Forget Me Not

Copyright © 2018 Aslı Eti.

Translation © Feyza Howell 2016

Illustrations © Mehtap Korkmaz 2018

The rights of Aslı Eti, Feyza Howell and Mehtap Korkmaz to be identified as the author, translator and illustrator respectively of this work have been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

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A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN: 978-1-9822-0793-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-9822-0791-5 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-9822-0792-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018908063

Balboa Press rev. date: 07/19/2018

Contents

Introduction

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

About the Author

Introduction

Some things are meant to be understood much later.

I want to tell you an old story. One from long ago, from a land far, far away… One I had long since forgotten. The trouble is, I wasn’t even aware that I had forgotten. I’m just beginning to recall now. I must have got lost amongst all that I’ve got to do, all the places I’ve got to get to. And time has obviously drawn a thick curtain over everything. Until, that is, today, when those dusty lines somehow turned up out of the blue… I was wiping my bookcase when that old manuscript floated down, its binding worn, pages ragged; as though it had been asleep for years, woken up just then and decided to fall. My eyes locked on the two words carved into the cover:

Forget Me Not

And another sentence immediately below them, in a tiny script, reminding me I had forgotten everything about that incredible journey of a completely different time and place:

The most mysterious truths are the simplest in the world, since they’re the first to be forgotten.

The notebook related a legend. But different from the usual run of legends: this was no tale of heroism. Quite the opposite. It was the tale of a mistake. A short, sparkling tale without a hero that still makes the world nicer and lovelier…

I must recall everything once again. That’s why I’m relating all that‘s written in this notebook today, relating it again. For myself. To recall all that I’ve long since forgotten.

1

If we have the power to destroy,

does that mean we also have the power to create?

Harsh were the winters in Ida’s village, long lay the white blanket of snow on the ground, for months would it lie without lifting. This land far from our sight surrounded by majestic, steep rocks and impassable mountains only showed its face when the sun began to melt the snow, only then did it take a deep breath.

Our story begins on such a day, on a day when sunlight sings of springtime around the corner, glittering on the crystal branches. When Ida was eight, and spring filled her room with the fresh smells of trees and soil… When that mysterious path winked at her from between the lush greens, the path Ida had fantasised about, the path that began where the village ended and wound alongside the stream…

She opened the door of the mud-brick house, silent as a butterfly, too excited to contain herself. She put on her backpack and quietly stepped out. She moved towards the path at the end of the village, her feet sinking into the fast melting snow, soft, melting snow. It was an enchanting view of sunlight reflecting off the snows and the misty crown of the peaks on the horizon. Not that Ida’s mind or eyes were in any state to notice the view. Going so far from home on her own for the first time, walking on the path leading to the world beyond the village: could this be the first real taste of freedom? That vast world of freezing cold, wolves howling all night long, mountain fairies, demons, witches petrified by the north winds… all that, and more, an enormous world so long the home of all these ancient tales that somehow rarely mentioned anything nice: all that now lay before her as far as the eye could see. Drunk on freedom, Ida forgot all prohibitions and her whole world changed quite unexpectedly when she pursued a snow tulip.

The mountains soaring all around them were known as glacier peaks. The Heaven and Hell Valley that began where the path ended opened out and deepened towards the horizon. Snowmelt cascaded over vertical boulders and mingled with breaking glaciers to make waterfalls. Icy springs burst forth everywhere. This enchanted place hidden below the misty skies was home to legends older than time itself. As she followed the seemingly endless path, Ida was thinking of the tales of kings, emperors, gods and goddesses, tales that had spread from mouth to mouth. It was as if she were moving into another place and another time as she walked. The misty peaks, clouds and waters raging over sullen, steep rocks all seemed to be transporting her to a land of dreams.

Ida was still on the path when she spotted the snow tulip. It burst into view to the sounds around: the wind, the chirping of the birds and the roaring waterfalls. It just stood there. Silent and harmless… It must have sprouted through the snow. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. Ida had never seen such a tulip, no, such a flower before. Its petals had a velvety white sheen, almost too delicate to touch. They were so tightly wound around one another that the tulip looked like a swan. Dewdrops sparkled on its surface. You couldn’t keep your eyes off it once you’d seen it. It was so different from everything around, it looked so different that even though its roots were in the same soil, it could have been brought over from a different universe.

That was nearly the end of the path, and she’d been gone quite a while, her family would soon notice Ida was gone. She had to return to the village as soon as possible. But she couldn’t. She just couldn’t leave the tulip, just couldn’t leave it and go away. Enchanted by the path and intoxicated by the freedom she tasted for the first time, she forgot everything. Just stood and stared at the tulip in the snow. Stared and stared… She had to have it. Absolutely. She couldn’t just leave it alone and carry on. She decided to pick it and take it along, to preserve it till the end of time.

She knelt down towards it. Reached out, and just as she was about to pick it, she heard a whisper:

‘Don’t do it!’

She swung around anxiously, but there was no one around. She reached again and grasped the tulip by the stem. She’d remove it by the roots and replant it once she got back, so it would live in its new home.

‘Please don’t do it!’ repeated the voice.

A little louder this time… A velvety voice, sweet, melodious. Ida looked around again, but there was no one else on the path. She murmured:

‘Who’s speaking?’

‘Me, it’s me. Please don’t pick me!’

Ida couldn’t believe her ears. She stared at the snow tulip in her palm. At its – her? It sounded like a girl’s voice! - delicate stem, dazzling petals and all around the tree-lined path…

‘You,’ she said, ‘Can you really speak then?’

‘Since you can hear me, yes,’ replied the tulip.

‘I’ve never seen a speaking flower before… or even heard of one,’ said Ida, ‘How can you do it?’

‘Please let me stay here,’ pleaded the tulip. ‘I’ll die if you pick me.’

‘No. I won’t kill you. I’ll plant you when we get there. Don’t worry.’

‘No,’ said the tulip in a trembling voice. ‘I can’t live anywhere other than in my own soil, no, oh no! Please don’t do it!’

‘Why on earth not?’ grumbled Ida, ‘All flowers live where they’re planted; everyone knows that. You’re just trying to fool me. Just because you don’t want me to pick you…’

‘You must believe me; it’s the truth,’ insisted the tulip. ‘I’m special, not like the others.’

‘I can tell you’re special; you’re lovely. That’s why I can’t just leave you.’

‘Why ever not?’

‘Because I’ve never had such a lovely thing before. I’ll take you home. I’ll show you to everyone. No one else has such a beautiful flower; I’ll be the only one.’

‘But if you pick me, my beauty will fade. I’ll just be an ordinary flower if I leave. And I’ll fall ill straightaway.’

Ida hesitated. A bit fed up with this whining too: what a carry-on!

‘You can’t stop me. I’ll pick you if I want.’

‘You’re right… I can’t resist you. All I can do is say you shouldn’t pick me. You have to believe me.’

‘I don’t have to believe you. I don’t even know you.’

Ida had already decided to pick the snow tulip. She had no intention of chatting any more. She bent down again, grabbed the slender stem nearest the roots and began to pull with all her might. She heard the flower sigh