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.
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.