Circle
There, across some farmer's field, is a stand of oak,
hawthorn, and hickory. Those trees form a ring and in the middle of that ring
is a stump, the stump of an old grand oak, which is no longer there. I know his
story, and the story of the other trees. I happened upon the story one sunny
summer's day while walking, walking from my old life to my new life. Across the
field I saw the stand of oak, hawthorn, and hickory, and it called to me, beckoning
me to its cool shade.
Once within the fold
of trees, enveloped in its cool, dark shade, I saw the stump of an oak,
majestic and demanding, old yet still affluent with presence. As though drawn
by a will not my own, I walked over and sat down in front of the stump, then
reclined against it. While sitting there, I untied my rucksack, and opened it.
From it I produced bread, cheese, and a small container of water. I feasted
upon my meager repast, the bread stale and rough, the cheese old and runny, the
water hot and painful to drink.
After eating and taking a few
sips from the canteen, I put the leftovers in my sack for tomorrow's spread. My
stomach growled in protest. Weariness soon came over me, weariness to the bone,
weariness and darkness, darkness that came with the comfortable forgetfulness
of sleep. In sleep, I know not hunger; in sleep, I know not longing,
loneliness, nor pain.
There, amidst the darkness, the
comfortable darkness of sleep, there came a dream, golden and light. In that
dream, golden and light, I sat in a clearing, a clearing in a forest glade, a
clearing cool and welcoming. From the forest, deep and dark, came a breeze,
rich and earthy, and within that wind, rich and earthy, came a sound, a sound
of voices, voices light, voices with laughter, voices like chimes resounding
with cheer.
Then, from the forest, deep and dark,
they came, the little ones, the faerie folk; first they came as multitudes of
lights: greens and yellows, blues and violets. Then, they slowly took shapes,
shapes of little people with bright eye piercing colored clothing and gossamer
wings.
They came into the clearing, and formed a
circle around me while I sat there near the center of the clearing. Then
another group of faerie folk came out of the forest, deep and dark. They came
into the clearing, laughing and singing while parading through a gap in the
circle.
At the front of the procession was a
pixie, sure and proud, majestic and demanding, old yet affluent with presence,
with his head held high and full of mirth, while he sung in chorus in some
faerie song. He had the look of a king, a faerie king. Behind him faeries
carried plates and platters, pitchers and chalices, all of them silver.
The platters held pheasants, venison,
boar, all roasted to perfection. The plates carried sugar baked carrots, cobs
of roasted corn, salted and buttered heavily, peas shucked and salted, and
other legumes both sugared and salted. The platters also contained fruits of
various sorts, apples, oranges, pears, and grapes, all freshly picked. From the
decanters came the rich smells of wines, lagers, meads, and ciders. They placed
the feast in the middle of the circle and sat down around it, forming another
circle, smaller than the first, around the feast and I.
Then the king came close to me. Staying
at least three meters away, he spoke.
"My name is Naredd,” he
said, “and you are our guest. Come and join our feast. We haven't had
many guests in recent days. The world you come from, the world of people, the
world of the mundane, has all but forgotten us. We used to have people come and
frolic in the forests and the glens. People used to praise us and ask for our
assistance, but no longer.”
“The winds are changing,” he
said. “We have seen you in our dreams. Your destiny is to tell the
world and open the eyes of your people. Tell them... tell them we are still
here and wait the day when the doors open up again, when people will come and
play again. We will share our songs, our magic, and our legends."
A wry little grin spread across his face. He waved his
little arm toward the plates and platters.
"Come and feast with us before you
go,” he said. “Know neither hunger, nor thirst while you are a
friend of ours." Then with a voice, powerful and deep, resonating
through the clearing and into the forest, he spoke to the others, the wee folk,
his folks. He said," Let us welcome our guest, our friend. Let us feast."
The faerie folk cheered a
cheer that lifted my soul, lifted my heart and made all the fatigue wash away
from my body. I felt loose; I felt relaxed. Their merriment dragged me into the
moment. I found myself joining the faerie folk in the feast. I drank the wine
and ate the boar, the pheasant, the venison; I ate the fruits, the legumes. I
joined their songs, their melodies, though I knew not the words. I mumbled and
yelled and faked my way through. They thought it was funny, as did I.
After we all had our
fill, of food and drink, they made the plates and platters, the pitchers and
chalices disappear. And in those eventide hours, with the sun gone long ago, I
reclined and listened to the songs sung soft and enchanting. I closed my eyes
and saw the rainbow of colors: greens and yellows, blues and violets, dance through
the darkness behind my eyelids. The dance was slow and soothing, like the
music, sung soft and enchanting, combined together, made me slowly drift into
slumber, a dreamless slumber.
Upon waking, I found myself lying
in the circle of trees, the oak, the hawthorn, the hickory, watching as the
early morning rays lightened a darkened night sky, dark violets being chased
away by reds and yellows, eventually blues. The stars slowly turned and walked
into the fading twilight as it moved beyond the western mountains.
I arose and took account of myself. I was
refreshed from my sleep and did not hunger. I picked up my rucksack, but the
sack was heavier than before. I looked inside to find not the bread, stale and
rough, cheese old and runny, water hot and painful to drink, instead I found
various fruits, legumes such as corn and carrots, and meat, dried and salted.
Alongside the food I found two goatskins. I took one out and pulled the cork,
water, and clean and fresh water. I replaced the cork and put the skin back in
the sack.
I looked around, nothing but the circle of
trees, the oak, the hickory, and the hawthorn. There in the middle, the stump
of oak sat with an air, majestic and demanding, old yet virile with presence. I
kneeled and took my belt knife out, took it out and planted it to its hilt in
the ground in front of the oak stump.
"I will take your message to my
people. I will make them see. The doors will open. You will be
remembered," I said. I heard chimes of laughter and voices softly sing a
song of hope from somewhere unseen. I stood up and pulled on my rucksack.
"Goodbye my friends," I said, and then headed
toward the rising sun, toward my new life. I have a message for the world and
sooner or later they will listen and the doors will open.