Wind of Seasons (short story)

The edge of the cliff. A dangerous place to be, she knew that, was born here.

   But an indefinable feeling that made her body tremble, drove her from the cottage to this edge of her world. She was so much a child of the beautiful Northern Irish landscape where the many shades of green competed  with the grey and blue colours of the sky. Where the wind waved the grass or tortured the scarce trees that bravely survived the storms with bowed backs like old men.

   She was born in a heavy storm in April and named Aibreann. Her paternal grandmother predicted a strong and determined will, always prepared to fight storms in her life and even looking for them.
Aibreann did not disappoint her grandmother with whom she had a close relationship. Both women had a wild almost earthly edge to their character. Both inherited the free will and combativeness from the Vikings that once ruled Northern Ireland. Add a little blood from the Cromwell's soldiers and a generation of brave women was born. 

   Strong women needed strong men at their side; it wasn't an easy task for the parents to find the right one. Most men were easily either discouraged or too impressed and Aibreann was very seldom impressed by the men who dared to try to approach her.
Her mother shook her head and believed her daughter was never going to marry. Her father laughed and said that the man who could handle his daughter was out there somewhere to turn up when Aibreann was ready for it.

   Watching the wild sea beneath her, Aibreann smiled. Yes, she was 24 and yes, there was a man - Lorcan - she liked but her heart still belonged to the seasons and not to him although she admired his tenacity. The first man that seemed not too impressed with that wild side of her. Still....
   She straightened her back even more, raised her head, her chin pointing forwards, her eyes wide open. She opened her arms and welcomed the wind that gained in strength, trying to subject her to his power.
Aibreann did not give in and laughed, the wind swirled her laugh over the fields towards a man on his horse.

   The man sat high on his tall dark brown horse, his left hand on his knee; the wind blew the manes round his right hand that loosely held the bridles.  He looked at the woman at the edge of the cliff and could not take his eyes of her, feeling a sensation of which he thought he lost it long ago.
   To an ordinary spectator it might have looked if she was going to jump but he knew that she stood their to embrace the wind. She was too far away to hear her laughing still the sound resonated in his chest. Man and horse did not move and stood like a statue in the middle of the green field defined by large ferns that obeyed the law of Autumn by fading into yellow and brown.

   At the same moment the man guided his horse to the cliff, Aibreann knew someone was watching her. She turned around and the wind blew her hair forwards; her hands held her hair back to watch the magnificent combination of strength and solidarity of the man and his horse.

   She was alone but not afraid. Her chin still up, she waited; her eyes fixed on the man's face until she could see his eyes grey as the smoke from the chimneys.
   She raised her hand and laid it on the nostrils of the beautiful horse who nodded a few times to approve with her touch. She did not look at the horse, she looked at the man who's emotions were clearly visible in his eyes; the grey turned from bright to dark but he did not blink.
   She lost track of time, the world around her stood still. The wind got hold of her heart and blood, raced through her body and she knew that the man felt the same. She knew she found her equal and she knew she needed to fight for him; he was the main storm in her life and nothing that followed later in life would cause similar sensations.

~

   Aibreann smiled and thought she was indeed an old sentimental fool. A forgotten tear dripped on the letter in her hand. One of the many the man wrote to her. Letters in which he told her about the storm in his heart the moment he saw her. That incredible sensation that raced through his blood. The recognition of equal souls; creations of the wind.
   Their secret relationship was not meant to last, they both knew that, but until it ended it was fiercely, unruly. Their passion grew with the Autumn winds, raw and reckless. The rain washed the tears they did not want to cry, their time together was too short.
   The storm inside her held on for months after he left but then came the day she calmed down and accepted the proposal of  Lorcan.

   Poor Lorcan who was good to her, who loved her and kissed the ground she was walking on. She was loyal to him, never betrayed him with another man but also never told him about the letters of her wild and passionate lover from long ago. A lover she never met again but who's letters she received though never replied to, until the announcement of his death 60 years later, long after Lorcan passed away.

   After she read the final letter from the stranger that told her about the death of her friend ("we found your address in his agenda"), she walked to the cliff but instead of looking at the sea, she looked in the opposite direction, the wind in her back, searching for the contours of man and horse but they were gone. 

Photo: @beautifully_derelict_ni (Instagram)

   All what was left was a case full of letters, carefully preserved in the attic and never to be read twice or found by anyone. Until now after she towed the case downstairs. Sitting in her chair in front if the peat fire, she opened them one by one before she laid them back in the case.   She read for days and days, forgot to eat, forgot to drink. The peat fire stopped burning but she did not feel the cold; she felt the heat of the fire that burned with the same flame in two bodies, enkindled by the storm.

   Aibreann too died long ago but the heritage of her character and the unlimited love for the seasons once united in the only man on earth that understood her, still remains. Exposed in her little home in front of a cold hearth until the elements destroy what is left of the abandoned cottage, allowing the storm to blow the written memories towards the wild sea.

 

Word of thanks: the photo of @beautifully_derelict_ni (Instagram) inspired me to write this story and I was given permission to use the photo as an illustration for which I am very grateful. Thank you Jules!!

 
Link: please visit the beautiful Instagram account of Jules

Note: the story is pure fiction! A figment of my imagination. 

Helen 

The Ashplant (short story)

   “Made of Ash tree”. The voice of my creator was soft, more like a whisper. His beautiful Irish accent  mentioning my name – Ashplant - almost stroke me like his hands did. I knew already that I was going to miss his company.

I was the very first stick he made with a curved handle and therefore carefully selected from the many roots of the Ash trees. Usually roots grow with a natural handle but the customer was a little more demanding.

Maybe it was because of this that my creator and I got attached to each other; he found it very difficult to let me go although he received a generous sum of money.

   Reluctantly he handed me to my new owner. For a few seconds I floated between my creator and the former headmaster of the local school; these few seconds I belonged to no one, just my own little space.

Then the headmaster touched me and I was surprised to learn that hands differ in feel.

I left the hand with the hard skin and the smell of wood. I entered a soft hand with the smell of paper and ink. The difference could not have been bigger.

   My new owner looked at me and smelled, then he nodded in agreement and gave the money to my creator who left the house but not before he looked at me for one more time. At that moment I knew I would always be his one and only stick with a curved handle.

   The soft hand weighed me and waved me a few times before the owner walked a few steps with my iron base pointed downwards. I wasn’t purchased to support him during walking; my owner was still fit. I reminded him of the days he was a headmaster using the Ashplant to point to the blackboard or to point to a child.

I heard of Ashplants used to punish children, leaving read swellings at their hands. I hoped I was treated nicely and not for hitting disobedient family members! Though I soon learned that the man  was nice and that he lived on his own; an elderly lady from the village was his housekeeper.

   I was his nostalgia, the memory to the old school days. The feel and the colour attracted him but than designed to walk. I gave him some sort of status when he walked through the village; a straight posture and his fore-arm and hand elegantly folded against his back, only removed to raise his hat greeting the ladies of the village.

   He must have been a good headmaster; people bowed with respect. He must have taught many generations and he knew almost everybody by name.

It did not take long for me to recognize the red haired boy that delivered the bread covered by a white linen cloth in a large wicker basket. Or the butcher with his pale complexion and fingers with short nails permantly covered in blood, waving with the sharp axe with the short handle when we walked by.

Who I liked most was the lovely lady from the haberdashery shop. Her soft and round cheeks always coloured to a dark pink as soon as she noticed my owner. I understood she liked him very, very much but unfortunately the headmaster, although friendly and always polite, did not return her feelings.

I wondered if she was still a spinster because of this.

   Still an Ash root, I lived underground and only knew about the seasons when the temperatures changed or when it rained. We grew during Summer and slept during Winter.

But as an Ashplant I could see and smell the seasons.

Resting against the bench on the village green I enjoyed the sunshine and looked at the patterns designed by the sunbeams filtered by the leaves of trees.

During Autumn I kicked the beautiful red and golden rustling leaves which became soundless and viscid when it rained. I loved the smell of the wet leaves and the fungi.

I loved the sight of the snow that covered the village in a white blanket. It muffled the sound of footsteps; the cold air changed the smoke that came from the chimneys into straight thin clouds.

But most of all I loved Spring when the tender soft green leaves sprung from the branches and flowers coloured the gardens of the white cottages with the roofs decorated with reed that turned into a golden brown. It reminded me of the time I was ready to grow further until found by the woodworker who transformed me into an Ashplant.

But at home I rested next to his chair, my owner never let me out of sight as if he knew that one day, he also needed me indoors. I rested while he read books or wrote letters. He was not the man to sit still.

   They day that he needed my support arrived sooner than expected. A very bad cold had a devastating effect on his physical condition; he never recovered despite the caring efforts of the housekeeper and even the lady of the haberdashery shop. They spoiled him with healthy food, drinks and attention.

   It worried me tremendously that he became a very old and tired man. His energy left him day by day, I compared it with the halt to my growth during the Winter months.

I supported him where ever I could, he needed me every step in the house; very seldom he went outdoors.

   When he also stopped reading and writing, the lady from the shop and the housekeeper arranged to take him to a care home where he would be well looked after all day long.

My owner was too tired to object. Resting on his bed, he closed his eyes and I could hear him pray to the Cross at the wall behind him, as if he asked to be taken Home before being moved.

His lips moved constantly; noticed by me at the end of his bed close to his feet but not by the housekeeper who packed his suitcases and shoes which she placed under the bed until the ambulance would take my owner away.

As soon as she walked downstairs, the lips of my owner were still. His hand moved as if he wanted to hold me but he never reached me.

Photo: @alexandre.katuszynski

   Seasons went by; the room as cold as ice during the Winters that kept people indoors, damp and smelly during the rainy seasons that fed the soft green pastures and hills of Ireland. Dust dancing in the sunbeams during Spring and Summer.

Over the years the silence in the house got deeper and deeper. No voices, no scratching pens. Even the smell of paper and ink disappeared.

   I still rest against the bed, left alone with my memories.




Word of thanks: the photo of @alexandre.katuszynski (Instagram) inspired me to write this story and I was given persmission to use the photo as an illustration for which I am very gratefull. Thank you Alexandre!

Link: please visit the beautifull acounts of Alexandre on Instagram and Flickr


Note: the story is pure fiction! A figment of my imagination!


Helen

The Sitter (short story)

Winter. The flames of the fire in the large hearth worked magical shadows on the furs in front of it and on the rich Goblin's that covered the old walls of my room in the castle. Their vibrant colours came to life but I did not notice it that evening. I looked at the portrait of the man in front of me, my paint brush in my hand. The only thing I had to do was signing but I felt reluctant to do so, as if I felt the sitter with the mysterious eyes, not wearing his cuirass today, would disappear to never return.

All of a sudden the man spoke.....
   "My ancestors were Vikings. No farmers or warriors but of high birth. They owned land, forests and large houses, ship yards and boats. Their harbours lay in the shelter of the large Fjords.
Like many generations before them, they sailed to Éire but not before the 12th century. They arrived here in1145 which is almost at the end of the Viking period as you will know."

Here he paused, he did not look at me. His mind was elsewhere, the sound of his deep voice, brown like his hair and  warm peat on a Summer's day, slowly faded in silence. Just as I thought he was not going to speak further, he said:
   "Unnulf, son of Gilss and Unnulf's son Grimolf, were amongst the Vikings that sailed the river Camlin to Longphort in the county Anghaile where they joined an existing settlement. But the hostility they met, even amongst their own people, was not what they expected. They tried to build their own settlement but were not successful; after 10 years they sailed home again. Grimolf how ever had fallen in love with the beautiful Aodhamair who did honour to the meaning of her name: 'fire'. As well her character as her red hair: she stood up against her parents to follow Grimolf to the North where they settled at the estate of Grimolf's ancestors near Oseberg.
It could not have been easy for Aodhamair, she missed the green rolling hills of Éire but learned to love the dark Northern forests and their inhabitants like Giants, Troll's, the Small People that lived underground, the laughing Witches, the screaming Human Birds that all of a sudden appear to scare you with their loud unpleasant raw voices. She loved to tell fairy tales to her children and later in life, her grand children. The Éire's are wonderful storytellers and her blood passed this skill on to further generations.
My mother Freydis, a descendant of Aodhamair, told me in good tradition all the old stories and fairy tales. But not only the Norwegian, also the Celtic. About Unicorns and Elves.
I remember the evenings during long and cold Winters where I rested my head in her lap in front of a roaring fire. Her beautiful voice almost sang the tales; I hardly dared to breath. Her hand laid on top of my head. I was wanted and loved."

The man paused again, his eyes  with the colour of melting glaciers, softened and shone like he had to hold back his tears. This touched my heart which had already opened to him during the long sittings that lay behind us. Then he suddenly looked me straight in my eyes:
   "I felt torn between both fantasy worlds. Or were they real? I could not tell but I longed to return to the roots of Aodhamair. Ten years ago I left my mother and father and sailed to an Éire that was still fighting Cromwell. An Éire that fought to keep it's own identity. As they did during the occupation of my Viking ancestors.

My high birth opened doors and it did not take long before I settled. I listened to and read about the fierce history of Éire, about fairy tales but soon found out, although my Irish blood from centuries ago, I am still a Viking. I miss the Fjords, the forests, the long dark winters."

He rose from his chair, his eyes fixed on me: "Your eyes as green as the rolling hills, your hair like flames."
I only noticed I was still holding my paint brush when he took it from my hand. He pulled the strings of my linen hat to free my hair. He unbuttoned my apron, lifted me in his arms and walked to the hearth.
"Will you follow me? As my Aodhamair?"
My fingers like the wings of the elves, touched his face. And when he finally kissed me I could hear the sound of the waterfall of the glacier, it made my body tremble. His hair mingled with mine, our bodies melted together, reuniting Viking with Celtic......

Autumn. The wind hauls  through the broken windows of the ruined castle covered in bushes and tall trees with flaming red leaves. The crows took over long ago and their harsh voices echo against the crumbling walls. What is left of the tower fights bravely against time, contrasting with the sky that colours like melting ice.


Word of thanks: the portrait of the man is from the collection of Roy and Nadine Precious and inspired me to write this story. Thank you Nadine and Roy for allowing me to use the photo!

Links: the Instagram accounts of Roy and Nadine.
Please visit their website where you will find many other portraits and beautiful antiques.

Note: the story is pure fiction! A figment of my imagination!

Helen