The three of us were on our way to the Rose a little before nightfall. We took the wisewoman’s words sacredly, and left as soon as we could, though it was difficult traveling in darkness. At the gate, early in the morning, a drowsy guard let us in. I think, however, there was a shrewdness in his drooping gaze. He was ever watchful through those half-closed eyes, and I’m not sure he was as sleepy as his frequent yawning made him appear.
No matter. We were no robbers nor thieves, and our reason for coming was no secret. If it had been, it would be a secret too easily guessed. All came to the Rose for its light.
The streets in that hour were empty of other pilgrims, though the hawkers and denizens of that city were about. One black bearded man with a yellow face shouted from his booth a few prices at us, but we had no need of his beads. We were devout, but dared not let ourselves be distracted with his offered devotions. We had, already, our path set.
At the temple, they made us bathe. Here we met others who’d come to see the Rose. From all parts they hailed, with strange accents. I could see, as has been said by others, the light in their eyes. These had seen already, and they tarried at the temple for their own causes. I will not judge: I might have stayed myself, I think I would even have died there, but my life was not my own.
Words do not describe the Rose. It is the Fire, the Light, it is that which is in all beauty or loveliness. It is as fresh a thing as first love and as ancient as the tunnels under the mountain. And as the old woman had said to us, a voice spoke.
Tale Told 