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~ A TOWN AT NIGHT HAS ITS OWN SECRETS ~

 

 

 

~ A Town at Night has its own Secrets ~

 

‘A town at night has its own secrets.’ An old woman whispered this into my child’s ear when I was I was growing.  I recall the late afternoon she came shuffling down the lane by our house in October, while my Daddy was chopping wood for the coming winter.  Dust just swirling up behind her like she was a force of nature, herself…

My vision is lucid of her; they called her Lady Belle, because tiny bells hung from her basket of apples so you could hear her approaching, as the jingled bells played a misfit melody from her hobbled, hunched back walking.

I did not understand why she told me this. Perhaps she thought one day I would grasp her meaning. I just know it swayed some power over me at that very moment. I just looked at her with wonderment, my blue eyes reflecting a million questions. I stood, in my innocence, as she eyed me intently and winked.

“Never forget what I told you, child; there are things that do not sleep in the dark, like you and me. You will find what you are looking for behind the doors that no one cares to open.  You will see these things in time.” She spoke, as if these words were the most precious things to pass on.

I never heard Lady Belle’s jingles again.  She never walked down our dusty road except for that autumn, many years ago, when the days seemed so long.  I use to sit with the darkness, windows open, listening to the night breeze rustle the treetops, hoping to hear the jingle of bells.  They never came and through the years I just forgot and started dreaming like everyone else when night blackened the heavens.

Through the seasons I have grown and like the sunshine makes things look shiny and special, my Daddy says it has done this for me. My blonde straight hair is like gossamer and I have grown into my cotton dresses that make the menfolk in town look just a little bit longer, than they used to.

The September of my seventeenth year, made me remember what I had forgotten. The things Lady Belle whispered to me secretly.

I started noticing that I enjoyed sitting on our porch longer, as dusk drew near. It closed in on the day’s last light, softly, like a book closing itself upon a familiar story. I could see the shadows from the big oak trees dissolve into the dark mist like a growing stain.  The cicada among the trees, make a powerful drone sound hearkening the night’s coming.

I hear the squeaky rhythm of our rusty porch swing, as I listen carefully to the tinkling of iced glasses and women’s laughter calling out to children as they slap their bare feet, running home dusty, to newly run baths and bedtime stories. I can hear the church clock gears wind in our town square, chiming the hour as a distant storm sounds its approach in the next county.

Old mason jars proudly adorn children’s window sills, full of lightning bug glow as the town grows sleepy and porch lights are dimmed for the evening.  I can see the red glow of men’s cigars finishing up the last conversations of the day before retiring to their beds.

I start to ponder what the old woman told me long ago. I think on how long I have been watching into the night; searching for those hidden doors she spoke of. Keeping all of those secrets inside me, through the years, of things I have come to understand about the darkness.

I watch blackbirds on a fence watching me as I sit on the swing not moving. I notice the overpowering sound of quietness…only broken by the dry rustling of corn husks by the coming storm.

I often wait until my Daddy is sleeping and sneak off towards town, especially on moonless nights, while the shops are closed and their windows play out a mystery story of motionless mannequins, wild staring dolls, and the mercantile with its sharp glittering bladed things hanging against the wall. The soft light above O’Connor’s butcher shop flickers on and off, like that one time in Auntie Rose’s haunted house, making us look like slow moving apparitions in one of those silent films.

I see the corn husk dolls the church ladies make for the harvest gathering placed in the corners of the drug store windows. They look primitive with their red threaded mouths and dark button eyes, sitting among hard candy, medicine bottles and dusty paperback books.

I feel the wind tousle my hair and dance around my dress, twisting the soft cotton around my legs as I slowly walk the town square.

I sometimes see the boys from the next county, who meet by Caedmon’s barn for swigs of liquor and cards, worn out from the coal miner’s hands, before going home to their women, or to a lonely cold bed.

I’m standing by a street lamp’s glow when I see a young man looking back at me. I have not seen him before but he can’t be too much older than me. Ruggedly handsome, I think he is a woodsman from the timber company my Grandpa use to own. The other fellas walk back into the barn to play out their luck with the worn cards, stained at the edges.

He just stands there oblivious to anything but me watching him and him watching me. He is probably wondering what I am doing out here so late. No self-respecting lady would be out this late, I think to myself…but I am different; I just want to see into the dark night at the things people do when they can’t sleep, the sound of the midnight train as it rumbles low on the tracks near the abandoned houses, long ago left behind. Seeing lovers whisper things to each other as they sit in the park, so close together they seem like one dark mass.

I keep walking around the square eventually I’m going to be close to that man if he doesn’t go in with the others. I feel slightly unnerved for I see he is waiting…perhaps for me. I walk getting closer and I can see him clearly, sure and set in his ways he stands proud before me. This is a man who has worked hard for everything he has, I can tell. Rugged and content with his plight he just watches me silently as I nervously ask who is.

He just smiles and says, “We had a mutual friend once.” I look at him with a tilt of my head. He walks closer to me and I can tell he has not been drinking like the others. It almost seems like he is not with them at all; a strange man in a town that only knows familiar.

I ask who that may be and he says “An old woman, a special woman who whispered something to you many years ago.”

I stood very still and he had my complete attention. All sounds seemed a bit louder for a second. How could this man know about Lady Belle and me, so long ago? I look at him with a growing uneasiness as I watch him pull out something from his pocket. He grabs my hand and places a tiny bell into my palm. He looks at me and tells me, “I knew I would find you one day, I was not told your name but she said you would grow to be fair and childlike. I have been watching you for some time as you walked the summer nights in your Momma’s dresses.

His smile is slightly wicked, or did I just imagine…

“Have you found what you are searching for behind those closed doors, where no one cares to go?” he asked me.

I stared in disbelief, wondering how he knew these things.

“When you find it you must be careful to not go through the door where only shadows dwell” he spoke to me.

~ Soon to be continued ~

 

Writing excerpt from    ~ A Town at Night has its own Secrets ~ 

By ~ Tommie Flannery Baskis (c) 2019

IMG_1843 T by Forest dag.DSC00113 Dark Indiana Night

 

 

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~The Secret Place ~

 

The Secret Place ~

In the long days and moments of her dream wandering, she will discover the Secret Place.

She moves through the forest, as a child that knows its path.

She sees eternal sun, hears the melody of rustling dead leaves and the bloom of life, dancing to cicada’s electric hum.

Her eyes reflect what she has known, what has always lived there; older than blood and stone.

A left behind place, she will enter.  She moves and stirs the dust, like powdered sugar, floating on sunrays that have entered through a broken window.

Through a forsaken door, there are sounds from children of December, always longing for warmth and love.

There are memories of children in summer sun, with the scent of burning honeysuckle; their small bare feet, run forever, so reverent and sure-

We create the dreams of our wandering ~  I>

This house was always meant to be a secret place;

There is a man who waits, watching her return with calm fever, holding the vision ~

A vision, sun bright on storm gilded wings, carving an earthly and timeless path for us all ~

 

IMG_8741 Tommie at Joppa Church platinum 4

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~ In the sun’s shadows, is where my story lives, in Iron Forest Town; an old town, of old trees and ‘older ways’ ~

 

In the sun’s shadows, is where my story lives, in Iron Forest Town; an old town, of old trees and ‘older ways’.

One dusty, long ribbon of a road, was the only road that lead to Iron Forest. A place where kindred and townsfolk alike, knew how to weave a story; knew how to keep secrets hidden;

A place where the days always feel more than what they seem; a child’s day in the sun, lived for the anticipation of the mystery, each new moment brings.

My friends, Einar, Barin, Willow and I, were taught a hard lesson from the ‘Aether’ mystery, that Autumn. The lesson, that some secrets work their way from a dark, thorny place, to cast a shadow upon our souls. A shadow that slowly infects, with it’s presence, every sunlit corner it can creep into; carving a place, deep; for the light to seek out and grow…

I live with my Daddy, Magnus in an old two story house across, ‘Sleepy Souls’ creek bridge; of which I walk daily after collecting wild plants from Caedmon’s field. I slowly cross, tip toed, on small wooden planks just to hear the creaking of the honey aged, wood boards beneath my bare feet. Wood, that is silvered, worn by time, that all the splinters have been rubbed smooth.

My Daddy, Magnus calls me Angel Blue. He said my name was chosen long before I came into being, from the Old Gate Watchers.  I was to be taught the lessons of my natural born gift. Magnus says I am ‘Seer’ on the wing. I could sense and seek out things that needed to be found.

I often wonder, who is watching me … now.

The journey begins, in the small forested Hamlet, where the town’s people have learned to walk in their own light. Magnus says to me, ‘They walk as the ones who came before us Angel, and you must do, too, in your time.”

The Menfolk, like their Fathers before them, were blacksmiths, carpenters, hunters, magicians… Protectors of the Vision  I=  Watchers in the night  I>

The Womenfolk are gilded by sun and storm; shining, nurturing storytellers, walking in their visions by daylight, harnessing the dream energy at nightfall.

The Autumn season came into our town, accompanied by storms and winds that sounded like a freight train lost in the night.

I was up in my bedroom, warm and safe by lamp glow, sewing my Mother’s white cotton dress; the one with little blue flowers that look more like blueberry stains since I have been wearing it.

I tore the sun faded hem this afternoon, as I walked through old man Caedmon’s fields grabbing for berries, with the briars grabbing me back. Caedmon, lets me walk in his fields; he watches me from his upstairs porch, as he waits out the sun going down, with whiskey, his pipe and his thoughts…

I think this gives him pleasure to see my hair and cotton dress glow in the setting sun; A whippoorwill darts past me and flies toward him as his gaze is steady upon something I cannot see.

He is a man of great wealth, owning much land and lumber. He is ruggedly handsome, like my Daddy, from years of felling trees and blacksmithing. His presence is formidable but gentle. I sometimes see darkness reflected in his light blue eyes, watching me, but I am careful as to not show him I have noticed.

Einar, Barin , Willow and I grew up together in Iron Forest Town with a deep understanding of the secret gifts we would wield one day. Our bond had been silently arranged among the Elders, long ago into the story and birth of Iron Forest.

The Autumn season that had come to our town would test the depth of our souls and the very fabric of our light, forever changing the path that was written for us and for all.

I must first tell you about the depth of feeling I have for Einar.  He and I chose one another as children, when the Elders allowed the union of two souls to be promised, for the sake of the Seer needing a Watcher, for protection, during the time of visions.

The shadows that envelop Einar are primal, fierce and protective.

Einar is a watcher and grand seer from the first warrior. His lineage was boldly carved in a secret storm; a watcher in the dark, was his seal.

His gift as a seer and watcher, was to protect me in my time of Vision.

This bond was silent but very forceful between us…

 

The story will be continued, very soon…

 

 

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~Do we keep some of the sweetest things, hidden in a dark place for fear of losing the rich memory of intimacy; or are we just afraid?

 

 

~  I live with my Father, Magnus. Like his Father before him, he is a miner, woodsman, master hunter and my protector; always watching but has a suffering allowance for my independent and curious nature.

Father, lighting his pipe, sits with me on our large, southern wood porch every evening I can recall, since I was a girl child. His stories weave a magic spell; lucid, hypnotic and sensual are his words that speak of the ancient gifts shared by the light and dark beings.

He speaks of the love he has for my departed Mother. Her name meant something to him I will never know deeply nor could I speak of with the finest words. I knew her as Aislinn.

He called her, Angell.

I wear her dresses she made by hand, now. My favorite is the antique white slip she kept in her cedar box, wrapped in a satchel of cinnamon and coriander.

Magnus, after slowly exhaling the dark scented pipe smoke, tells me “daughter, you walk in the light of your passing Mother; you favor her in the good ways I can’t be for you. Lucinda, you will find your way just fine, girl. Gentleman Caedmon sees you running tall in his fields, choosing the ripest herbs and plants for your mixing’s. He has a mighty strong fondness for you child. He might come callin’ soon for you.”

I just stare dreamy into the dusk, listening to the deep sound of Magnus and the vibrational drone of the cicada; feeling a sweet desire for the way Jupiter touches me, not the kind of ‘touchin’ you can tell Magnus about.

Do we keep some of the sweetest things, hidden in a dark place for fear of losing the rich memory of intimacy; or are we just afraid?  ~

 

Excerpt from my Story ~ (c.) 2018

(The moments that align) ‘Lucinda Mae, Jupiter and a Pig Named Pearl in Dusty Spirit Springs’

 

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To my Father; to all the men we have known who have protected, nurtured and taught us with love & guidance…

My Father, Michael Douglas Flannery, I remember with great fondness and love. He was a quiet, strong and patient man who gave me a sense of security as a child.

I admired his patience and passion for the things he loved to do and people he loved to share his time with. He was a quiet man and as a child, when I would look up at him, his tall frame seemed so towering over mine. When he would reach down to pick me up and hold me, his strength would pull me up with such ease I thought he could always protect me from any bad dream.

As a child, sensitive and imaginative, I really loved the feeling of my Dad’s protection. I thank God, as a curious child, I had a Father like him.

He was one who understood my explorative nature, but kept a watch on me. He understood my independent nature and also my deep need for love.

He is the one whose passion and inspiration for plants and gardening, taught me so much and inspired me to gain more knowledge of plant essences.

I remember his love of Family and gathering with them during the Holidays. His warmth, generous smile and happy demeanor were always a welcome sight.

I will always remember his patience teaching me how to plant my first garden as a young girl. I loved the way my bare feet touched the cool upturned soil on the warm spring day.

He taught me how to carve my first Jack-O-Lantern for Halloween. This was exciting for me as he showed me how to use his favorite fish carving knife, carefully. It made me feel so special that he trusted me.

He taught me how to fish and our Family’s camping trips were the highlight of my summers.

My Dad loved many things, simple pleasures through all the seasons. He was an outdoors kind of man. His hands were strong and busy. He was so fond of fishing, camping, boating, and gardening. He was adept at woodworking and making things. I loved his creativity and joyful spirit.

He also “carved the path” of how I would view other men that came into my life.

I have been blessed to know many good men in my Family and as friends who have been loving and nurturing and showing strength and discipline when needed.

I can only whisper in prayer and praise to my Father now, and some of the other wonderful men I have known…these wonderful moments you all have given to us I am forever thankful and gracious beyond words.

 

 

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Historic Joppa Church and Haunting Tales near Mammoth Cave, Kentucky

 

The earthy Pioneer country people, their homes and churches, the surrounding sinkholes and caves and the beautiful Joppa escarpment is what helped create the area and National Park we know as Mammoth Cave in Kentucky.

There once were 13 churches in this region now there are two left here in the Mammoth Cave area. Joppa Missionary Church and Cemetery, circa 1862, is one of the historical churches left steeped in many stories rich with tales and events of these people in their time of sharing and living.

Many immigrants and pioneers explored and settled in the Green River Valley coming from western Virginia, eastern Kentucky, North Carolina and Pennsylvania during early 1790’s.

These people of the Joppa Ridge would form a very isolated, self-sufficient mountain farming community that relied on one another, celebrated weddings and children being birthed, grieving together during the passing of a loved one, sharing knowledge, good times and secrets among themselves.

The 1862 Joppa Church was a fascinating place for me to explore. The lovely wood clapboard floor that still feels sturdy has a warm rounded sound as one walks upon it amidst the silence and leaves that have blown in. The large old glass windows let bright light shine upon the dark wooden benches and pulpit.  The windows behind the pulpit overlook the large shade trees, cemetery and forest.

I notice there are pennies left on the pulpit and realize the special significance of “Paying the Ferryman” so he would take them into the next world. This is an old Greek myth where Charon, the Ferryman of Hades would demand one coin for payment to cross over.

Pennies are left on gravestones in abandoned places and churches to remember the deceased. It is a lovely sign that you remember the ones that have gone before.

Many fascinating and haunting tales come from this Joppa Ridge and cave area. it is believed that prehistoric Native Americans, around 4000 years ago, mined the cave walls in Mammoth Cave for minerals. They also buried and entombed their dead inside the cool cave. In the 1800’s there was a doctor named John Croghan who created a colony for his tuberculosis patients within the cave. He thought the cave air would heal and end there suffering. It ended more than suffering; it ended some of their lives. There are many people that tell of the ghostly sounds and apparitions in this area of the cave.

During the years of the 1920’s the caves were privately owned and explored. One unfortunate happening was the infamous story of Floyd Collins who owned a section called Crystal Cave.

One day while exploring the cave a large boulder fell upon his leg pinning him there. On finding him the next day people tried to move the heavy boulder but it was in vain. Many people from all around came to help and take in this horrific event. After two weeks, Floyd Collins passed away. They displayed his body in the cave.

His body was stolen only to be found a few days later, without one of his legs. It was returned to a coffin in the cave until the National Park System made the purchase of the cave. They then closed it to tourists. This part of Mammoth Cave is reported to be haunted by many. People have written that they can hear the voice of Floyd Collins asking for help. It has been reported that people can feel objects thrown from some unknown source to land near them.

Researching and learning about the Joppa Church community has been difficult. So many people have passed on and there are not many written records to view.  I have a great appreciation and understanding of the importance in handing down letters and stories to one another, to ensure that our past is not just a hazy memory that will be lost in time.

There are many people who have explored the Joppa Church and cemetery through the years, and have written about experiences that they have had. A few have written about the sense of something from the woods watching. Photographs have been taken on dark evenings that reflect orbs of light around the cemetery and within the forest.

One particular story happened around a research group of people who entered the church and looked around. They found a Bible and noticed the page it was on. They returned after a short period of time exploring outside and enter back into the church, to notice it had turned pages. It was reported to be very still and neat inside the place. The people opened and closed the doors trying to stir up a draft to see if the pages would turn. To no avail the pages would not turn.

Most of the stories that have been shared around speak of the uncomfortable feeling that something is watching from the nearby woodlands.

The following photographs are from my visit here and the surrounding countryside where I gathered chicory by the railroad line and explored abandoned houses. I hope you enjoy the journey!

IMG_4934 Tommie by Window in Joppa Church

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Summer Memory at Dripping Springs

© by Tommie Flannery Baskis

Late summer days linger in hazy dreams before the door of autumn. I find in Dripping Springs an old forgotten rose bush by the white clapboard home, abandoned many, many summers ago.

The rotten bird house still clings to a post at the old, Pickett Cemetery; where many children went to dreamin’, laughing and sleepin’ in another place and time.

Wind moves through the dry poke weed, whistling a tune that sounds like flames cracking.

Poke berries; make the prettiest stain…for my aged gingham dress

Deepest magenta, I imagine, will stain my hands.

Barn, gone to the trees, sees no one now; not even secret lovers.

Hay bales, heavy and sweet smelling, sit fat awaiting the autumn damp and mice.

Summer will leave soon; it will find its way back here again after cold winter moons grow tired…

 

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~A Summer’s Dream~

~A Summer’s Dream~

The Cicada buzz mounts to a vibratory fury and descends swift, as I watch the mist settle upon the summer fields.

Bull thistle has gone to seed among the barn; white flurries dance, softly, upon the electric aether, before the storm.

I wander a lush and timeless countryside, where feathery mimosa trees blossom, in their sweet sugared fragrance, cooked by a fiery sun.

A peregrine falcon soars from a space on high, overseer of a rolling hillside.

Amish women tell stories as they hang their wet washing in the wind, to press and dry into shape; cotton and linen, sun faded and warmly fragrant, by evening.

In the old house, a slow thunder rumbles the wood clapboards and settles with the dust;

as iced lemon and watermelon waters, are stirred slowly with long spoons deep, into perspiring glass jars, for the evening porch gossip and gathering of loved ones telling stories of the day.

Swift blackbirds among the cornfields take flight, trailing a dusty path towards the lavender heaven above.

Those that have secrets will find each other in the haven of “Old Caedmon’s” tobacco barn, deep into the tree line, where dusk moves like velvet shadows over the living things…

Bare footed and cotton dress, finds me on the dust roads that wind down into Ash Rose Hollow, where I gather wild plants and berries;  horses languish in the field, with the last heated moments of the day.

As the moon finds a path through the windows, I smile, upon cool linen and satin, remembering the day’s blessings, unfold into memories of sweetness.

I secretly listen for the distant whistle of our town train, coming, always before the town clock strikes midnight.

It is a lullaby song for a summer’s dream.

 

~By Tommie Flannery Baskis~   2019

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‘The Weight of Wings in a Dark Forest’

 

 

‘The Weight of Wings in a Dark Forest’

The Lady of dust and woods, creates thoughts in dreams, upon the weight of wings in a dark forest.
Thoughts that shimmer and drape, silk white aether, on the cindered soil of forgotten leaf dust.
She, the one they call when shadows no longer follow…
Unfolds for a presence of primal sovereignty, grand and hallowed;
A sure force of wings that are never lost-
Create a stirring of storm sound, as the winged soul takes flight
Upon the last golden arched stream of light,
To be swallowed and silenced by the dark forest

IMG_9846 T blue scarf 44

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‘Lady of the Woods’

‘Lady of the Woods’

 

Shimmering ashes and silvered cloth, drape long and smooth,
Like a slow fog that whispers over the forest path, to adorn the Lady of the Woods.
As the sun lies down before her, a glory of mist in the smoky heaven; the very breath of Angels of the winter land.


Her lullaby… shattered crystals, that resonate bright upon the aether;
rejoice in the gathering of Wood Thrushes that will carry her tune,


To the Knight of her heart-


The stygian corridors of man, where no apparitions dare to quarter,


The Knight will find her.


In dreams, where the ‘Shadows of the Light’ speak the stories that we see,
beyond veil and mist, she will be-


The Lady of the Woods…
shimmering ashes and silver cloth, a formed mystery;


A story foretold

IMG_9349 Spring 4

 

 

written by    Tommie Flannery Baskis (c) 2018  Duskflyer Vision Art & Productions

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Old Grandpier Primitive Baptist Church

“The watcher knows the mystery in the living, dances close to what we promised to not remember…”

The vision will be dreamed through the season of knowing…

The vision will be passed on to you and me…

Tommie,  I>  I=

 

Tommie at Grandpier church

Old Grandpier Primitive Baptist Church

It was a very old Baptist Church, settled on the outcrop of encroaching forest.

Old stones crumbled, dusty and sun melted, in too many Midwest summers.

The only reverent melody being sung was by a storm wind…

Rushing in through broken, blue glass windows.

Once was congregation in praise and forgiveness…

Now spider and dust and the darkness, vibrate the aether.

 

I went back to Grandpier Primitive Baptist church, a country church, on a dusty country road near the Shawnee National Forest in Southern Illinois, several times through the years.

I am glad I have captured some moments here and had this opportunity to photograph a historical and lovely old wood, clapboard church.

It is no longer standing there, today… I am so thankful, more than ever, that I have captured these photographs for my book, ‘The Abandoned Story’.

So many memories, stories…gone from us.  The only way to keep these old abandoned places alive, is by sharing the story with others so that the ones to come after us might remember the days gone by.

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Angel Blue & Einar, in Iron Forest (I>) Town (e)

 

Matthew 10:26

“So do not be afraid of them, for there is nothing concealed that will not be disclosed. or hidden that will not be made known…

What I tell you in the dark, speak in the daylight…”

Matthew 10:34

“Do not suppose that I have come to bring peace to the earth. I do not come to bring peace, but a sword…”

Angel Blue & Einar In Iron Forest (I>) Town (e)

by,  Tommie Flannery Baskis

 

In the sun’s shadows, is where my story lives, in Iron Forest Town; an old town, of old trees and ‘older ways’.

One dusty, long ribbon of a road, was the only road that lead to Iron Forest. A place where kindred and townsfolk alike, knew how to weave a story; knew how to keep secrets hidden;

A place where the days always feel more than what they seem; a child’s day in the sun, lived for the anticipation of the mystery, each new moment brings.

My friends, Einar, Barin, Willow and I, were taught a hard lesson from the ‘Aether’ mystery, that Autumn. The lesson, that some secrets work their way from a dark, thorny place, to cast a shadow upon our souls. A shadow that slowly infects, with it’s presence, every sunlit corner it can creep into; carving a place, deep; for the light to seek out and grow…

I live with my Daddy, Magnus in an old two story house across, ‘Sleepy Souls’ creek bridge; of which I walk daily after collecting wild plants from Caedmon’s field. I slowly cross, tip toed, on small wooden planks just to hear the creaking of the honey aged, wood boards beneath my bare feet. Wood, that is silvered, worn by time, that all the splinters have been rubbed smooth.

My Daddy, Magnus calls me Angel Blue. He said my name was chosen long before I came into being, from the Old Gate Watchers.  I was to be taught the lessons of my natural born gift. Magnus says I am ‘Seer’ on the wing. I could sense and seek out things that needed to be found.

I often wonder, who is watching me … now.

The journey begins, in the small forested Hamlet, where the town’s people have learned to walk in their own light. Magnus says to me, ‘They walk as the ones who came before us Angel, and you must do, too, in your time.”

The Menfolk, like their Fathers before them, were blacksmiths, carpenters, hunters, magicians… Protectors of the Vision  I=  Watchers in the night  I>

The Womenfolk are gilded by sun and storm; shining, nurturing storytellers, walking in their visions by daylight, harnessing the dream energy at nightfall.

The Autumn season came into our town, accompanied by storms and winds that sounded like a freight train lost in the night.

I was up in my bedroom, warm and safe by lamp glow, sewing my Mother’s white cotton dress; the one with little blue flowers that look more like blueberry stains since I have been wearing it.

I tore the sun faded hem this afternoon, as I walked through old man Caedmons fields grabbing for berries, with the briars grabbing me back. Caedmon, lets me walk in his fields; he watches me from his upstairs porch, as he waits out the sun going down, with whiskey and his pipe.

I think this gives him pleasure to see my hair and cotton dress glow in the setting sun; A whippoorwill darts past me and flies toward him as his gaze is steady upon something I cannot see.

He is a man of great wealth, owning much land and lumber. He is ruggedly handsome, like my Daddy, from years of felling trees and blacksmithing. His presence is formidable but gentle. I sometimes see darkness reflected in his light blue eyes, watching me, but I am careful as to not show him I have noticed.

Einar, Barin , Willow and I grew up together in Iron Forest Town with a deep understanding of the secret gifts we would wield one day. Our bond had been silently arranged among the Elders, long ago into the story and birth of Iron Forest.

The Autumn season that had come to our town would test the depth of our souls and the very fabric of our light, forever changing the path that was written for us…and for all.

I must first tell you about the depth of feeling I have for Einar.  He and I chose one another as children, when the Elders allowed the union of two souls to be promised, for the sake of the Seer needing a Watcher, for protection, during the time of visions.

The shadows that envelop Einar are primal, fierce and protective.

Einar is a watcher and grand seer from the first warrior. His lineage was boldly carved in a secret storm; a watcher in the dark, was his seal.

His gift as a seer and watcher, was to protect me in my time of Vision.

This bond was silent but very forceful between us…

 

The story will be continued, very soon…

 

 

 

 

 

 

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