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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
The First Circlet: The Twining Of The Three - 6. Segment 6: The Black Stag
The sun beamed through the high treetops igniting the mist turning the air into gold. The air was alive with the smell of new fallen rain and of the flora sighing in utter contentment. Amongst the ferns and the undergrowth spiders had drawn their intricate weaves and had caught in them rain-diamonds shimmering rainbows through their watery insides. The awakening day brought out the song birds with their endless chorus met with the plain bassoons of the frogs by the stream.
Underfoot feet touched the moist loam uninfected by the sting of fallen branch or biting insect…for this land refused such things. Harmony existed here…and she was all a part of that. Her skin flashed like opal against the rising sun’s warmth as she twirled and danced. Her small deft feet took perch on this and that. Her voice rose like a bell in the air and the birds delighted at the rare sight of one of her kind up so early. They seemed to follow her movement as they flitted from tree to tree over her head and some bolder ones from bush to bush quite close. A squirrel took notice, standing tail erect. He chattered as if in greeting and then ran up to his treehome just like he was walking on the flat land.
Soon she found herself at the forest’s edge and the sun blazed down into the silvery mist of the open meadow that was her destination. Instinct informed her always to enter a meadow carefully though she did not really know why. She inserted herself into the meadow mist like a ghost only a little whiter than the atmosphere surrounding her. The moist air opened her pores and she felt a warm flush as the sun touched her. Her nose worked, straining the familiar scents of the herbs she sought. Her father wanted them and her chore was to collect them for him. She had always had a way with the green places around. Her father had been similar when he was a young man. He was a Friend of the Forest Folk as had been his family from time immemorial. She was the same and she was hoping her friend Ser had managed to stay awake long enough to greet her at dawn, but he was not there. She always knew when he was even though her ears and eyes could never detect his coming. The forest always seemed to become more animated and alive when he was near. The air moved into breezes and the seeds would release from their bursting blooms.
Her disappointment faded as she found a patch of Fennel. All around the magical plant the world of scents seemed to become fresher and the slight tang of licorice in the air always made her mouth water. With her trowel she removed one or two plants and put them in her basket. Nearby the deadly pennyroyal plant grew. Its buds were ill fitted for any kind of consumption, but her father knew ways with it that made a liquor that cured many womanly ills. In a separate container, she put these in as she would put some cuttings from the Foxglove Flower that grew like a great magic staff from the surrounding grasses. Foxglove had mighty powers to help the elders who neared their time of Spiriting. Their bodies would die and their spirits would depart so as to join relatives with the Master Spirit among the stars. But the power of the Fox’s Gloves made the heart flutter not so much and thus made the passing more comfortable.
Such was the blessing of Men. Their fleshy bodies were but clothes to the spirit for men were not made entirely for this world, but to be shared by others.
The Menathor, the great Priest of Farn, her home town, often taught this and would show examples by twilight through smokes and conjurings. The flame was the closest element to the Spirit essence and within its changing touch the things invisible to living eyes could be discerned. The Menathor was very very old. Rumors had it that he was nearly 200 years! Some called him a Wizard or a man of magic and others called him a nuisance as he tended to meddle in affairs that he ‘had no business sticking his long nose into’. But oddly, when he did, a dispute would be resolved in peace and for the greater good of all parties involved. He was also considered a drunk as he seemed to like his beer overmuch. The Menathor much liked his visits with she and her father and spent much time with them. Her father also spent much time restilling his brew after such visits.
She delighted in these thoughts as her body was licked by the dew drenched grasses. But then she was stopped by a sudden chill…
She suddenly felt her nakedness and wondered at such a bite of cold in late spring. She shivered and suddenly wanted for the sun to burn hotter.
Her body acclimated to the cold by her hastening away from where she had been gathering. She warmed again, only to feel the pinpricks of her hair standing on end. She shivered again and her senses widened as she felt the need to fitfully look about her. She felt…watched.
“Who is there? Ser? Is that you?” she called past the lump of fear in her throat.
The only answer was a sudden silence and a thickening of the meadow mist. She felt she should make for the forests edge and finish gathering later. Yes, such an idea would be very good. Very good indeed. She thought this as she began returning to the safety of the forest. But then her fear changed to wonder and a touch of joy as she looked on.
There, not too far away, and perhaps a cause for the sudden disturbance, was a black stag. He was midnight black except for the white on his beautiful rack of antlers and the odd white fawn spots on his back. He was much older than a fawn. He looked like he might be the alpha buck in fact as he was so big, but there were no does with him.
The stag regarded her without fear and without rancor. He looked on her with a stately grace, almost as if a king were looking down his nose at her. In response, she smiled and let go a sense of welcome to the creature. She curtsied.
“I am honoured, your Majesty. Forgive my intrusion on your breakfast.” She said with playful reverence.
The stag stared at her for a second then snorted a little, shook his head displaying his beautiful antlers, and then bent his head to his meal.
Keeping her eye on the buck as she still did not fully trust him, she too bent back to her gathering. A nice bunch of thyme was at her feet, its heady aroma filled her nostrils and she could just taste its perfume in whatever soup she would prepare later. She gathered it up into her ‘food’ basket.
~Moira…~ a deep voice intoned. She started at the voice. It was not Ser’s voice!
“Who is there?” She called, forgetting the Stag.
The Stag, for his part, was walking quietly away from her back to the forest's edge opposite from where she had originally entered. It stopped and looked over its shoulder at her.
~Come…~ the voice said in her head.
She was totally transfixed by the creature that had just spoken into her mind.
Again, like a patient pulse the voice beckoned: ~Come…~
Fireflies suddenly seemed to dance around the Stag for a moment then he lead her into the forest.
This side of the forest was darker and closer than her side. More evergreens and the sun did not penetrate as well and the air was drier. The soft evergreen needles on the floor were a more textured carpet, and she found she needed to be careful not to hurt her feet on pinecones.
Why was she following this wondrous animal? Why did she feel a little…apprehensive? Why was it cold and yet so stuffy in this end of the forest? She wondered, did she just see glowing eyes staring at her through the trees?
The dark forest parted revealing the tinkling of a stream before her. The Black Stag had stopped at the flowing stream and was sipping daintily from it.
It was a beautifully appointed stream, bordered by….GASP!
There before Moira was a sight that was to her like a thick gold vein was to a miner! Eldritch Lilies!! Purple and pink and yellow they stood. About them fluttered butterflies and dragonflies of every kind. Her slight fear of the dark wood behind her fled as did her concern over the Stag who stood by looking down at her. He had just lead her to a treasure unlike any she had ever known. Her father spoke of finding a place with Eldritch Lilies, but had never been able to find again. These great water flowers contained a medicine that seemed to be able to cure almost every ill…including the most feared one…the Unhealing Wound*. The butterflies and dragonflies were friendly so they tended to settle on her damp hair as she worked to collect as many of the precious flowers as she could. So intent was she on her work that she did not notice the Stag move away behind her.
~Moira…Moira.~ The voice intoned again.
“Yes Great One! I wanted to thank you so much….” she looked up and behind her with a grateful smile. As she did the sight caused the blood to flee her face and her smile to melt into a grimace of mortal fear…
The Black Being stood before her, its magnificent rainbow fire wings spread wide. He was beautiful…and terrible. His face chiseled and smooth and his body a perfection of male form though it was black as pitch and flecked by iridescent streams of light. He loomed before her hugely and his face was full of a monstrous hate. His eyes glittered with light that stabbed like strobes. He raised a barbed sword in his hands that scintillated with white fire.
She withered in terror and at last found voice to scream just as the terrible burning blade swept down to claim her….
*Cancer
~~~~~~~~
“MOOIIIIRAAAAAA!!!” Moira awoke to the yell that mixed with her dreaming scream. She found her heart fit to burst through her chest, cold sweat beaded on her forehead, and she panted. The terrible thing had just been a nightmare! By all that was holy…
“Mooirraah, lass! Are ye alright in there?” The familiar voice called.
Moira found the exceedingly strange events flood back to her memory in such a flush that she thought she would faint. One name stabbed out clear from the rush of other thoughts…Joraan!
Her eyes darted to the chair. It was empty all except for the cat. Her other senses went to work and smell came first. Strawberries. Of course.
She looked and blinked with unbelieving eyes…the broken wall. Now not broken but fixed? It was not as it had been before. It was a wood panel of heavy oak with the peculiar design of three rings interlocking and yet also making a triangle with counter-arcs. Moira smirked and suddenly felt her mouth go dry realizing that last night had not ALL been part of the bad dream.
BANG. BANG. BANG. At the door.
“Moira I swear I’m fit to breakin’ this door down!” Sean yelled.
To save her door if for no other reason Moira dashed to the door and jerked it open. Sean stood there soaked to the bone his big blue eyes alight with concern. He hadn’t even shaved!
“Moira, Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Couldn’t ya hear me callin’ lass? I thought the Banshee’d taken ya!” Sean breathed out a sigh of earnest relief.
“Shah…what’re ya at, you daft article. Come in before you catch yourself the death!” Moira ushered him in, suddenly finding the maiden strength that comes when seeing men in distress. Mother emotions even for 35 year old men.
“The blasted Hurricane last night…I was for sure it was the end of the world! People have been pickin’ up pieces of the town and gluing ‘em back down I tell ya and you way out here! I’dda come sooner, but power lines had fallen across the road…couldn’t get by them!” Sean fidgeted at his wet clothes.
Moira started the fire back up. It was dry as a desert in the cottage. No sign any storm had ever existed or that there had been a huge hole in her wall. Everything was mopped up clean too!
“Get outta those clothes ya goof.” Moira flapped at him.
Sean looked at her with astonishment that she should even suggest such a thing.
Moira breathed out her temper and began pulling his jacket off. “What…you’re afraid Monsignor Young might read your name at Mass? Common’ ya need to get dry…I have a robe for you. I won’t even look any…not that you don’t have anything I’ve not seen before.” Sean was endearingly old fashioned in Moira’s estimation.
He pulled his shirt off as she handed him the green robe she kept in her closet. Sean didn’t ask why she always kept a man’s robe in amongst her things.
“I’m so very glad that you are ok, Moira!” he said while drying his longish dark blond hair. He dropped his trousers while turned away from Moira, the robe concealing his shame. Moira giggled a little as he’d forgotten the mirror on the far wall.
She looked away regardless and toward some of the most delectably fat wild strawberries she’d ever seen along with hot tea, scones, and clotted cream. These had all been freshly assembled for her and for a guest. Moira blinked and smiled despite herself, but then became concerned and a little sad. Where was Joraan??
Then it finally dawned on her….cat? Moira didn’t have a cat! Her eyes shot over to the chair next to her bed…empty…but the bed wasn’t. Typical of a cat, once the people are off it, furniture becomes theirs. The cream and honey calico cat looked on Sean with interest and seeming amusement then licked his paw. It then looked at Moira with those sparkling green eyes…..and winked.
span>I always welcome comments.
Thank you very much for reading!
Thank you very much for reading!
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
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