Lissa and Theo- Magic from the Mines

After I placed my appeasement in the box, the Keeper of the Mines took me to meet my home host. Lissa was a shy young girl, who smiled and said nothing when we were introduced.

“Don’t let her fool you. She may be young, and she may be shy, but Lissa here knows as much about the mines as anybody around here. She was following her daddy down those shafts as soon as she could toddle. Last year when she moved out on her own, she decided to be a home host. And she’s a good one!” The Keeper of the Mine beamed at Lissa, who still didn’t say anything, but smiled back.

“Got your stuff? Good. You just follow Lissa now and she’ll take care of you. Lissa floated out the door, as if she had wings instead of feet, and I clumped along behind her. We walked for a short way to the edge of town, and a neat little cottage with a picket fence and flowers growing everywhere. I could see vegetables growing in amongst the flowers and spied more growing around the sides of the house. The windows were open, and I could hear a canary singing his heart out inside.

“Come on in.” Lissa had a sweet, quiet voice. She opened the front door to a busy front room full of quilts and embroidered pieces. Watercolors of botanicals hung on the walls, and there were skeins of yarn in brilliant hues hanging near the fireplace, where a spinning wheel sat like a cat on the hearth rug. We walked through to the kitchen, where more yarn hung and a dye pot simmered on the stove. The table was painted in bright colors and traditional stencil patterns, with hand-woven place mats and napkins on each side. There was a clear vase with flowers in the middle of the table.

“I’ll get us some tea and scones, if you like. Dinner will be later.” She spoke so softly that I had to listen carefully.

“Sure. Tea and scones would be fine,” I replied, and looked around the room some more.

The floor was slate with braided rugs scattered across it, and copper saucepans hug from the beams near the stove.  The kettle that Lissa put on was shiny copper, too. The canary who was singing so industriously was in the window looking out over the back garden (again full of flowers and veggies as far as I could see) and to my surprise, I saw Someone, the cat, walking into the room.  She walked over to me and wound around my ankles. “Well, I see you landed on your feet, too,” she said. “Lissa is wonderful. As long as I leave her little canary bird alone we will be fine. And the other birds, too,” she added, with a glance at Lissa, who nodded at her. She padded out of the kitchen and into the living room.

When the tea and scones and several sorts of cookies were in front of us, she sat down.

I was curious. “I understand the mines can be quite dangerous. That’s why we do so much preparation before we go down. How is it that you went down when you were so small?” I asked.

“My dad always took care that I was safe. I didn’t do any actual mining until I was old enough to understand what I was doing, but you know, to little ones, it’s instinctive, it’s play. They just know how to do these things. It’s only as we get older that we loose the ability to mine the alluvial mine. Dad just made sure that I never lost my ability from childhood to adulthood.” She shrugged and smiled.

“I think I see,” I answered.

“It’s not something that a lot of parents are willing to do, but as I said, Dad always kept me safe. And he’s pleased and proud of the miner I’ve become. When we’re done, I’ll show you some of the things I do.”

I found out that most of the plants in Lissa’s garden were good to use as dye stuffs, and she had a small flock of sheep on the edge of town, which was where she got her wool.

“I sell the wool I spin and dye, and the quilts I make. I also weave a little bit, and sell some of that, too.”  She became bolder when talking about the things she loved to create.

The botanical sketches on the wall were hers, too, and there were several large, hand bound volumes with her records for dye mixes and results.

She showed me around the rest of the house. The other two rooms on the first floor were her bedroom, in the front, and her workroom in the back, which had French doors opening onto the garden and the same slate floors as the kitchen. It was full of fabrics and yarns and a huge loom,  another spinning wheel, and plants hanging from the ceiling beams in bunches, drying.  There was a cabinet full of embroidery fibers. There were two sewing machines, and a wall full of cloth in all sorts of colors. A table held more fabric and patterns. Near the doors at the back of the room were an easel and paints. I ooh and ahhed over all of it, and she blushed with pleasure.

 When we went back out, I saw a fiddle on a table in the front room. “And is this yours, too?”

“No, much as I love it, music isn’t one of my abilities. I play a little on a recorder, but not too often. That belongs to my young man, Theo. He has just learned the mines, and is up there today. He should be back soon, and will join us for dinner.”

It was getting late, near sunset, and Lissa went back  into the kitchen to finish up dinner. I sat in the pleasant front room and took out my knitting. It seemed right here.

A few minutes later, a tired looking young man came in the front door. He smiled, and said, “You must be She Wolf. The Keeper of the Mine told me you would be here. I’m Theo. It’s nice to meet you.” He smiled and shook my hand and reached for the fiddle. Tuning it quickly, he was soon lost in his music, and I was too. I was surprised when Lissa called us for dinner. Time had gone somewhere else, with the music.

Dinner was tasty and filling- a beef stew that had simmered all day on the back of the stove, bread fresh that morning, and a salad fresh from the garden. Beer brewed locally went with it, and there was apple pie for dessert. While we talked, Theo told us about his day at the mine. “It’s getting easier; I’ve found a good rich vein,” he said. He turned to me. “Tomorrow I will go up with you, to the mine. It’s exhilarating- you’ll see.”

I offered to help with the dishes, but Theo shooed me away, saying this was his job.

We retired to the front room where Lissa lit a fire, and sat down to spin. I picked my knitting back up, and Theo soon joined us again. He picked up his fiddle  and created his magic once more. Later we talked, with Someone the cat purring in one lap after another, and Lissa pressed some of her exquisite yarn on me- I offered to pay her for it, but she refused. “There’s not much; it was an experiment. But I know you like the colors, and it will make a nice pair of socks. If you keep knitting at this rate, you’ll finish that pair and have nothing to knit for the rest of your journey.”

I looked at the sock in my hands- it was half done, in the course of this one evening. “It must be the magic effect of your fiddle!” I teased.

Theo looked serious. “That’s what I hope for,” he replied.

Lissa showed me my room soon after. It was up a tiny winding set of stairs in the kitchen. “When I decided to be a home host, I converted part of my attic to a little set of rooms for my guests,” she said. “There is a bedroom and a bathroom just for you to use.”

True to her word, there was a cheerful bedroom under the eaves, with a window seat over looking the back garden, and a small bathroom with an enormous tub. The other half of the attic was left for storage, she explained.

Handing me towels smelling of fresh air and lavender, and telling me to let her know if I need anything, Lissa left me to myself. I took a long, soaky bath in the huge tub, and then curled up under the bright quilt on the bed. Theo was playing his music again, and I fell asleep to dreams of sheep with thick warm fleeces chasing after brightly colored musical notes dancing beside a river.

 

Posted by She Wolf

Sloughing — Day 9

Sloughing — Day 9 March 17, 2007
Posted by Barbara in Lemurian Grand Tour, Barbara’s Journey. add a comment , edit post

Damascus stops under the willow trees near the cave entrance. He shakes himself so violently that the bag of tools slides from his back. My pack is also dumped onto the hard, crackled ground. The heat is becoming unbearable as I shoulder the tools, reach instinctively to touch le Enchanteur’s bag hanging around my neck and take deep breathes. My palms are sweaty and I feel the beginnings of a migraine banging around inside my head. Stress always gives me a headache.

Damascus noses me away from him and towards the entrance. “Go. I will wait for your return. Remember the secret door to Riversleigh behind the Mine Keeper’s chair. You may choose the other way and escape from this mysterious mountain in Lemuria. It is not a choice I would make, but it is always available.” His voice wanders off into nothingness as he gazes towards the mountain peak. Eventually his attention returns to me.

“You may take Pigeon. If for some reason you cannot continue, send Pigeon with a message to let me know. There are always other travelers coming who require a companion.” He turns his back to me and takes a couple of steps. Then he turns his head slightly. “Please return, Dear. I know you can complete the journey. Have faith and take one step, then another. I will be awaiting your return.”

I rush to Damascus’ side and throw my arms around his neck. Burying my face into his shaggy mane, I cry until I have no more tears. My head is exploding with pain. I do not want to leave Damascus and the comforts of the Valley.

“Dear, it is time. You must go in the mine now. Your assistant, Maggie, is awaiting your appearance.”

I know I have delayed too long. I again shoulder the pack of tools and stumble my way to the cave, my eyes still blurred by tears. Pigeon flies ahead, then waits for my approach. As I pull the overgrowth from the entrance, he alights on my shoulder and pecks my cheek. I swallow hard and step into the darkness. It is cool, a relief from the heat, but the smell is dank.

“Hello, Dear. Hello, Pigeon” The slightly lilting voice of a figure in the shadows greets me. “I have been waiting for you. Follow me, but first don’t forget your candle.”

I go to the table by the Keeper’s chair and find candles, just as I did on my first visit. One of the candles catches my attention. It is glowing slightly, it’s wick flickering ever so faintly. I take that candle and remove the candlestick holder from my bag. Once the candle is in the holder, it begins to burn brightly and casts a warm glow about the cave. I look to Maggie and she briefly smiles, a thin wavering smile. “Well done. Now follow me, please.”

She quickly sweeps down the long hall. I follow her, pain banging harder against my skull with each step. Midway down the hall, I can no longer walk unaided. I close my eyes in pain and drop my pack of tools, but when I lean against the damp roughness of the cave I feel a slight pulsing. Under the pressure of my hand, the power increases with each surge.

I open my eyes, wincing. The pulsing of the wall matches the pulsing of the pain in my head. I continue to touch the wall and feel its pulse grow stronger as the pulsing in my head disappears. The wall heaves violently and a dull redness creeps into its crevasses. A darkness hovers against the wall. It is the shadow I have owned since my earliest years. With all my concentration, I slough the shadow in its entirety from my soul. The darkness leaves me and it is sucked into the glowing rock. There is a sudden lightness in my body. Shaking with new energy, I run deeper into the cave to search for Maggie. She has continued down the corridor, unaware that I was lagging behind.

As I catch up to her, she suddenly stops. I trip over her feet and am thrown against a heavy wooden door. In the light from my candle, I see red ochre sketches on the wall — symbols — some of which I recognize. A bull, a ring, a serpent. A fish, a spear and many others figures that resonate with me, even though I cannot place their meaning. I feel a sudden fullness that I cannot explain.

Maggie pulls a piece of red chalk, darkened with age, from one of her many pockets. “Here. This is for your use.” Then she simply waits. Save for a slight dripping of water, the cave is silent. I know I must make my mark upon the wall of many marks, yet what should I draw? I do not know what is expected of me.

Slowly the hint of an idea creeps into my mind. I do not have to draw what I think is expected. I need simply draw that which is a part of me. Only I can know that my symbol is right. Hesitating no longer, I find an open area and render a simple drawing of a flame.

Before I can return the chalk to Maggie, she has disappeared. As I hesitate with uncertainly, a draft of heat draws my attention towards the door. Carved upon its surface is a hand print. I place my hand upon the print; they fit together perfectly. A slight tremble shakes the entire cave and the door swings open slowly. Pigeon, the daring bird he is, darts through the opening. I peek into the interior and I am awe-stricken. Before me is a intricately carved cavern that I can barely believe exists. Do I enter or do I return to the portal to Riversleigh?

Hazel and Harry Firth, and the Day Before — Day 8

Posted by bfahrenbac in Leaning Birch, Lemurian Grand Tour, Barbara’s Journey, Home Hosts. add a comment , edit post

Hazel and Harry Firth could not be friendlier folk. When I return from my meeting with the Mine Keeper, they show me their home and outbuildings. The setting in the Lemurian Valley is a perfect site. To the west, there are the ancient rock formations — the hoo-doos — spiraling into the sky. To the east, the rolling hamlet of Leaning Birches is spread out below the homestead. Looking closely, I follow the Owl Creek which flows through the center of town, and winds towards Mount Olympus. Hazel points out seven or eight houses snuggled into the hollow and others dotting the country nearby. The town has a church, a general store, a livery, the raven postal service. Hazel watches me as she adds slyly, “and we have a coffee shop, complete with internet service.”

How is that possible, I ponder. Did I misunderstand? “Internet? Are you sure, Hazel? Our internet? Everything seems so –well — quaint. Not that it’s bad. I don’t mean that. I just didn’t expect….

“Expect that we keep up with the world? You’re mistaken, my Dear. It is possible for us to know what the world is like in your land.” Hazel tsked at me a bit. “It is simply that we choose not to follow your way. We prefer our life as it is. But if you wish to go to town and send a message to your companions, why there’s a computer all set up for travelers. I’ll take you there myself.”

I have to think this through. “Maybe in awhile, Hazel. First, I’d like to see the rest of your property. Everything is so lovely.”

Harry overhears me, and together, the Firths take me on a tour. We explore the garden, all a color with reds and pinks and whites. (”My favorite colors,” says Hazel.) The greenery is so deep and shiny, so multi-colored, it is a spectacle in its own right. Harry lets me peek into the garden shed which is as immaculate as a kitchen is at home. The brick floor is recently scrubbed, and the shelves are painted and embellished with tiny paintings of flowers. Each flower corresponds to the seeds above them. Against the other wall are bins of potato sets, soon to be planted in the furrowed fields. A storage shed is behind the garden; the potatoes from the recent harvest are stored there, ready to be distributed to the Lemurian colony. Behind the house is an enclosed pen housing chickens and goats. Two baby goats cajol and dance with each other, occasionally butting their tiny horns. I find myself amused with their antics, and I wish I could be as carefree as they seem. The chickens, Hazel proudly informs me, lay enough eggs to supply all of Leaning Birches’ families.

We return to the barn, which is a simple structure, yet light and airy. Harry has his own mule, a stubborn cuss named Simon, Harry says. “You can’t imagine your good fortune having a donkey like Damascus. The most impressive beast I’ve seen in many a year.” Of course, even though Damascus is gobbling down another stash of hay, he overhears everything.

“Why, pleased to have you be so kind,” says my donkey, demurely. Can I believe this? Not only is Damascus turning coy, why, he’s blushing. (I’ve been with him long enough now, I can read his every expression.)

I resist bursting into hysterical laughter by stepping into the house with Hazel. I hadn’t had time to look about the home when I dropped my pack off earlier this afternoon, but now I stand in the central room — all living room and dining room and kitchen in the one room. A pot belly stove sits on one side of the room and a wood burning cook stove is on the opposite wall. Comfy furniture and crocheted afghans and doilies make the room cozy and well-cared for. The dining room table is set with three places, and the smell of home cooking fills the room. Flowers in tin cans are set about the room and a canary sings on its perch. Everywhere I look there is yet another tiny treasure to enjoy.

“Now, you go on and wash up, Dear. Here’s your room, off the kitchen. A nice view of the flower gardens and warmth from the stove. Daresay, you’ll want for nothing.” Hazel shows me into a spacious room with windows for walls on three sides of the room, and flowers and vines climbing up the window trellises. The bed is dressed in pure white, layer upon layer of linen and pillows. A small bureau with a porcelain wash bowl atop it and a lovely cushioned rocking chair fill out the room. There is a basket on a shelf that contains everything I might need — soap, brushes, lotions, shampoos, and other goodies. There are rolled up towels and a plush white chenille robe in just my size. I sit upon the bed to think a moment.

Hazel calls to me through the door. “Why don’t you rest a bit before dinner, Dear? You have about thirty minutes.”

Grateful for a little time alone to calm my racing thoughts, I muster a thanks. There is so much to think about. How will I prepare for the mining of the cave? When will Harry tell me his secrets of mining? Will I succeed in my quest? I think of writing an e-mail to Riversleigh — now how weird is that? I decide to fore go modern technology and be satisfied with my journal.

Hazel calls me to dinner while I am yet mired in far flung thoughts. Breathing deeply, I gather myself together and come to the table.

“Look at this,” says Harry. “Why Hazel had gosh darn gone all out for ya, Dear! And I get to eat all the special treats, too.” Harry spoons piles of food onto his plate, while I decipher what is in these heaped-to-the-top serving bowls. Mashed potatoes in one, with gobs of melting butter sliding down the mounds. Scalloped potatoes and ham in a second dish. Potato and vegetable soup in a tureen. And potato dumplings in honey for desert.

“Why it all looks so good, Hazel. Let me try everything,” I say, a little amazed at quantity of the food. I only need look at the table a second to know I am amongst potato farmers. But I eat all the food, and fully enjoy it, especially those honeyed dumplings. Yum. I wonder what will be served for breakfast, but this is hours away and I don’t waste any thought on that.

After dinner, Harry speaks up. “Dear, Damascus has finally had his rest and grub. He’d like to talk to you for awhile.”
I shake my head in shame. In all this time, I have not given a thought to Damascus and his needs. I am ashamed as I go out to the barn, but my feelings are dispelled. Damascus is in a fine mood and Pigeon has made himself a tiny nest and he is sound asleep. Both my companions seem content.

“Well, Dear, did you have a nice rest and dinner? I am truly satiated and my nap has revived me.” He hee-haws a few times to show me he is in good spirits. “I’d pass on that trip into Leaning Birches for the time being. Harry will talk to you tonight, and we’ll start out at dawn tomorrow for the Alluvial Mine.”

“Oh, Damascus. I don’t think I’m quite ready for mining yet. Maybe in a few days…”

“Sure you are, Dear. Just keep a stiff upper lip and listen carefully to Harry. You’ll do fine tomorrow.”

As Damascus returns to nosing about in the hay, Harry calls me. “Dear, meet me in the garden in a few minutes. Do you hear?”

“Sure, Harry. I’ll go now.” I turn to Damascus one more time. “Wish me luck.”

“Luck?” he guffaws. “Why, you need courage and discipline and persistence. Well, and maybe a little luck. Now, begone with you.”

So Harry and I walk and talk in the garden until it is black outside and I can see only the glowing windows in the house. I try to remember all the things Harry is saying, but I feel a little overwhelmed. When he finishes, he tells me to get my rest. That is the last thing he says to me. Hazel wakes me in the morn.

In the fragile light of dawn, I eat riced potato porridge and then half-stumble to the barn. Damascus is ready for me to load him and in mere minutes we are on our way. Pigeon flies ahead as our lookout. It is finally time for me to explore the mine.

Damascus turns his head and eyes me. Then he turns away, keeping his head forward, watching the road. “Courage, my Dear. Courage,” he says to me.

Courage, I think. “Yes, indeed, Damascus. Thank you very much.”

Home Host House

Home Host House

Painting by Mari Mann (after Vincent van Gogh)

le Enchanteur’s Bag — Day 6

Damascus lay by the fireplace for hours, sleeping fitfully at first, then more peacefully. He wakes with a start and he seems more like his normal self. But he looks around at the inside of the cottage, heaves a great sigh, and shakes his head in disgust.

“Just why are you molly-coddling me,” he asks, staring particularly at me. “Because of a slight injury, we have lost nearly an entire day of travel, and you are even more behind the others. Can you not think if I am not nudging you in the right direction? Think, Barbara, think.”

I startle when he calls me by my proper name. He never calls me anything but Dear, and I have grown attached to the sound of it. “Damascus, what have I done wrong? You are hurt. Surely we cannot travel with your leg injured. Tell me where I am at fault.”

I look around for Rosa or Tom Tubby to support me, but they both have conveniently disappeared into the garden and are hoeing and weeding vigorously. Pigeon perches on the wood box, preening himself and turned away from me. Certainly he is listening, but he is not very helpful. Why should Pigeon be out of sorts?

“Perhaps if we talk to each other like decent human beings, we can solve this problem,” I say. Donkey hee-haws at this and now I know he is laughing at me. Pigeon jumps up and down. “Now what have I done to amuse you?” I am a little testy.

“Humans?” guffaws Damascus as Pigeon flies to settle on the donkey’s back. “You called us humans. I think you do us a disservice and perhaps you should watch what you say in the future. Pigeon and I forgive you this once, but now you must use your brain. I can no longer solve all of your problems. It is not my journey. Remember? You’re the one with grand ideas of adventure. I’m only along for the long haul. Tell us, what should we do?”

I am at a loss. Damascus seemed in charge of the trip so far. I had grown to trust his wisdom. But he’s right, as usual. It IS my journey. I sit down in the rocking chair, and move back and forth, racking my brain for the solution, according to Damascus, I should know.

I am no further in solving our problem when Pigeon flies to me, and lands on my shoulder. He digs into my neck with his beak which happens to be sharp.

“Pigeon, what are you doing? You’ve drawn blood.” I try to push him away, but he has the cord to le Enchanteur’s bag between his beak. He pulls it a few times, and then lets the cord drop. He returns to Damascus. I think I see a conspiratorial look pass between Damascus and Pigeon. Or do I imagine this?

I reach for the cord of my bag. Pigeon gave me a hint, God bless his soul.

My hosts are now working in the barn, so I take out my silken bag, and spread the contents on my lap. “Hmm. Think hard, Barbara,” I whisper. Of course Damascus can hear me, no matter how quietly I speak. (Sometimes I think he can read my mind.) He pulls himself to stand, and takes a painful step to me and noses about in my treasures. I lift each object, but the answer eludes me.

I lift each item. “The candlestick? I can’t possibly think what I can do with this. Doesn’t even have a candle. Then my tiny scissors? There is nothing that needs cutting. I hook the spectacles over my ears, but I see nothing unusual. The wings? The dream seeds? Why can’t I figure this out?”

I pick up the last object. It is the well-worn medallion with the imprint of the Unicorn barely visible. Obviously it is very old and well-used. Again, I am clueless. I stare at the features of the mystical creature. An idea blossoms and I wonder outloud.

“Damascus, let me hang this medallion around your neck. Maybe the Unicorn will work his magic.” The donkey leans his head forward so I can reach him. I touch the medallion to his neck, and a blinding light surrounds him. Damascus does a sort of jig, of all things, and shakes off the brightness.

I stare in amazement.

At just that moment Rosa and Tom Tubby come in, hauling a pail of fresh vegetables. “Thought I’d make the invalid a nice pot of vegetable soup,” says Rosa. But then they both look at Damascus. Tom Tubby’s eyes google and Rosa opens her mouth in wonder.

Damascus’ injury is healed. Now my donkey starts braying — braying loudly – and continues to dance around the cottage, knocking over the pail of vegetables. Distracted by the food, he noses about and eats a red pulpy bulb similar to Riversleigh’s radishes and a parsnip-shaped tuber or two. He looks me in the eye and I see a twinkle of mischief.

“I’m full. Let’s go,” he demands. “Rosa, would you be bothered to pack a cold meal or two for Dear? We have far to go and if we don’t have to search for food we will make better time.”

Rosa moved closer to Damascus and ran her fingers through his mane: she gingerly touched his injured leg.. “Oh, my, Damascus. There’s not even a scratch. If this isn’t something. I’ll have your food packed in the time it takes you all to be ready.”

I run upstairs for my gear and stuff everything back into my pack.

“Put your pack on my back, Dear. Just because there’s a bit of magic around, I’m still your old Damascus. And I’m stronger than I’ve ever been.” He nearly skips, if a donkey can skip, as he goes outside. “Just a bit of hay and I’m ready, so pack me up.” I fasten our gear onto his back and Rosa tucks a package into my pack. Damascus, Pigeon and I are ready to go.

“Wave your good-byes and move on out,” says Damascus. “We’re on the road again. Next stop, a visit to the hoo-doos and a good friend of mine.”

“Hoo-doos?” I say, unsure if I hear correctly. “Just what is a hoo-doo?”

“Why, you’ve become most curious, Dear. But I’ll not ruin the surprise. Towards mid-afternoon, you’ll find out for yourself.” Damascus hee-haws and hee-haws until he’s nearly choking. This time I’m not fooled. He is laughing at me. I’m 100% certain.

Pigeon and I laugh along with him, and when all quiet down, we begin our journey in earnest. Or more truthfully, perhaps, I begin my journey again and my friends honor me with their company.

.

Froglet’s Host!

Dunbeg and I arrive in Owl Creek Valley after dark.  Light spills from windows and doors into the night.  I hear laughter as old friends greet each other.  Feeling both tired and shy, I decide to sleep as soon as possible.  The first cottage I come to emanates a great warmth and smells like baking bread.  The sign on the door: “Antique Seeds.”  I hesitate.  Does one sleep in a seed shop?  It seems odd, but I’m too exhausted to survey the town first and choose a more suitable spot.

(for more, go to http://tinyfroglet.wordpress.com/2006/12/04/day-four-home-host/)