VOTE! 2011 BELTANE/SAMHUINN PROSE ENTRIES

[Earthwoman]

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[Frog]

"Portal"


I turn the driving wheel slightly and park up. I turn the key and the engine and the stereo quit – and there is silence. The dark night that is outside invades my small shell and I can feel the worms of night cold crawling to the vents into the car. I open the door and step out.
My boots clomp as they strike the greystone paving slabs, the rain dripping from the brim of my wide leather hat, the pools of water collecting in the dips and hollows of the street; obsidian mirrors reflecting the neon lighting, mocking the grey night with their false cheerfulness. I look up slightly, only enough to see the concrete walls of the rows of buildings and houses that confine me to this place. As I push my key into my front door lock I turn once more to the grey world that I inhabit.
I walk up the stairs to my flat; the bare wooden stairs echo as my boots strike each step. I step into my hallway and take off my long wax cotton coat and hang it on its hook; my hat is then perched above it. Already there a water droplets collecting below it as the grey outside evaporates.
I turn and enter my “office”. I call it my office, but in truth it’s a small room that overlooks the back of the flat and the car park for the neighbours. I see that the local hooligans have once again sprayed the entire fence at the back with whatever tag slogan that is – not that it makes any sense to me, it is colourful. I walk to my comfortable chair, sit, lean back and close my eyes.

Instantly I am at the edge of a park. The grass is freshly cut and – with a deep inhalation I can breath the smell of the grass on the air. The blue sky is above – I can’t see the sun, but I can feel its warmth on my skin. I walk up the small concrete trail, up the gentle slope to the top of the hill where the familiar park bench is. I sit and face out – looking out towards the forest, deep with old broadleaf trees in full magnificence casting their shade thick across the ground. To my left is a Beech hedge, stretching down to the forest with a path – not marked, but cleared by many people walking along the hedgerow; beyond that I can see the shimmering sea, calm in its expanse.
I look down to my side and see the simple white robe; as I stand this is magically changed to the jeans and T-shirt I was wearing. I walk round the bench and to the other side, and face the entrance to my grove marked by the two standing stones; each about 5 feet in height and carved with both Rune and Ogham inscriptions. With a small nod, I walk forward.
The grove is open and empty; the sunlight is dappled by the tall Silver Birch trees that surround it. Arranged in a circle are thick oak logs, smooth from the many that have sat before upon them in meditation and contemplation. I walk round to the left and inwards from the West. As I walk to the cardinal points to salute the guardians, so I light the candles that mark the elements. Finally I return to the centre of the circle and sit on a log. I close my eyes and I can feel a Guardian approach. Without saying a word out loud I sense the guardian finding the question within me and after a pause asking me the questions I need to be asked to work out the solution for myself. I rest a while in contemplation, and feel that the Guardian has left me to ground myself.
After what seems a short while, I reopen my eyes and proceed to thank the Guardians for their inspiration and wisdom. I retreat from the Grove and sit once more on the park bench. I feel the robe changing back to my familiar jeans and T-shirt. I pause awhile on my bench, looking down the hill to the forest and the simple cottage on the edge of the forest, surrounded by a low hedge containing the very large vegetable patch. I see a figure leave the cottage and walk round to the cabbages; for some reason they seem familiar to me. No matter, I sit back on the bench and enjoy the view. I can feel the heat of the sun on my face and I close my eyes….

… the harsh insistent electronic beep of my alarm clock brings me back to this place. No matter where I am in this flat it will find me and wake me; I’m glad it does because I realise that fell asleep again in this comfortable chair, in this office of mine – the portal to my otherworld.

[Kima]

Linden

Towards the end of the day I set out into the fields and walked quietly to the linden that dominates the plateau. As the sun approached the horizon a wind arose, strong, from the north. The rustling of spelt as gusts rushed across its expanse brought thoughts of winter, a chill, and memories as past autumns came to me in the form of song, of notes seeded in my body which were borne into the air to be carried away. Once I started I could not stop singing. Oblique rays of light the colour of mead spread ghostly shadows along the hills, delineating the elongated, jagged outline of surrounding mountains.

The old tree stood alone in that isolated spot, sovereign. A dozen crow feathers speckled the grass around it, long shiny black plumes with deep bluish hues, each casting a shadow long as a trail. The wind gathered speed as I picked them up, one by one, humming still, clusters of sound in gusts of air meeting the feathers caught between my fingers and vibrating with them. Spreading my wings I sweeped in a large circle to the right before my plumage was plucked away and propelled upward to the evening sky. The feathers took flight while I was left stranded. I sat in the wild grass, my back against the coarse trunk, and watched the last of the sun disappear behind the bald mountain top.

You could tell from the location of the sun's dwelling, right behind the métairie, that summer was coming to an end. Something happened then that I could not touch, although I sensed that some long-winded process, having taken months to ripen, finally reached completion at the precise moment when the last of the sun fell behind my field of vision, briefly causing a stray cloud to glow with soft golden light. A veil was lifted then, and the music subsided. I felt myself melting into the world around me as my perception grew attuned to its life so that I became the trembling surface of the field, the swift little bird riding the wind, the round stone I inadvertently displaced as I walked back the way I'd come. Change was carved into the very air I breathed, encoded in its sounds, and by acknowledging its substance I allowed it to affect me. The influence was subtle, fleeting, nothing that I could capture or hold on to in any way. By the time I sat at my desk and began writing the wind's tide had turned and its strength diminished steadily as darkness fell.

[Earthwoman]

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