Dear readers, writers, photographers, philosophers, poets and friends! Only a few days left to Scotland and Ireland!! I’m starting to lose it ( as I always do before a big trip) I’ll try to check in when I can!! In the meantime I managed to finish two more chapters of my sweet Niamh’s journey.
(29) The Danger of Dreams
Niamh’s eyes were riveted on the rider galloping along the path. Suddenly up ahead on the opposite side she spotted the Morrigan who stepped out from behind the trees. Niamh sensed a great danger. She wanted to cry out a warning but it was too late. The Morrigan was holding the dream in her hand. She flung it upward into the air and over the road in a great arc. It hovered against the sun for a few moments and shattered into rainbow shards. Each one rang out in a different tone but Niamh could not utter the corresponding words. Time had slowed down. Her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth and her voice failed her. As the pieces converged into a whole again and fell to the ground she knew that the rider had seen it too. A look of joyful recognition transfigured his face as he drew his horse up and dismounted.
The Women of Ireland
(30) The Onerous Gift
The dream slowly rolled to a stop at her feet and she bent down with great effort to pick it up. She thought her body was becoming a tree trunk and her legs and feet were taking root in the earth. When she looked up, the traveler had undergone a shocking transformation. The long black curls that had flowed like a river on the wind were now silver. His back was bent and his hands trembled. He took a step and stumbled against his steed.
The sun fled. A dark roiling sky was sweeping like a tide through the morning. It was then she noticed another man who stood on the hill watching the road. He carried a staff and his cloak swelled like a sail. He had the look of a knower of trees. Niamh knew something powerful had happened and was overcome with emotion. She felt herself falling backward into the bracken. There was a droning murmur in her ears as time adjusted itself, but she was already somewhere between waking and dreaming. “What is this strange torpor?” she thought, and then she heard the Morrigan’s voice on the tempest just before her eyes closed, “Rest my child. The gift of sight is never easy. It is as heavy as an ocean of your tears, and as deep.”