A New Tale

Like spokes jutting out of a wheel of life and starting to turn haphazardly, a newer yet older type of "path-work," set into life. Not from any union of people but from a few motivations that were spiritually lower.

A man wandered by a brook counting toadstools along the way. Strolling through the grass he motioned to a rock, "may I sit?" The rock replied, "of course you may, why would you ask? I am only a rock but since you did I will allow you to. You say..." the rock continued. "If rocks could speak," he muttered, and he started.

A rain-soaked path and trees dark and bare were like silhouettes on the landscape. Clouds overhead now blocked the sun, a cool breeze enamored none. Branches began to sway in the northern wind. No gateways parted here to a hemisphere unknown to man for the north in the spirit world has nothing to do with the land. It bends un-sweetly to suffer not the minds of man for none go there. But nearer by, that north wind thought to shatter hope forthcoming.

That man's ears began to ring with a peripatetic brook now babbling. Looking out at midstream song he began to sway. Never conscious loses hope as many a year swept by. He sat and fumed with bitterness on his path. Not noticing a shadow who was creeping near he uttered a curse contaminating the past. No fame for Caeli, that butter tart. He completed his hex. Then he began to snarl instantly and his soul changed with the curse he uttered.

The scepter nearby froze midstream, what was that thought? Who is near? Fear was played with that day.

A hill in the distance began to fade, replaced now by a row of heads with pointed ears but he did not see those now did he. That man's mind now went forward like the shadows of the trees he had spoken to whispering in the winds.

Margin's err tiding him he opened his sack. Gathering toadstools, he changed them that day. He placed them in carefully. Then he walked backward step by step as the emotive stares now in his sack began to whisper. Keeping time with his steps those hideous toadstools now were speaking.

Crashing sounds in airwaves the leaves on the ground began to move upwards in a backward motion, circling nature's current in reverse. Now Red Riding Hood approached him. Really it was the scepter resembling a maid beneath the cloak. "Why walk backward?" she asked. "It's the only way out of the wood," he lied. "Why don't you show me which way you came," he spoke to the hood. "You tell me," she replied. Walking backward, the man and a shadow margined the wood. Striving for a bitter harmony he left with echoes.

God ever mindful watched this man exit the forest. Which was next? How would this play cast with that hex? "Ya, just HOW?!!" shouted the woods, or was it the toadstools?

What a surprise! An opening to a future not his own had slightly changed now to a path to medieval times, a different period altogether. How'd he do that? A shadow had helped as the man wandered through thickets of time in his magical engagement. Dark magic was the only cause. Oh, what a fool. If the man could hear the tales of nature he might get an answer. So there was that magic that had took place before Caeli had moved into Harkness. Magic had a story of its own.

Not the end.

Poems I, by Lisa A Lachapelle, Indie Published:

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In USA/Int'l

By Lisa Lachapelle, Writer, Author. More of her work here and here.