The Hymn to Galvach was not coming as smoothly as Idela had hoped. She remembered all the words and the notes, but the cadence was troubling. Every word counted, and every beat mattered. The trope was just as important. Why could she not remember it? Had she not learned it as a girl?

She absentmindedly clutched the heart-shaped locket around her neck with her free hand. There was a scent. It smelled like a light floral fragrance. She just could not place where she recalled first nosing such a scent. One thing was for certain, though, it did not belong here. There was no association with this time and place. The scent simply did not belong here. A garden perhaps. Her grandmother's house, maybe. She took her hand from the locket. The scent dissipated, and just like that, her struggle deep within the walls of her mind to place its origin also stopped. She did not have time to think about the mystery since presently she was singing a song that she did not know how to sing. Rather, she was aware of the fact that she did not know now to sing the song. The reality was, her lips and the rest of her somehow knew exactly what came next. It was a little like watching someone else sing--as though she were outside her body watching a performer. Whatever note came next in the form that it took was just as much of a surprise to her as anyone else. Sure, everyone knew the lyrics to the Hymn to Galvach, but how it was performed was an entirely distinct ordeal.

"You shall recall the tower of the far fields..." What? Was this the next lyric? Wait, no. This was something else. These words in this form--she had heard them somewhere before. She had heard them spoken by someone, somewhere. Idela felt slightly squeamish in recalling these words. Her stomach began to contort into knots. It was as if someone had been making a bed and pulled the sheet tight, and underneath they had forgotten to smooth out all the kinks and lumps--except the kinks and lumps throbbed and ached. Putting her hand above the area did not appear to smooth them out either. It served to make her more aware of the issue--as though her hand were some powerful magnet that amplified rather than soothed pain. Really though, it had nothing to do with her hand. It was only the contrast her hand provided against her stomach that emphasized the nature of the pain. Why is it when human beings are in pain they instantly clutch the spot as though their hands will solve the problem? Is it not, more often the case, that some other hand had to intervene to fully resolve the root cause?

What was worse to know was that it was neither stomach nor her hand that were the source of the pain, but something emotional that was pushing on her nerves. Yes, the body reacts in a myriad of ways disguising what is in essence an emotion. Though the stomach hurts, the heart is the cause. Though the head may ache, the mind is the hidden impeller. What diabolical scheme was it that made one perfectly aware of the cause of a problem while yielding no insight into the resolution? Imagine going to a doctor to describe how your stomach hurt, only to be told that it was really an emotional matter. "Indeed, the suspicion was all ready there, good doctor! Now, how shall you help my stomach cease this pain?"

The music began to crescendo. The tension in Idela's gut subsided somewhat. She needed more air. Her body seemed to know this. Though she could not allay her anxiety, the song somehow seemed to resolve it for her. Or, maybe it was more the case that her vocal position in the song was the resolution. Like some stereotypical Hollywood star who has the reputation of being an acting genius when it was not time for her part she was too busy being an emotional wreck. Suffering for her art, how poetic was that? Sounds good from the outside perspective.

Suddenly her diaphragm became quite taught. "Here comes that high note," she thought. How high was it? She could not say. She only could read the signs of her body as indicating that it was preparing for something that would be a strain to reach. It would have to exert effort beyond the comfort of her normal vocal range. She was climbing a sonic mountain.

"There is nothing at the top of a mountain that you do not carry with you." This again? What? What were these unwelcome intrusions? Why did they keep happening during singing, of all times? They felt less like her thoughts and more like memories, which was all the more puzzling. How can you remember something that you do not remember? At the point you begin to suspect to believe that what it is is a memory--is that sufficient to make it a memory--or is it something you have invented? What was the implication of the words that were spoken then? This, this sounded like wisdom--but it was not wisdom that originally was hers. Rather, this was something she distinctly remembered being taught. And what, what were the implications? If there was nothing to obtain at the top of the mountain that was not all ready there, was it not the case that some germinal seed was currently present such that if she were to firmly place herself within the confines of that seed that she would not have accomplished having climbed the summit without the strain? Was the body operating out of conditioning at this point? Did she have the ability to will her body otherwise than it currently was doing? It seemed like the thing was on auto-pilot. How does one fly a plane when one is not entirely sure of the controls let alone where the cockpit resides?

The high part was over. She had climbed the mountain and not even noticed it. Rather, she felt the symptoms of having climbed the mountain, and felt that her body was now relaxing. "More than half-over now. Should be easy to navigate from here. More time for the mind to drift, though." More time to puzzle over the clearly visceral and strange occurrences which had overtaken her. Could her reason perhaps be employed as a background process to solve what seemed to be a riddle?

She inhaled. There she was in the Gardens of Melor. There, in this distance the castle. Next to the castle a garden. She began to walk along the path of neatly set stone pavers. Each one carried her closer to the garden gate. She swung the gate open effortlessly. Inside were her friends--her flowers. In every corner there was something floral that she had planted and nurtured. The moon flowers of course would not come into full bloom until the alignment of the two crescent moons. Some plants had needs that only universal processes could supply. It was true that to grow anything one had to rely on the universe in one way or another, but some plants could be induced to bloom if provided enough water or enough sunlight. One could not fool nature, but one could take shortcuts if they knew where to look.

Beyond the garden was the forest with the casual brown disappearing into a shadow of black. The base of each tree sturdy and thick. This was an old growth forest and no one would have dared to cut down a single tree. Everyone knew that Galvach communed among the trees and to cut one down was very nearly a sacrilege. Presently, her nostrils were filled with the rich smell of the Hyacinth. Yes. This was THAT smell. How could she have forgotten the source of it? For that matter, where was she such that she had forgotten it? Had she nodded off in some dream where she was singing and having memory issues? Thank goodness such phantasms of the mind came and went. A reality where she had forgotten something so intrinsic to her identity should surely be some apocalyptic hellscape.

Currently she pruned the roses. It would be time to start walking back to the castle soon since nightfall would be coming and the strange creatures which called the woods home would soon be teeming and weaving themselves through the trunks of the forest. Night birds would call into the air, and things that slithered among the decaying leaves would be trying to find their next meal. It was not that she was scared of these things, but rather there was no reason to be out among them.

Near the castle was the tall tower near the edge of the field. It served mostly as a lookout. Off in the distance was of course the mountains. She had been all the way up them several times in her life and knew the paths quite well since she sometimes had to go up or down them looking for seeds or transplants. Yes, this was her home and had been for as long as she could remember. What a silly thing to have had a dream about forgetting the smell of the Hyacinth!

Approaching the garden gate in his white cloak was Molodo the Hermit who helped tend the grounds. Once when she was young she had been afraid to climb the mountains and it had been he who had said there is nothing there that you cannot find at the base. Molodo had a way with words and held such effortless wisdom. Of course, his gifts did not extend into growing flowers. No, he was better for mountain-climbing advice, or to prune branches that were too high for others to reach. It was good to see Molodo and for some reason Idela could not explain she felt happier than normal to see him--as if she had not been able to interact with him in quite some time. What was this strange disjointed reaction?

The music had ended. Her body did not move further, for there was nothing for her body to do. Idela opened her eyes. There around her was the choir in the First Christian Church where she sang. The preacher of course was in the front of the congregation as he was always and the pews were full of people dressed in their Sunday finest. Her hymn to Galvach--er God--was finished. Odd that the name Galvach almost came out. That would be a near blasphemy to substitute the name of God for something else.

The stained-glass windows depicted lambs and some trees, but the one she liked best depicted a type of blue rose. She never could figure out why it drew her attention so much, but she always thought it was especially pretty. When her eyes visited the scene of it this time, though, something unusual happened. A grief began to grow in her chest for which she could find no reason. Had anything unusual happened during the singing of her hymnal? She remembered being a bit nervous before the high part of the song, but that was about it. Something still felt wrong, though. Everyone filed through the church doors and Idela made her way to her car. Service was over. Off in the distance she could hear a weed eater or a chainsaw. She was not sure which. Something about the sound disturbed her. She could not be sure what. She had to hurry though since today she intended to visit the botanical gardens among the smog filled city. She had bought her tickets at least two weeks in advance and had spared no expense. Later, she would retire to her trailer and make herself some macaroni and cheese. All, she supposed, must be right with the world.