The Rose Carpet and the Peri’s Gift: A Tale of Vitality from Shiraz

On the plains of ancient Persia, near the city of Shiraz, there once lay an oasis steeped in the scent of roses. Each May, Damask roses carpeted the river valleys, and even the wind carried a sweet, rouge-like fragrance. Deep within this oasis lived Kareem, a master carpet weaver whose rose-adorned rugs were nothing short of miracles—threads dyed by boiling seven types of rose petals would shift between shades of pink and red in different light; the edges of the woven petals were left with slightly uneven threads, as if still bent under the weight of morning dew. Elders whispered that his rugs held the very soul of roses, for Kareem would wait until each petal was in full bloom to harvest them for dye, and even the warmth of his fingertips seemed to seep into the threads.

Just before Nowruz (the Persian New Year), disaster struck. The oasis’s spring water began to dry up; overnight, the roses withered into brown clumps, and even the drought-resistant shrubs turned yellow. The priest prayed in the fire temple for three days, and at last brought back an oracle: “The Div—an evil spirit of the underworld—has stolen the spring of Haurvatat, the guardian of water. Only a fabric infused with the breath of life can touch the spring and awaken it once more.”

Kareem stared at the rose garden—once a hub of laughter, now silent and dead. He thought of his apprentices gathering around his loom, asking, “Why do roses fade?” Without hesitation, he slung his loom over his shoulder and set off into the desert. The night before his journey, he found one last half-bloomed white rose in the barren garden, pressing it gently into his carpet pattern book—it was a variety his mother had planted, its petals edged with a natural wavy curve.

On the third day of crossing the desert, Kareem spotted a woman in flowing silk behind a sand dune. Crystal-like flowers adorned her hair, and tiny green shoots sprouted wherever her feet touched the sand. “I am a Peri,” she said softly—the benevolent spirits of Persian lore who guard nature. “The Div has hidden the spring in a black stone cave, surrounded by shadows that devour life. But your rugs hold the memory of roses—they may be able to fight the darkness.” She handed him a small vial of morning dew. “Mix this with your dye. Let the threads remember the warmth of the sun.”

When Kareem reached the black stone cave, the Div was sitting atop the spring, sneering. The spring itself was a glittering sapphire, now coated in a thick layer of grime, and the sand around it was scorched black. The Div waved a gnarled staff, and countless shadows coiled around Kareem’s loom, threatening to snap the threads. In that moment, he remembered the Peri’s words. Hurriedly, he took the pressed white rose from his book and pressed it against the silk threads. A miracle unfolded: the dried rose oozed juice, which mixed with the dewy dye to create a vivid pink. The woven rose petals on the loom instantly sprouted fine veins, rising and falling as if breathing.

Kareem knelt in the sand, weaving frantically. His fingertips bled from the rough loom shuttle, and when drops of his blood fell onto the carpet, they transformed into golden threads that dotted the centers of the roses. As he finished the last rose, he tossed the carpet toward the spring. It unfurled in the air, the rose patterns seeming to come alive, releasing a faint, sweet aroma. The shadows melted away like snow in fire at the scent. The moment the carpet covered the sapphire spring, blue light burst through the grime; water gushed forth, following the lines of the carpet, and wherever it flowed, parched sand turned into fertile, moist soil.

Furious, the Div swung his staff at the carpet—but a shield of light, conjured by the Peri, blocked the blow. “You stole more than just water,” the Peri’s voice echoed. “You stole the hope of life.” With a wave of her hand, a whirlwind swept the Div away, vanishing into the desert.

Kareem followed the gushing spring back to the oasis, arriving just as the Nowruz bells began to chime. Wherever the water flowed, withered rose bushes sprouted new buds, and fresh green shoots pushed up in every courtyard. He donated the life-giving rose carpet to the fire temple, and people soon noticed its magic: the roses on the rug never faded, and a soft fragrance lingered when one leaned close.

In time, all carpet weavers in Shiraz learned Kareem’s craft: they boiled rose petals for seven full days to make dye, left the edges of woven petals slightly uneven to give them “breath,” and wove a tiny white rose in the corner of every rug—a tribute to Kareem’s mother’s rose and the Peri’s gift. Elder weavers would tell their apprentices, “True craftsmanship is not about perfect replication. It is about weaving the warmth of life into the fabric. Just like Kareem’s roses, it can awaken spring even in the darkest deserts.”

To this day, during Shiraz’s annual Rose Festival, these special rose carpets are still displayed. Legend says that on moonlit nights, if you look closely at the roses on the rugs, you can see their petals quiver slightly—as if the Peri still watches over the land nourished by her gift.