These images accompany and illustrate the following short piece:
Beside a few
delicate teacups and a piece of scrimshaw, on a shelf in a glass-fronted
cabinet, my mother kept a pepperpot. It was of classic Georgian shape, a tiny
phallic basilica of a thing, not silver, but made from dark golden imitation wood,
intricately carved with designs of multiform roses. You unscrewed the dome and
put in the ground pepper; but it you unscrewed the base you found a secret
compartment in which my mother kept a treasured twig. This twig was a small
shrivelled claw from a bush called the Rose of Jericho, and it came from
somewhere in the Middle East, a souvenir brought home to Tasmania from the
First World War by an uncle.
Take the twig
from its hiding-place and submerge it in water for about twenty minutes. The
dried-up claw, in the water, gradually opens out, stretches tendrils, until it
blossoms, resembling a freshly-picked bunch of soft brown herb. Tiny bubbles of
ancient air bead the delicate branches. Then take it out of the water, let it
dry, and when it is utterly shrivelled and dead, replace it in the secret
compartment. Return the pepper-pot to its place in the cabinet.
The Rose of
Jericho is now in my possession. I keep it in a cupboard with such things as old prayer-books
and a pair of small white china hands. I removed these hands from my grandmother’s grave
after vandals had trashed all the ornaments, leaving the hands behind. Whenever
I take the twig from its hiding-place and let it come to life again, it's like a
beloved piece of music, played over and over. It can make me stop quite still,
make me hold my breath, stare in simple amazement. And it can trigger memories
long rested. Sometimes I remember to bring it to life on November 11, when many
Australians remember wars, in particular the two world wars.
