The Watcher in the House of Mirrored Shadows
It happened in a bone-dust, dry August, in the year of our Lord, 2020; that a secret was to be given in trust. A secret upon receiving that would come with a burdensome price.
I will never forget this particular August; it crept upon us like a veiled shadow on the perimeter of the sun’s last rays. The summer felt toilsome and arcane. It is as if, I had been holding my breath, silently, afraid I would not hear the story that was written for me.
It seemed like time had grown weary of counting the moments for us. The out-of-sync tics, sound lost within a vacuum of time, upon our deafening silent town; that forgot how to listen.
Milkweed and Cottonwood seed are suspended upon the aether; a floating drift, glowing like snow in the late afternoon sun.
My bare feet touch the cool, dirt path through the old canopy of ash and elm trees that loom over the dank ravine. Leading me out and away from our forgotten, Southern town.
I wear a gift, my Mother Dabria, left for me; a long moss green dress; it trails behind me stirring the dry leaves, like cracking whispers.
I have worn this path down through the seasons; so many moments gathered, like the wild plants and flowers for my remedies; the careful placing of memories stored tight and gently pressed, the way one puts precious things in a box.
I see crows gathering in numbers, like a secret coven, flying in swift over the rustling corn stalks; in the fields upon the path’s end.
I step out from the forested path, as I gaze out beyond the shadows before me. The silver light of dusk, shimmers upon the air making the abandoned, clapboard house seem like a distant mirage. Blurred and dreamy, like a child’s watercolor painting.
I have been coming here since I was a child. My Daddy hunted on this land, like his Father Rainer before him. My Grandmother, Orenda Rose, taught me the ways of healing potions and elixirs. Teaching me how to collect and dry, in their seasons Yarrow, Wolf bane, Samphire, Queen Anne’s Lace, Blackthorn, Gentian and so many roots and berries.
We would hang the thickets on black chain, iron hooks to gently sway with the autumn breeze in the dry cellar with fat jars of minced meat and bottles of apple shine.
I am here alone; only these memories fill the space where the silent moments dwell; or so I thought.
I have not been to the old house since last winter, when I stocked the cellar with roots and preserves.
I step onto the weathered porch. The sound of the swings rusting chains, move, as if someone has just left it, moments ago. I notice the wooden door is ajar. As I walk over the threshold, the light of dusk, casts its glow around the still objects that remain.
I see the staircase in front of me. Time’s fingerprint has silvered and scalloped the worn places on the steps. For years, I watched my Father climb these steps at night; his pipe smoke trailing behind him, leaving a thin fog. I am mesmerized as I watched the smoke descend, dimly aglow, taking shapes of a spirited presence, moving to a slow lullaby.
The memories of my time feel heavy here; a heaviness that clutches at the silence, before you notice the empty sound.
A sound of a man’s footsteps upon the floorboards above me makes my breath quicken. A shadow slowly spreads out from the doorway. I turn and look at the Grandfather clock, on the landing that stopped years ago, during the 11th hour.
The toothed gears, anchor and pendulum, a trinity of precise forces, to prevent friction, that would bring it to a standstill; now resounds a tick, as the anchor catches a gear tooth before releasing…
Then, a voice rings out deep and firm, to me. I know when I ascend the stairs I won’t be the same when I come back. I go to him in the one place I have always belonged.
At the top of the staircase, all rooms are abandoned except for mine, where his shadow waits with the days last light.
I enter unafraid, the way children trust the hand laid firmly upon them, is for an important lesson and not to harm.
Walking into the room, I notice my surprised reflection in the towering floor mirror. My body is no longer that of a child’s innocence. His shape, tall and silhouetted, stands nearby in the shadows. His presence is formidable.
I can feel his power as a Watcher, all those hours in time, to reach beyond the looking glass; to find me…to move me; beyond my dreams.
He speaks to me, like a resonance that smooths out waves upon a mighty storm at sea.
“My name resides in a place before your time was set. I am Einarr; a Watcher from the only Army that returns to the Light.”
“I have come here for you child; I have come before but you chose to not recognize me; until now…
The light that fills your vessel has been stored within your coded essence, to reflect out and upon every moment beyond time; every thought is recorded upon a flowing current, of what is to come…
Look into this mirror, past the reflection of your eyes that blind you. Do you not feel me, completing you, in the darkness?
Child, do you not desire to pull away the cocooned veil that spreads shadows upon your Light?
Feel your heart flutter an electric rhythm, like a pulse wave expanding upon the silken aether, you touch all that is and that will ever be.
The Time is upon you to accept your gift of awareness and come into your full presence. The very Light that has sent you here, at this specific point in time, is with you.
Time, my child, is like a connected web that branches out into the different memories of the past; leading you into different present and future moments of experience.
These moments you have marked by time and memory, exist simultaneously. The past and future appear upon different corners of the same map. It is the one you focus your attention upon, that you will see.
It is the Choice and not the Timepiece that determines your future; setting into forward motion the untangling of the skeins, that are the essence of your story’s mystery, to fully embrace beyond fear.
The mystery that was given as a gift to you was done in secret, in the Light; to create your way out of the Darkness…forever”
By ~ (c.) 2020 Tommie Flannery Baskis I> (=