River Mist Tales: The Gate

Welcome, the mist is rising, please make yourself comfortable. There’s tea in the pot, or perchance, you brought some wee dram of your own.

The seat by the window gives the best view, allows for the easiest of hearing. Ignore the cats, no matter what they say, and don’t open the window for the crows.

I’ll be working at the table in the corner, if you have any need, or she knocks upon the door. And until you stop by again, may your wonderings be bold and your imaginings be wise.

Until your next visit, the next photograph, the next 12-line story, good fortune and safe wanderings.

whitegate_cwm

The Gate

This last entry is for you, if you’ve read the letters you will find this notebook buried among the roots of that ancient oak tree which stands at the edge of the footpath leading from the village green, the only landmark I have described to you.

During the past six months while I have been walking these woods, haunting these woods both day and night, you have been with me always, please believe that.

Last night, as the moon set, I had decided to abandon this foolish quest. My tired heart recalled your warnings, decided you may have been right and the stories were just the ramblings of an old lost imagination.

This morning as the sky filled with blue, I packed up, believing this would be my last rambling in these woods, an ending, but now, it will be my beginning. I’ve found the gate. I’ve opened it, closed it, and have it opened again.

The gate stands north of the oak, about ten feet away. A simple structure, wooden pickets painted white, wide, with a black iron latch. Iron, I never would have guessed that.

If you do try to follow, if you can still read this notebook, pay attention to the notes about the weather, to the mist rising from the river.

Forgive me for not bringing you with me, for lying, but I know she’s there, beyond that gate.

 

River Mist Tales: Shoes

Welcome, the mist is rising, please make yourself comfortable. There’s tea in the pot, or perchance, you brought some wee dram of your own. The seat by the window gives the best view, allows for the easiest of hearing.

Ignore the cats, no matter what they say, and don’t open the window for the crows.

I’ll be working at the table in the corner, if you have any need, or she knocks upon the door.

If you enjoy these River Mist Tales do stop by and tarry again. Until then, may your wonderings be bold and your imaginings be wise.

sandals_cwm

Shoes

For three days, the dark fog, resembling an endless blanket of soft sheep’s wool, had shrouded the island. Satisfied, the fog was lifting, moving back out to sea.

Most visitors stayed indoors on those low-lit days. The islanders, resembling ghostly wraiths, worked their chores, on shore, staying away from the creaking piers, the pebbled beaches, the hidden water.

As the early morning grew lighter, gray haired Emily Hargrove pulled on her well-seasoned wool coat. She called to Lily, a round mutt of a dog, ever faithful, as old as Emily herself.

Grabbing her deep basket, Emily walked, stiff and slow, out her back door, along the shore path, moving down to the beach below.

Out of the house once more, both woman and dog were glad, glad for the brush of an easterly wind and the warming touch of a rising sun on skin and fur.

Lily reached the rock first, giving a loud bark. Emily smiled. She knew there would be shoes left behind. She had heard the music, the ebb and flow of voices, the soft creak of wood and the slap of rope.

With the shoes in her basket, Emily turned back towards home, towards hot tea and honeyed biscuits, and a closet filled with the shoes of unwitting travelers.

River Mist Tales: May Day

Welcome, I’ve been waiting for you. Please make yourself comfortable. There’s tea in the pot, or perchance, you brought a wee dram of your own. Beware there’s tales forming from the river’s mist.

Every Friday, here in this digital realm, you will find a photograph. Every Friday you will find a twelve-sentence story. May you enjoy these River Mist Tales and stop by and tarry again.

I’ll be working at the table in the corner, oh, and don’t let the cat out.

Until the next visit, good fortune and safe wanderings.

flyingpinkblossoms_cwm

May Day

On the first day of May, Moire O’Broin rose as the sun lingered below the far eastern horizon.

She dressed with care, piling her long auburn hair, braided, high on her head. Her skirt with its diaphanous layers of blue and green resembled a calm sea, and her bodice, sky blue, was embroidered with tiny pink blossoms and pale green leaves.

Her face was bare except for the tiny triple blue spiral painted high on her left cheek, below the lower outside corner of her eye.

Falling across her body, from her right shoulder, she wore her grandmother’s leather bag, the spirals and runes melting into the aging leather.

By the time Moire’s bare feet wiggled in the dew soaked grass, the sun was streaking the morning sky with long bright shooting shafts of light, a slow wind moving through the yard.

Glancing back at the rambling cottage keeping safe her her slumbering friends, Moire turned and walked through a pink snowfall of cherry blossoms fluttering from tree branch, spiraling downwards, settling on budding leaves, on rocks, on grass. The pink petals clung to her wet feet, collected around her ankles, took refuge in her braided hair.

Wandering towards the ancient oak tree standing sentry between the grassy yard and the wild wood beyond, Moire took a small ceramic bowl from her bag, and collected drops of dew as if she were picking up pebbles from a beach.

Beside the mighty oak stood a stone table, decorated with garlands of flowers, streams of ribbons, and flanked by rough hewn benches.

Placing the bowl on the table, Moire splashed her face with the sparkling dew, splashing her face three times.

Standing in front of the oak, Moire turned towards the sun, raised her arms and began singing the ancient calling song her grandmother had taught her, calling forth Jack in the Green, calling forth the wood sprites, calling forth the celebrations of Beltane.

River Mist Tales

rivermisttales_cwm

Beginning on Friday, May 13, and every Friday after that, you will find a photograph and a story here in this digital notebook of mine.

These companions, single photograph and 12 line story, are formed of the mist rising from the river flowing near my home.

Sometimes the river flows fast, sometimes the river flows slow, but always the mist rises, hides and reveals, telling tales from nearby, and far and away.

Please make yourself comfortable. There’s tea in the pot, or perchance, you brought some wee dram of your own.

The seat by the window gives the best view, allows for the easiest of hearing.

Ignore the cats, no matter what they say, and don’t open the window for the crows, no matter how urgent they tap.

I’ll be working at the table in the corner, if you have any need, or she knocks upon the door.

And until you stop by again, may your wonderings be bold and your imaginings be wise.

May you enjoy these River Mist Tales and stop by and tarry again.

Until your next visit, good fortune and safe wanderings.