've received a note from a man who does not name himself. He wishes to buy you for an incredibly high price. But if you object, I'll refuse him.?
?I don't mind,? she said, smiling.
The next morning, a messenger came with a carriage and drove the Arab girl to a house a few streets away. She and her belongings were left alone in a room upstairs.
The Arab girl took her doll and stood it in the middle of the room. She poured red sherbet into its hollow center, filling it with the sweet fruit drink. Then she hid in a closet.
Before long, the door flew open. There stood the young restaurant owner, a dagger in his hand. He glared at the doll. ?You wicked girl! I've caught you at last!?
Gripping it by the shoulder, he demanded, ?Do you remember how you pushed me into the honey?? He shook it back and forth.
?Yes, yes,? said the doll.
?And do you remember how you tied me up and gagged me??
?Yes, yes.?
?And do you remember how you made me fall to the street??
?You admit everything! Then prepare to die, for now I will drink your blood!?
The young man stared at the Arab girl.
?Darling!? he cried.
?Dearest!? she answered.
And they lived happily ever after.
Pressing down on Tara, she felt as if she were being smothered before her day had even begun. Clammy soil enclosed her allowing for minimal movement, as Tara struggled to become upright. Why was this so difficult? Her instincts assured Tara that all would be okay, and yet she questioned. Fully grounding herself and stretching down, Tara could sense vibrations far above her. ?Are those others? Should I follow those movements?, she thought, making great efforts not to be smothered by the soggy depths. If only she could get a feel from below, a grip on something familiar. Tara's extremities ached as they extended both down straining and upward reaching for a breakthrough. Yearning for space, her drive was innate and strong. She needed no one to guide her on her course. Compulsions which could not be stifled beckoned Tara to persevere. But she was so young, so fragile, and her task seemed impossible.
Resting for but a moment, Tara knew few who had gone before her succeeded, while many, so many, had rotted in this same constricting earth before they even had a chance at life. Life sounded lovely, fresh air, sunshine, warmth instead of dampness. Yet she was alone, without aid, without encouragement. ?Get it together, Tara?, she urged snapping out of her feeble self-pity. Tara longed to reach the life giving surface. All that was essential was just above her. Though she had never seen the utopia she sought, her being prompted her to triumph. She was not a quitter. Grappling for a foothold beneath her, she steadied herself to begin the tedious journey skyward. And although she carried no map, was given no guidance and help from no compass, the direction of her journey resonated in her without thought. Dank dirt attempted to pin her motionless, but her drive was far stronger. She had been confined worse than this. Her first memory was that being of a tortuously cramped space void of any light which would easily have been her grave had she not had the desire to live. Despite the frigid temperatures, even then Tara had labored to free herself from her first prison. And now, her new cell was simply a fortress of packed dirt.
Unexpectedly something brushed against her. ?What was that!? Tara thought, panicking. She wasn't able to defend herself here and was utterly helpless without the ability to reach out quickly. Any movement took taxing effort, and was slowed by the weighted force of the dirt and decay squeezing in on her. Perhaps she imagined the graze; perhaps her thoughts were playing tricks on her in the dark.
Yes, there it was again! Definite contact. She was not imagining it. Something alive, and smooth had brushed by her once again. If only Tara were able to see what enemy this was that taunted her. Without time to plan, a scurry of many bristly feet dashed across her midsection a third time. Thinking she actually heard the intruder this time, Tara strained for the surface. Deep within her being Tara knew if only she could reach the top, she would find safety. There, she would be secure, no harm would befall her. There, she would be free to be all she was created to be.
Giving herself a stimulating pep talk, Tara imagined what her life would be like when she broke the surface. Like breaking the surface of the ocean after tearing free from a billowing undercurrent. When all appears to be lost and hope is inconceivable, Tara told herself she had to prevail because her Eden was just ahead. She could not abandon her trek. To forfeit the journey she had thus endured was not an option. ?Persist, Tara?, she recited to herself.
The progress was tedious, but progress was being made. Was the soil looser here? Is it less compact here, easier to press through at this point? Is she being hopeful or is reality playing tricks on her? Yes, the soil did feel more manageable, and drier. Heavier dirt gave way to looser lighter dirt as Tara forged on. Could she actually feel a warmth now? It was definitely becoming warmer the higher she went. But where did these stringy masses come from? Thin strands stretched down all around Tara making it difficult not to become entangled. Her ascent now slowed once again while she broke free from the strings' hold that surrounded her the higher she climbed. If not one obstacle, then another tested her determination. Yet giving up now, is not an option after having come so far.
Light! Light penetrates, if ever so slightly, the gloomy world Tara tries to escape. So incredibly close now. Tara feels a tingle of excitement through her body knowing her treacherous journey is soon ending. The charged anticipation gives her new strength. Reaching, straining, yearning for the surface above, Tara pleads with herself to proceed farther. Bits of dirt fall easily now around her loosely. She is able to move more freely here. There is space between dirt clods, small tunnels waiting just for her assisting in her passage onward. Tara feels herself literally becoming taller. From the puny entity struggling just to be free of her cramped confinement at the beginning of her pilgrimage, to the maturer survivor she has transformed into fighting to exist spurs her on now. With one final resolution, Tara bursts from captivity.
Hunched over on bended knees, Horta's back aches severely from the countless hours this sunny morning she has already spent ripping uninvited crabgrass and ragweed from her lawn's borders. Even with her shaded wide brimmed hat, sweat rolls down Horta's forehead and into her itchy red eyes burning. The pollen from her intruders isn't dreadful enough, but her body seems to be an enemy as well, blurring her vision with filthy perspiration. Dragging her knee pad to the next section of turf to prune, Horta groans in response to the lumbar pain. Dirt caked garden gloves reach for their steel forked companion. Clutches meet tool, and extend for a newly spied victim. With labored satisfaction, Taraxcum is torn from her sweet victory.
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