Ephemeral

       First the Rose began to complain of dry skin, loss of turgor, and the first faint etchings of time. The Little Prince assured her that nothing of the sort was present, that she was as fresh as the very dawn. But the Rose, more from habit than conviction, retorted that to be compared with the sun was to be compared with something ancient and therefore positively decrepit. Mere coquetry of a flower, of course. Indulging her pretty whims, the Little Prince watered her just a little longer. Yet soon he admitted that her fragrance had waned: if one lay beside her, all was as it had ever been; but on the other side of the little planet, the scent was but a ghost of a whisper. And so, more and more often, in place of words, he would merely smile and brush his lips lightly against her silken petals at the crown. Then the Rose would fall silent, and in her bearing and her gestures, instead of displeasure, there would creep an obscure resignation. Presently, in that silence, the Little Prince began to detect a certain fear—and that was far worse than any of her reproaches. He longed to curl himself about her stem, to enfold her in warmth and adoration, to murmur to her of her beauty, her kindness, her incomparable excellence, until at last she believed it. Then, one morning at watering-time, she took it into her head that her reflection in the dewdrops was too pale. The Little Prince assured her that she had imagined it, or that the sun, perhaps, had faded somewhat and was painting their asteroid in hues of yellow rather than pink at dawn. The sun, he pondered aloud, had either cooled or, on the contrary, heated up. He really must consult the Geographer as to the health of the universal constants. Then, one morning, the Rose suddenly cried out, “Do not look!” and screened herself with her leaves. No matter how much the Little Prince pleaded with her to confess what had happened, she would only weep and tremble. That was the longest of days. The Little Prince, obedient, would not turn his gaze toward the Rose, and, for lack of better occupation, fixed his stare upon his sun, willing it to hurry to set. At night, surely, the Rose would sleep, would lower her leaves, and he might then see what had befallen her. Perhaps. In the starlight, he discerned that one petal was withered at the edge and grown pale. And the fragrance had certainly weakened, with a dusty undertone mingling in it. The Little Prince lay down softly beside her and began to gather words of comfort for the morning. Yet in his mind there revolved just one word, heard long ago. Ephemeral. He overslept past the accustomed hour for watering. He started up only when the sun had grown quite uncomfortably warm upon his ear, and turned towards the Rose… She no longer hid herself; she gazed at him with such a tenderness, such a pain, as though it were he, and not she, who had suffered a pair of yellow petals. “Why did you not wake me?” he asked, in as matter-of-fact a tone as he could muster. “You needed your water.” “You looked so pale,” she said, so softly that he was forced to drop back to his knees and hold his very breath to catch her words. “I wished you to rest properly. And besides,"—she squeezed her eyes shut and attempted a smile—"I believe I need not be watered any more.” And before he could protest, she dealt him the final blow, softly but irrevocably: “Will you remember me for a long while after I wilt away? Only, I beg you, remember me as I was upon our first meeting.” “What are you talking about?!” His knees gave way beneath him; he sank down beside her, bracing himself against the soil. Could it be that what the Geographer had hinted at? Ephemeral. His beauty, his joy, so fleeting. Yes, he had been alone once before, when he had departed from her. But then he could gaze up at the heavens, knowing that upon one of those stars his Rose remained. But now, where was he to look? Whither would she go? The Little Prince could not help but glance upwards. Not all the stars were visible in the blue-black sky of B612 by daylight, but he knew—or rather, he suddenly recalled—that out there was a great blue planet, where a certain pilot time and again ascended into the skies in a ridiculous contraption of metal, even though it must sooner or later come crashing to earth. And when at last it did fall, the pilot would mend it with equal obstinacy, thrust it back into the air, even when his water had run out and it would be simpler to lie down upon the sand and die. How could he look that pilot in the eye, if he were to surrender now? “I will remember you always, from the first dawn until this morning and for many, many more dawns. You will live yet a long while, I promise it!” And he would have said a great deal more, but the Rose pressed a leaf against his lips and sent him about his daily tasks. The Little Prince obeyed; yet, having cleaned the last volcano, he chased the lamb out of its box and filled the box with earth. He was sorry for the lamb—it was, after all, a gift from the Pilot—but he would have to leave it behind. The box was needed for the Rose, to bear her through the long journey. He had resolved to set out for Earth. True, all manner of absurd grown-ups dwelt upon other asteroids, but they took no interest in roses and were of no help. On Earth, however, there were billions of inhabitants, and roses too, which surely meant there must be some who knew how to save a wilting flower. With the utmost care the Little Prince dug up the Rose and transplanted her into the box, watered her, and covered her with a glass dome. Yes, it was simpler to travel alone, but what if he could not return in time? And to leave the Rose alone with the lamb was risky, too. He scanned the vast heavens. To carry them both, more birds would be needed than on the previous occasion. Perhaps the universe was now in a different season, a non-migratory one, or the cosmic winds had altered their currents, but no birds appeared. A solitary comet flashed by in the distance, but too far to catch it with a butterfly-net. And far too swift, which meant it would be dangerous for a journey with a fragile rose in a box. A dreadfully long day, filled with empty sky and the Rose’s feeble protests, at last rolled to its end. Her fragrance grew fainter and fainter. When the sun again plopped itself down behind the convex horizon, the Little Prince too fell upon his back, so weary was he with waiting. The dome of the sky covered him, and the stars glimmered like unshed tears. Sleep would not come. The word “ephemeral” raced round and round in his head like a gramophone record gone awry. When from above there came a whistle of wind through feathers, the Little Prince sat up at once and opened his eyes. A whirlwind of enormous talons dashed at him; wings screened half the sky, but the Little Prince feared only that it might be just a dream. Yet he faced a very real dusty gale as the bird braked sharply and alighted beside him. “So you are alive,” the bird grunted, with evident disappointment. “I thought you dead.” “Certainly not!” protested the Little Prince. Any mention of death scratched at him from within. But there were no other feathered creatures nearby. “Wait! Do not fly away! I have never seen such a large bird! Who are you? Surely you can carry me and my Rose to a big blue planet out there?” “I am a vulture,” the bird grunted, folding its long neck into a zigzag and ruffling its feathers. “I can carry an elephant… But first I must eat another elephant. To spread such vast wings, one needs great strength, and for that, great sustenance. The law of conservation of energy, you know: to gain something, one must give something. I was just about to make a meal of you, but since you are alive, I stay hungry. I am not certain I can even lift myself back into the air. Have you no other dead creatures upon your planet?” “No, none!” The Little Prince was cross again. “Then I fear I cannot help you,” said the Vulture, cocking its head to one side. “As a last resort, something living would suffice. A lamb, a rabbit, or a calf.” The Little Prince hesitated. The Vulture did not inspire sympathy. And its odour was unpleasant, heavy. The sheep, to be sure, was a poor hearer or talker, and sometimes did try to bite the Rose’s leaves, but it also devoured the baobab shoots, and besides, it reminded him of the Pilot—of the stub of a pencil in his large hand, of the sheepskin collar of his jacket, the smell of engine oil, the creak of the well-winch, the sweet icy water spangled with stars. The Little Prince did not wish to give all that away. But the Rose! They must reach Earth urgently! More petals had withered during the day. What was it the Vulture had said? Give something, to gain something. Very well, then… “I have a sheep,” he decided at last. “It sleeps on the other side of the planet, beside the extinct volcano.” After all, if they reached Earth and saved the Rose, he could find the Pilot and ask for another sheep, this time with a stake and a tether, and a strap for a muzzle. All the words seemed to fit together, yet the Little Prince’s heart still tightened. “A sheep? Asleep? Very well, I accept the payment,” said the Vulture, and began to turn itself about with some awkwardness. The asteroid was rather cramped for wings of such a span, and the Little Prince stepped back a pace. “That is right,” the Vulture added. “Go to your Rose and await me. I shall manage the sheep by myself; you need not look. After all,” it turned its head, and the gaze of its round black eye measured the Little Prince from crown to sole, “you are still a child.” With a heavy heart, the Little Prince returned to the Rose’s box and watered her. “Does it hurt you?” she asked plaintively, reaching a leaf towards his palm. “You should not have done this for my sake…” “Nonsense! Of course I should. You are dearer to me than all the world,” he said, crouching beside her, whispering that all would be well. Anything, anything to drown out the suspicious sounds from the other side of the planet (a rustling, a slurping, a tearing with a moist, greedy smack). The sounds ceased with the clicking of talons upon the asteroid’s stone. The Vulture appeared from the direction of the rising sun, extended a wing like a gangway, and the Little Prince, clutching the box to his chest, climbed aboard its back. A real typhoon of feathers and dust whirled about them; the ground fell away beneath. The Little Prince looked back at his home asteroid. He still hoped to return somehow, by some means less painful than the snake’s, but for now he sought in the familiar contours of his little world the strength for the unknown journey ahead. There was the hollow where the Rose had been, the tufted grass, one of the active volcanoes sending up a thin wisp of smoke, the Rose’s screen lying overthrown; there, from the night side, the extinct volcano drifted into the sunlight, and at its foot, tuffs of white fleece, a leg with its hoof, and crimson-grey and bluish filthy shreds scattered about. The Little Prince turned away, pressed the Rose closer, to shield her from the sight, squeezed his own eyes shut, but the image had seared itself into his memory, burning through all other recollections. He gripped the box until his fingers ached, yet he dared not open his eyes. Then he resolved to look only forward from now on. The familiar asteroids drifted past; their inhabitants did not raise their heads. But soon… “Rose, look! This is Earth. Beautiful, isn’t it?” “Yes, I suppose so,” said the Rose, swaying her head faintly. “I hope it is warm there.” “Of course it is warm. Even too warm in places,” said the Little Prince, with a touch of vexation. He had so wished to share his Earth with the Rose, that best of all things he had encountered upon the seventh planet from their home. Why was she not glad? Or… was she jealous? Of something else that he had called beautiful? No, he most certainly must not introduce her to the roses in the garden. “Vulture, listen,” he said, tugging at the bird’s feathers. “I recognise this place—you are descending over the desert. Could you not set us down a little further on, beyond the edge of the desert, where there are wheat-fields, orchards, woods, and a village with hunters? The desert is far too hot for my Rose, and we must get closer to the gardens.” “I fear I cannot, even for payment,” replied the Vulture. “There are people there. And of late, people have stuck the earth all about with poles and wires, weaving a web that crackles with lightning. I would get caught in it. My wings are too broad. In this age, there remain but few places upon Earth where I may still alight upon the surface. So you must try to make your way out of the Sahara on your own, unless you wish me to come back for you again.” And the Vulture descended upon a half-ruined wall in the midst of that sea of sand. The travellers tumbled down; the Vulture once more raised a hurricane of wind, clapping its gigantic wings, and rose, slow and heavy, into the air. The Little Prince walked around the wall. He encountered no snake anywhere, but he did find a small triangle of shadow, just large enough for one child and a box with a flower. “From above, Earth looked wetter,” the Rose shivered glancing around. And then she started, wrung her leaves together, catching sight of her reflection in the glass dome. Yet more petals had withered during the journey. Waiting for sunset and the night coolness, the Little Prince comforted the Rose, speaking to her of the beauty of the desert, of all that the eye could not see. The green gardens and golden fields were not visible, but since they lay out there, beyond the horizon, the entire desert became but a white, smooth road towards that goal. If one did not distract oneself with conversations with echoes, rocks, snakes, and insignificant little weeds, one could reach it in no time. And so they set forth, when the sinking sun cast long carpets of shadow beneath their feet. But even by morning, they had not yet reached houses or greenery. The sky was already growing pale when, beyond the next dune, a wing flashed. A narrow metal wing, featherless, tilted almost to the zenith. Shifting the box to a more comfortable hold, the Little Prince broke into a run towards it. Yes, it was an airplane, and very like the Pilot’s machine. Only it had buried its nose and one wing in the sand, and looked really battered. But the most important thing was discernible without any outward sign—the airplane did not breathe, was not preparing to take flight. The Little Prince left the Rose in the shadow of the fuselage and climbed up to the cockpit canopy. Across the dull metal of the fuselage above ran a chain of holes with ragged edges, black against the pale surface, like stars reversed. Of the cockpit glass, only sharp, jagged splinters remained, like fangs around the rim. And there, within, behind those teeth, one could make out a skeleton in the tatters of a leather jacket and helmet. It might have been any one of the thousands of pilots who criss-crossed the sky of Earth, battling storms, firing bursts of machine-gun fire at one another. But the Little Prince’s heart stumbled and fluttered like a wounded bird. He did not touch the desiccated clipboard beneath the pilot’s hand—he knew for certain, without looking, what was depicted upon the crumbling pages of paper. With difficulty, he forced himself to look about. The desert, having yielded up its secret to him, had in an instant lost all its beauty and become a sea—a nauseating jumble of sandy waves that threatened to overwhelm him, to drag him under, to bleach him white with dryness. And nowhere any shore. But the Rose needed water. And then the Little Prince remembered the Pilot’s other gift. The sky, full of wells with spring water. He tilted his head back. The stars were swiftly drying up in the rays of the still invisible sun. Only in the west did one bright point remain. The Little Prince closed his eyes, stretched out his cupped hands towards it, and, having gathered a handful of water, descended to the Rose. She started when the water soaked into the soil, and begged him to keep at least a single drop for himself. Exactly one drop he licked from his palm. Not that he could have drunk more, for a lump stood in his throat. The water was bitter and salty, like swallowed tears. Another day rolled over their heads from one rim of the horizon to the other. Yellowness crept across the petals that had once been crimson, and upon the earth in the box a whitish crust had baked hard. The salt water had done no good. On the following night, distance took pity upon them, folded itself, and the sand suddenly flowed smoothly into dry earth, and then into meadows no less dry. The Little Prince recognised the place and gave a wide berth to the place where the rose-garden had once been. The sight of thousands of such flowers, healthy and luxuriant, might well have finished off his Rose. He left her among the reeds by a stream, washed the salt from her with fresh water, and changed the soil in the box. The Rose folded her petals in heavy drowsiness, and he hurried towards the garden. The garden appeared neglected. Some of the bushes had withered; nettles and goosefoot had choked others; but here and there scarlet, pink, and white flowers still bloomed, and the air hummed with their fragrance. “Good day to you,” he said, bending low towards the most opulent cluster of white blossoms. “Will you help me? My flower…” “Oh, he asks for help,” came the echo from all sides. “How charming. The very little boy who once upon a time declared that we were nothing. That we were empty. That no one would die for our sake. Why, then, should we now help you?” A branch swayed, and the Little Prince drew back his hand. The thorns upon these roses were no softer than those of his own Rose. And their temper was equally sharp. So he gave no sign that their reproaches had stung him. Flowers are inconsistent and capricious, and one ought not to judge them by their words. Besides, these roses still adorned the garden with their beauty and their fragrance. They could not be truly unkind. “Forgive me,” he said, not moving from his place. “That time, I had just understood why my Rose was so dear to me, and I was eager to share my discovery with all the world. And forgive the people, if none of them found you unique.” This time, white petals touched his fingers with something like tenderness. “What, then, do you wish of us?” “Only counsel,” the Little Prince said. “I tended my Rose, I watered her, shielded her from draughts, removed the caterpillars. But that was not enough. She is yellowing and fading. What am I to do… What do you do, to preserve life? I see that this sickness touches you as well.” And he let his gaze fall upon the lowest rose in the cluster, already nearly withered, no longer white at all, and very silent. The flowers paused for an instant, and then a rustling laughter surrounded him. “What do we do? Nothing. We resign ourselves and die. Death is as natural as sunrise or the need for water. There is nothing sad about it.” The Little Prince started. He recognised the words he himself had once spoken to the Pilot, before setting out to meet the snake. The Pilot had grieved nonetheless, hoping that all that was happening was but a dream. So this was what he had felt… It was, indeed, more painful for the one who remained than for the one who was going. Yes, the Little Prince himself had felt fear then, but he had known that he was returning home. And he had left the Fox first, as well. But whither was his Rose preparing to go? Why did she wish to leave him? He could not understand. “It is too sad to lose that which is dearer than life itself,” he sighed. “Not at all,” the rose bush swayed. “For no one has tamed us—there you were right. Our disappearance causes no one pain, breaks no heart, and so we feel no guilt and depart in peace.” “And besides,” the uppermost rose added, “we do not vanish utterly. That flower you looked at will soon fall, but beside me a new one will appear—see, the bud has already formed. If we all wither in winter, in spring new shoots will rise from our root. And humans have sometimes cut our branches and carried them away to their homes. If you see rose-bushes in the village gardens down in the valley, know that they are us, for we grew from the same root, in the same soil; we are one and the same plant. And in truth, we shall never disappear. Has not your Rose put forth offshoots? Overrun all the soil about her? Grown new buds?” “No, nothing of the sort,” the Little Prince said, bewildered. “My planet has too little soil and space. She was, and remains, the only one…” “Then she shall vanish utterly. And now, forgive us, but we must prepare ourselves for the long day ahead.” And the flowers began to preen themselves and shake the dew onto their roots. The Little Prince rose and wandered back towards the stream. Pilot, Fox, forgive me, revolved in his head. Was it as painful for you? Lost in thought, he paid no heed to the rustlings from the garden wall, and gave a cry of surprise when something long and supple slapped against his shoulder and coiled about his neck. In the twilight, a narrow triangular head swayed before his nose upon a long, legless golden body. A yellow eye stared at him, unblinking, without expression. “Snake? What do you want?” “I am surprised,” the Snake in reply hissed, “you did not care for Earth, or for people. Why, then, have you returned? And shall I not have to render you that same service once again?” “No, you shall not,” said the Little Prince, wishing to pull the Snake off by its tail, but stopping himself. “No, but… You said that you solved all riddles. Do you know how to save my Rose from…” He faltered. For the first time, the word 'death' froze upon his tongue, scorching him with ice and terror with such force. Not beside the name of his Rose! “…from fading?” “Tsk, so that is it,” the Snake said, making one circle about his shoulders, then another. At last, close by his ear, came its sibilant hiss, like laughter. “Yes, I know. A certain writer, no less gifted and keen-sighted than your Pilot, once told a story about a rose… For brevity, I shall omit the details. The essence is this: a nightingale’s song shall restore her dazzling colour. But the nightingale must press close to her stem, unafraid of the thorns, and sing from the very depths of its heart… Where to find a nightingale? You shall discover that without my help. It is not difficult. I do not bid you farewell, and you need not thank me.” And it slid down his arm into the undergrowth. The Little Prince ran back towards the river. “A nightingale,” he repeated to himself, “a song from the very depths of the heart.” The Rose was already awake, and reproached him for having left her alone: it was so chill at the break of dawn, so frightening in this vast world, full of unknown sounds, shadows, and scents. But she spoke softly, without expression. The withered petals still held on, but less than half remained red, and the dusty scent grew stronger. The Little Prince feared even to breathe upon her petals, lest they fall. So from a distance he assured her that he now knew how to help her, and would not leave her for a single second, but they must go on, must seek, must ask. And perhaps they would meet his first true friend… The Little Prince lifted the box with double care. But harder still was it to smile at the Rose as though nothing were amiss. And so they walked on, and the leaves around them whispered encouragement as well, and the stars once more laughed softly, through their tears. The Little Prince sought the familiar places he had known with the Fox, and found them not. Little trees had grown great; of the great trees only stumps remained; the wheat-fields, still green, not golden yet, had pushed back the forest, and the village had conquered a hefty slice of the fields. And everywhere those poles with wires had risen, of which the Vulture had been so afraid. Beneath one such pole, the Little Prince found the Fox. Or was it rather the Fox who had found him? In any case, they came forth directly towards one another, as though guided by a compass. The Little Prince recognised him by the swaying tufts of grass, even before he saw him. The Fox had changed. His once fiery-red coat had dulled and greyed in places. His tail no longer streamed upon the wind like a pennant, but dragged through the grass and dust. And there was something else about him, something important, yet invisible to the eye. As though he were not wholly with the Little Prince; as though half of him had run off elsewhere. “So you have returned,” said the Fox, in a low voice, smiling but faintly. “I am so glad to meet you again. I see you have found your Rose. It is her, right?” The Little Prince nodded and slowly set the box upon the ground, between himself and the Fox. The Fox continued: “Forgive me that I cannot play with you. I am still tamed, but now I am a family beast. I have a vixen—you will perhaps now understand better than before what love is. And we have cubs, our second litter already. I am not certain you can comprehend what it is like when tiny likenesses of yourself and your beloved gaze up at you with open mouths and pipe thinly: 'Papa, I am hungry.' I must seek food for them, forgive me. I am responsible for those I have brought into the world.” Yes, precisely—that was where the other half of the Fox resided: somewhere upon a trampled clearing in the grass, beside a vixen who had tamed him and become his one and only; and about them, no doubt, darted other little russet creatures with carrot-like tails, warm and smelling of milk, each one unique, however many little noses there might be. “No, no—I understand you perfectly!” the Little Prince hurried to reply before the Fox vanished into the grass. He crouched down carefully and reached out his hand towards the coarse russet fur. The Fox started, froze for an instant… but then pressed his forehead against the open palm. The Rose immediately coughed. The Little Prince withdrew his hand and continued: “I, too, have no time for games. I must save the Rose. She is unwell. And to do that, a nightingale must sing for her. Do you know where I might find a nightingale?” The Fox cast a careful, sidelong glance at the Rose, then looked away. “I know nightingales. Drab little grey birds, too small to eat. They sing at night at the end of spring. Humans are fond of them. People sit late by open windows, which makes it harder for me to slip into hen-houses. For that reason, I do not love nightingales. But I do know that, like all birds, they fall silent when they start a family. They have no time for songs when the hen-nightingale sits hungry upon the nest. And at this season, many birds are brooding or feeding their young. And they are silent. They are neither seen nor heard. I do not know if you’ll manage to find one…” The Fox made to depart once more, and again glanced back, looking past the Little Prince. “And yet,” he added, halfway to the edge of the great wheat-sea, “come at twilight to the thicket of blackthorn at the far end of the field, and listen. Perhaps some nightingale has remained without a mate and still sings. You will know it at once. From his trills, poetry and romantic follies take root in men’s heads.” With a final wave of his tail, he vanished into the midday haze among the milky-green stalks of wheat. On Earth, the sun rolled across the firmament far more slowly than at the asteroid, and more of the Rose’s petals had yellowed than in all her time at home in a single day. The Little Prince had never counted her petals before; it had been enough for him to see that they were many and beautiful. He had no wish to apply the deadening digits of grown-ups to his Rose. But when almost the entire corolla had changed from red to yellow-grey, he steeled himself and resorted to those foolish numbers. The Rose had fifteen petals. By evening of that endless day, only three remained unstained. How many days did that allow? One? Two? It meant that he must find the nightingale this very day. But the Fox had said that nightingales only raise their voices at twilight, and so the Little Prince resolved to rest until sunset. He asked the Rose to wake him if anything should happen, and curled himself up beside her. He awoke to the touch of a cool leaf upon his nose. “My Prince, there is something crouching behind that tree. Or someone,” the Rose whispered. He blinked the sleep from his eyes. The sun had sunk very low, and was painting in gold the weeds, the wheat, the trunks of oaks. And a pair of ears, peeping out from among the roots of the nearest tree, burned like poppy petals. The Little Prince smiled. “Fox? Is that you? Come out, I can see you! You said you had no time for games, not even hide-and-seek.” “I am not yet a Fox,” a small voice piped, and the creature came out into the clearing. “I am a Fox Cub.” Indeed, he was quite tiny: slender little paws, a short tail, one ear still flopping, and his fiery-rust fur glowed in the sunset rays as though a sunbeam had escaped from the sky to the edge of the field. That little beam trembled, whether with fear or rapture, pressed itself against the fallen leaves, but drew ever nearer. The last few steps he crawled upon his belly. “You are the Little Prince, right?” he asked, with an admiring sigh. His eyes shone like black berries, fixed upon him without wavering. “Papa told us stories about you every night before sleep. Oh, I mean, my brothers and sisters think they are only stories, but I always knew that you existed! I have been waiting for the wheat to ripen so that I might see what colour your hair is. Papa never described you any further, but he always repeated that what is most important cannot be seen with the eyes. Now I understand—it is true! I have thought of you so often that I knew you at once.” Here he grew shy and darted back a few steps, but immediately returned. The Little Prince remained silent, not wishing to startle the Cub or his thoughts. The little creature plainly had something more to say, but could not catch the right words. “Tame me, please,” the Cub ventured at last. “I have heard Papa say so often how wonderful it is to be tamed. I have imagined myself tamed so many times that I am almost tamed already. Play with me today, stroke me, and I will be yours. Please, I beg you!” But the Little Prince was silent. Oh, he remembered his merry play with the Fox among the trees, chasing butterflies in the meadow, or lying among the clover, guessing the shapes of clouds above. He remembered the warm, soft fur beneath his hand, the echo of another’s quick heartbeat through the fur and the cloth and two ribcages. He remembered the tickle of breath upon his cheek, the cosy silence shared between them, the games of peep-and-seek where they would glance sidelong at one another, catching now the tip of a tail, now the edge of a scarf, until suddenly their eyes would meet, smile, and dart away again… To live through all that anew, savouring every moment from both sides, the freshness of novelty and the richness of memory? Three petals. One day. No—one more petal had faded at its edge. Never had numbers inspired such hatred in the Little Prince. As though the world of grown-ups, with its laws, its causes and effects, were weaving itself about everything, digitising it all, converting life into a number of days, beauty into a number of petals, love into a number of sacrifices made for it. Life was becoming time and trickling away through the sand. To tame, one must give time. But time was the very thing he did not have. The Little Prince lowered his eyes to the Rose. “Go to him,” his Rose said with a weak and tender smile. She no longer swayed her bud; she stood straight and still, as though carved in stone, so as not to shed a single petal. “I do not wish you to be left alone when I am gone.” The Cub pricked up his ears and wagged his tail just as the grown Fox had done in a former life. The sun was sinking into the hollow between the hills, and the shadow rose like a tide, flooding the undergrowth and all who stood in the clearing. First the smallest of them. The Cub’s fur turned from fiery to ochre-grey, almost like the old Fox’s. (“I may become just like the Fox,” the Little Prince suddenly realised. “The one and only for the Rose, and the one and only for the Cub. But I am but one being in this world, marked out by space and time. And so each of my dear ones will have only half of me. Arithmetic! What, then, will the Rose see? Half of my former self? How strange… The Fox did not hinder me from loving the Rose with my whole heart when he remained far away on Earth, even though in memory he was always beside me. But now they are both within arm’s reach, and I feel a certain awkwardness. How am I to divide myself between them? Perhaps, later…”) But he felt—if he said “no” now, the Cub’s fire would fade. “I am sorry, I cannot,” he answered at last, shifting the box with the Rose to a more comfortable hold and rising to his feet. “I am responsible for my Rose.” And he strode to the boundary between the wood and the field. He still had to find that thicket of blackthorn, and in the oncoming twilight it was hard to distinguish thorn from willow. Though, no. Just reach out a hand and touch the vague mass of leaves; the thorns would be a sure sign. …Anything at all to think of, save the lonely little Cub left behind in the undergrowth, in the green dusk… The blackthorn was found soon enough by the pricks upon his fingers. The Little Prince set the Rose upon the ground and sat down beside her. For a while there was silence—not such as in the desert, but more restless, full of the rustling of insects and the distant echoes of music from the village far away. It must have been Thursday. The Rose was already dozing, her leaves drooping despite the watering. She scarcely smelled of anything now, barely a trace, a ghost of fragrance, perceptible only if he bent very, very close to the flower. And the Little Prince bent towards her, whispering that all would be well, that he had but a little longer to wait. The sky was already fading from blue to black, and the first stars emerged like droplets of light, trembling and blurring, ready to spill over at any moment. The Little Prince wiped his eyes with his sleeve, and the stars grew sharp again. Somewhere among them, the asteroid B612 was. Empty. The abandoned screen, the sparse grass, the three volcanoes, and at the foot of the extinct one… no, he must not go further! Better to look back upon that other, bygone time. It was here, in memory, and had not truly passed away at all. A little planet, three volcanoes, unremarkable grasses, a boy, and his one and only flower in all the world… The Little Prince did not notice the singing at first. It was simply that, all at once, his longing for the past and his fear of the future were suddenly outside, sounding forth from the heart of the thorny branches, ringing in the field and the wood. The source of those trills and whistles was not visible within the blackthorn. “Forgive me,” the Little Prince said, not daring to interrupt that song. “Are you a nightingale?” Silence held its breath on both sides of the thicket. The flutter of tiny wings ceased a little way off. Somewhere in the density of the thorn lurked an invisible nightingale, yet this time the thicket did not grow more beautiful for it. The nightingale was hiding from one of a thousand little boys. It was not tamed. And yet, for the Little Prince, it had already become the one and only in all the world, the only one who still sang, the only one who could save his one and only Rose. The uniqueness of the Rose had spread its wing over that unfamiliar little bird. But in the opposite direction, those bonds did not hold. The one-sided connection ached and drew the soul out of the Little Prince. The nightingale had no reason whatever to help a strange boy. Oh, if only they had tamed one another… But for that, time was needed. Much time. Words are the source of misunderstandings, the Fox had once said. But no other way remained, and the Little Prince was melting time into words. He sat down very close to the thicket, so that the leaves and the tips of the branches caught at his scarf, and softly, so as not to wake the Rose, he began to speak of his flower, his planet, of those he had encountered upon Earth and in the space, of friendship, and of how those unknown but a few moments before could suddenly become the one and only in all the world. The darkness on the other side remained silent but absorbed his whisper like a sponge. And the Little Prince sent his questions into that mistrustful unknown, as in a game of Battleships, at random, trying to trace the contours of another soul. Sometimes he struck true, and the silence thickened into soft, mournful whistles, a shadow of that poignant song which had led him to the nightingale. “How strange,” the Little Prince added. “I was told that your voice awakens thoughts of love and beauty, yet I hear only sorrow and pain. But surely there must be hope as well. It must exist! After all, I have found you.” “Hope?” came a series of little trills from the thicket. “Hope, love, beauty… I sang of them a moon or two ago, when I had everything. A home, a beloved, a future. Our children. You come seeking hope, strange little boy. Do you wish to hear how dreams are in an instant torn to shreds and transformed into nightmare?” The Little Prince swallowed. Too vividly he imagined the yellowed petals upon the ground, and the tufts of curly white fleece, and the black constellation upon the white fuselage. “I understand. If it will ease you, tell me, and we shall not be alone before our fear.” And the nightingale sang, but now the Little Prince distinguished every note, saw every last shadow, every egg-shell, every feather-down… …The thorn-bush with its thousand spines had for years faithfully guarded the nightingales' nest, but on that day it had betrayed them, it could not hold back disaster. When the Nightingale returned with caterpillars, he found only broken branches with tufts of some creature’s fur, an overturned nest, eggshells, and the mangled body of his mate. The nightingale’s tremolo beat against the snares of memory, unable to escape. But to tame someone, one must stand on the same side as they. The Little Prince closed his eyes and followed, without stirring, the voice of the Nightingale to that place where, in the box of earth, there might remain only a scattering of grey petals and the black zigzag of a bare stem. And at the edge of that thorny blackness, a tiny light-brown bird—a shadow, no more— sat and sang. “I understand. All the stars have grown dark for you,” the Little Prince breathed, scarcely audible, and the Nightingale did not fly away. “I understand, for I fear the same. Yes, it is less painful when one is not alone. But I implore you, lead me out of this. Only you can do it. Sing for the Rose, I beg you, as you sing for all the world. Then she will bloom again for me, as before.” “To sing for a rose, perched upon its branch?” The Nightingale fell still, as though about to fly away. “Oh, I remember that story. Do you know what it is you ask?” “The most important thing—hope.” “Then you do not know. And yet…” The Nightingale let his wings droop wearily in the darkness. “Is it not there that I too shall find it? Very well. I will help you. Rejoice, for you shall have your red rose. I shall spin hope from the sounds of my song, and thus I shall remain within it. In return, I ask but one thing of you: be faithful to your love. Do not let it vanish.” The tiny shadow fluttered from the bush towards the box. “Is this your Rose?” “Yes, but be careful, she is about to shed her petals,” the Little Prince hastened to add. But the Nightingale weighed next to nothing. The Rose did not tilt, only started and awoke. The Little Prince at once reached out his hands to soothe and support her. “Do not be afraid, my Rose, this is a friend. He will help us. Just listen to him.” She fell still obediently. What else could she do? And indeed, it was impossible not to listen to that song. An endless current of sound poured from that tiny throat—where did it all fit? The notes rose to the heavens, murmured among the stars, and fell back with soft clicks. The Little Prince almost grew calm. Such beautiful singing must surely work a miracle. In the darkness, the Little Prince could barely make them out—the bird and the flower. They merged almost into one pale silhouette upon the dark background of the blackthorn. He did not take his eyes from that spot, and waited for dawn. The Rose had been born with the sun, and now she must surely revive at daybreak. The stars faded in the paling sky, and with them the voice of the Nightingale ebbed. Yet the rose seemed to grow darker. Around them, other morning birds were already whistling, but the Little Prince noticed that the Nightingale had fallen silent, and bent over the Rose. The colours had not yet emerged from the night, but she had certainly changed to a more intense hue. Her stillness frightened the Little Prince, and he ventured to touch her crown. “Rose, wake up, answer me! How are you?” Her petals felt firm to the touch, and slightly damp with dew. And cold. For a couple of infinitely long seconds, there was silence. “What?” the Rose suddenly stirred. “Oh, it’s you… Thank you for waking me, I was having such a dreadful dream… I must have been weary from the journey, to fall asleep in the middle of such a beautiful song without hearing it to the end. It was truly wonderful. I feel better already. Where has your friend gone?” Her voice once more rippled with coquettish tints. The Little Prince breathed again, and realised with a start that the Nightingale was indeed nowhere to be seen. Nor was there any flutter of grey wings. The dense blackthorn before him was silent. And did not answer his call. Only the pre-dawn wind sighed in the green wheat behind him. “How wonderful,” the Little Prince said, and for some reason he began to weep, “how very glad I am.” Never had he awaited a sunset with such impatience as he now awaited this dawn. But the sky yellowed slowly, preening itself, powdering itself with wisps of white cloud, swelling to orange, and within seconds, like a practised coquette, it had donned another gown, this time of pink. And then, through the dark wood on the far side of the field, there began to flicker the scarlet gleams of the sun, like veins upon the slope of a volcano, suffusing the clouds as well, so that the Little Prince’s heart grew a little troubled. He had no wish to look upon volcanoes, nor upon the white-and-pink tatters in the sky, and so he turned to the Rose. She was beautiful and fresh. Her petals gleamed like scarlet satin. And the Little Prince bent towards her for that fragrance which he had so sorely missed. The Rose smelled of something cloying and heavy, nauseatingly sweet. The Little Prince nearly recoiled, but held himself still. He held his breath—but for another reason. In the grass behind the box, with its crooked little legs drawn up and its wings outspread, lay the Nightingale, and upon its breast there darkened a stain of the same colour as the Rose. Bright, moist, too lustrous compared with the dull, half-closed bead of the bird’s eye. The Little Prince carefully lifted the box, turned away, shielding the Rose with his own body. Let at least her gaze remain untainted. “Let us go and greet the sun,” he whispered into the crimson curls, scarcely breathing. He wandered through the wheat, stealing glances at the Rose. So that was what the Nightingale had been asking him the night before! No doubt it too had been hurrying towards his own rose in grey feathers, but instead of a snake, he had chanced upon a little boy from an asteroid. One could only hope that the Nightingale had found its way among the stars. The sun rose from behind the hills as the Little Prince reached the edge of the little wood. But the moment he stepped into the open, already sun-warmed space, the Rose suddenly cried out and closed herself in her leaves. “No, do not! It burns me! It will scorch me!” he could make out through her sobs. For a few moments he hesitated, not understanding what was happening, but when the Rose spoke of light too bright, he stirred and hurried back beneath the canopy of the trees. In the shade of a great oak he halted and, soothing the Rose, gently parted her leaves. She fell silent and gazed at him with equal bewilderment. The edges of her upper petals had yellowed again and curled inward. “I am cold,” she whispered. “What has happened, my Rose? Why?!” the Little Prince cried, more to himself than to her. “I do not know! The sun burned me! But it burned me with cold, not heat. It… it gave no warmth at all! What have you done to me?” “Forgive me, I do not know,” said the Little Prince, on the verge of tears himself. Why did everything go so awry? “I thought the Snake did not deceive me, as it had not deceived me the first time. I ought to have questioned it further. It always speaks in riddles.” “You are not overly discriminating in your choice of friends,” the Rose said, and even through her terror her voice had regained its thorns. “And your Nightingale, it seems, has abandoned you as well.” “Forgive me,” the Little Prince managed to utter, though in that moment he was thinking of the Nightingale. “Oh,” said the Rose, shuddering at the sight of his drooping shoulders. “No, do not blame yourself. You have done all that you could, and it is not your fault that it was not enough. I should not have snapped at you, but I was too frightened. And I am so cold… Why is it so cold? Even the night was warmer.” She was trembling all over, and spoke with effort. “Please touch me. Your hands are always so warm. I believe that you would never burn me…” He bent to her. In her cloying fragrance, the old dusty notes were creeping back. The Little Prince covered her crown with one palm, and closed the other about her stem just above the upper leaves, in the gap between the thorns. After so long together, he knew perfectly well the place of all four of her “claws.” And immediately he snatched his hand back from a prick. But… there had been a smooth stem there before! Hardly believing his eyes, he stared at a fifth thorn, at the crimson drop upon his finger, at the dark streaks of blood upon the stem where the Nightingale had perched during the night. The Rose gasped, and the Little Prince quickly clenched his fist. A dry branch cracked nearby, before either of them could speak. The Little Prince spun round, shielding the Rose. But it was just an old, bedraggled fox, his fur the colour of salt and pepper, emerging from behind a beech tree a little way off. “Well, did you find what you were seeking?” he called from a distance. “I do not know. I am not certain,” the Little Prince answered. What else to say, he did not know. “Ah, well.” The Fox seemed even more weary and sorrowful than the day before, when he approached his friend. “Would you lend me a hand?” “You shall always be my friend,” the Little Prince replied without hesitation. “You need not ask.” And he turned back towards the Rose. “My beloved, I… I must help him. I shall not go far, and not for long.” She nodded, but said nothing, and did not even glance in the Fox’s direction. The Little Prince rose and walked over to the Fox. Each step came with difficulty: the two most important beings were too close, and their forces of attraction pulled in opposite directions. “I would not have asked, had I been able to manage myself, or turn to my dear vixen,” the Fox observed drily, with a sidelong glance at the averted head of the Rose. “But we have paws, and that can be most inconvenient.” “Well, what is it, then?” smiled the Little Prince. In the grumbling jest, the old ironic Fox shone through. “Oh, just a thorn stuck fast.” The Fox sat down and lifted his muzzle to the Little Prince. A rather swollen muzzle on one side. “I cannot get it out at all. If I leave it, I shall not keep my sense of smell for long, and what am I without that?” The thick end of the thorn was barely visible among the blood-stained fur. The Little Prince did not flinch; his hands were already soiled anyway. The wound from the Rose’s thorn was aching and hampered his delicate work. The Fox was yelping through clenched teeth, but sat motionless while the Little Prince at last managed to work the splinter out. A long, sharp thorn, like a needle, from the blackthorn. A suspicion pricked him. Out of habit, the Little Prince ran his palm through the Fox’s fur. Once it had been thick, soft, and smooth, positively inviting one to bury one’s face in it. Now it had grown coarser and stuck out in tufts even more than the day before. And his whole muzzle was covered in fresh scratches carefully licked clean. The Little Prince froze as understanding dawned. “What have you done, Fox?” he asked, growing cold. “Nothing. I went hunting,” replied the other, without expression, and began to lick his muzzle. “In the blackthorn thicket?” “Everywhere. Hey, you have pricked yourself too. Let me…” The Fox reached for the Little Prince’s fingers, but the Little Prince drew his hand back. “So it was you? You killed the Nightingale’s mate, destroyed their nest? Yesterday?” He nearly choked when, all at once, the same heavy scent as from the Rose wafted from the Fox. “And if I did, what of it?” The Fox looked him straight in the eye. “It is no trouble to me. To me, it was but one among hundreds of thousands of little birds, while you—you are the one and only in the universe. I did not wish you to suffer from despair, and I had hoped you would never know… Besides, I am a predator. All my life I have wrung the necks of birds, to feed and to live. It never troubled you before.” Something was wrong. The Little Prince felt it. Something foul-smelling, rotting, was spreading from his hands, and he did not know how to hold on to this slipping thing, nor whether he even wished to hold it. How fortunate he had been upon Earth the first time, to have encountered nothing of this sort. But now it was as though he had fallen upon a different planet altogether, where he must learn to understand life anew: what does one do when a friend commits something abhorrent for one’s sake? “What am I to do?” the Little Prince asked of all the world, but only the Fox stood before him. Seemingly the same old friend, and at the same time a part of this new, unfamiliar planet. “What are you to do? Return to your Rose. She is more important to you than anything else at this moment, and you to her. Do not squander what has been won at no small cost. Say nothing, just remember that I will always remain your friend.” The Fox turned to go, his tail rising in farewell. The Little Prince said nothing and only reached out his hand, and with his fingertips brushed the white, stiff tuft of the Fox’s tail. The Fox stopped after a few paces. He turned back. “Oh, yes, I forgot to thank you for the Cub.” The Little Prince started, froze. Words of gratitude did not fit the crushing sense of guilt that descended upon him at the thought of the Cub. “He is too young, too naive, too much of a dreamer. He cannot yet distinguish the footsteps of different people, yet he already trusted you. And he was forever trying to run out to the first strangers he met. It is not easy to keep watch over him. Other people might easily catch and destroy such a trusting little creature. Foxes must learn caution, so that they may live long enough to go forth to meet a true friend without fear. The little one will grow older and wiser, will understand whom he may trust. So do not worry about him.” And he trotted away, melting behind the palisade of trunks. “Thank you, my friend,” whispered the Little Prince to the sighing wood, and returned to the Rose. She was still trembling. He thought how small and pitiful her thorns were beside those of the blackthorn, and he encircled her slender stem, bent over her to breathe upon her crown. The Rose started, pricking him more sharply, and at once fell still, only repeating in a whisper: “No—do not—you should not…” But he smiled. “It is warmer thus, is it not? Then it is nothing. I can bear it. Do not move.” And so she did. Motionless they sat together for a long, long while, until sunbeams crept through the canopy to their refuge. Carrying the Rose to the other side of the oak, the Little Prince noticed with joy that the edges of the withered petals were once more infused with scarlet resilience. Moreover, the Rose was fending him off with great animation in their new place. She assured him that she felt better already, and was scarcely cold at all. And she even opened wide in confirmation of her words. She was impossibly beautiful—if one paid no heed to the scent. The Little Prince promised himself he would grow accustomed to it. “It is a pity, though,” the Rose said suddenly, deep in thought, “that we shall no longer be able to watch the sunset together.” “Never mind,” he smiled again. “All the stars remain ours.” For some time the Little Prince sat, leaning against the trunk of the tree, beside the Rose. In the shade, upon the bare earth, it was just a little cool. His head was spinning; weariness descended upon him. The marks from the Rose’s needles itched, while he lazily wiped his fingers with an oak leaf. He smiled again, remembering how the Fox had licked his grazes after their romps through the fields, how the wheat had rustled in the wind and the leaves in the groves had answered it, how the warm russet fur had sprung beneath his hand, how a wet nose had nudged his ear when his first friend had shared his secrets in farewell. But every memory led him back into the blackthorn thicket, where that same pink fox-tongue licked the scratches of thorn-spines, washing bird-blood and feathers from his whiskers. And the Nightingale’s despairing lament remained lodged in his memory like a poisoned thorn. Some gifts are too great to be accepted, yet too great to be returned; one can only carry them onward. The evening sun woke the Little Prince, tickling his nose. He sprang up at once to shield the flower… But she was no longer in the box. Or rather, what lay upon the ground no longer resembled his Rose; a black, desiccated stem, and at its end, a handful of black dust. “Rose—my Rose—you cannot have…” and then, more softly, “What have I done?” and then louder, with all his voice, “Snake! You lied!” The cry did not travel far; it drowned in the whisper of a thousand leaves, as did another sound, barely audible—the rustle of scales upon bark, a sibilant whisper. “As a matter of fact, I do not lie. Why should I? You asked; I solved the riddle. Simple and fair.” The Snake had coiled about a low branch of the oak, and gazed at the Little Prince without blinking. “Then why… Why did she die?” Sleep had fallen from him, and fear had dissolved into anger. The yellow triangular head swayed from side to side, but came no closer. “You did not ask how to save her from death, or I would have answered that it was impossible. She is but an ephemeral plant, not a child of the stars, like yourself. All living creatures die, sooner or later. But you asked how to save her from fading. And I told you how to make her eternally young and un-dead. Oh, that is not at all the same as 'alive.' She and I had a little conversation while you slept, and the Rose had the wit to ask what it meant. And she decided that another’s blood, or even another’s life, was not a price she was willing to pay for eternal youth. She asked me to free her from the fate you had chosen for her. My poison liberates even the un-dead. It was her choice. Not yours, not mine. She also asked me to tell you that she had always loved you.” The Little Prince sank to his knees slowly, as though the air were leaving him; only his eyes glittered. “The only place where she would continue to live,” the Snake went on, “was your memory. But you have stained that memory through and through. I can see how you flinch each time you look back.” Tears rolled down the Prince’s cheeks; the only movement, besides the hypnotically slow descent of the pale-yellow slender body down the trunk. “Every one I touch, I return to the earth from which they came. But you have gathered too many stones upon your soul, and it can no longer fly as far as a star. Have you anything left that is pure? Love? Friendship? A home? You know the answer. Look at your hands.” The Little Prince did not stir. Why lower his gaze, when he already knew what stained his palms. It still hurt. Dark blotches swam before his eyes. Dry petals—the lamb—the airplane—the nightingale on its back—the fox and the cub—a handful of black ash… The blotches merged with the forest twilight and the jagged silhouettes of leaves. “Without the Rose, that asteroid is no longer my home,” he uttered soundlessly, but the Snake had drawn close enough to read his lips. “Indeed,” the Snake said, continuing its descent. “But I can still help you. You have not earned the light, but you have earned rest. I can take away the pain and the guilt. Nothing shall remain but a lulling 'nothing.'” And now it had coiled itself into a ring upon his knees, raised its head, taut as a spring, ready to strike. One lightning movement—and the Little Prince held it fast just beneath the pointed head. “No,” he answered, almost calm. “I shall not listen to you again. Yes, I understand now. I should have let her go. But if I vanish, then my Rose vanishes with me. I will not allow that. You said yourself, in my memory she will live on. Then I shall preserve all of her—her caprices, her silences, her love, her tenderness, her loneliness… And yes, all that came after, since one can’t be separated from the other. You once called me weak. I will learn to be strong, and to carry my Rose and my planet within me.” “What will you do here, upon Earth, alone?” The Snake struggled in vain against his grip. “Earth is vast. There are still thousands of people, roses, foxes upon it. And nightingales, too. Now I have time and can share it, and tame someone. But I will never abandon anyone again.” He rose and flung the Snake far away, beyond the roots of the oak, then turned and strode swiftly towards the wheat-field. The coiled mass of scaly fury hissed and vanished into the rotting leaves of last year upon the ground. The setting sun tinged the unripe wheat with the colour of his hair, and the dusty leaves of the distant grove with the tender green of his garments. And soon he dissolved against that background, to remain there forever.