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Swan Journal Spread courtesy of Sharon K Shubert The Visitors My first exercise for the Alluvial Mine project is a guided imagery, where you were given a scenario and told to run with it. You are told to write non-stop for twenty minutes without worrying about grammar or spelling. I...tried. I started writing yes, but then I'd go blank, sitting here till the next first idea came to me. I'd add it then I'd go blank again till the next idea. The story, or writing clip, progressed this way througout its entirety. Needless to say, it went beyond the required 20 minutes. In fact, it took a life of its own. I once tried to lead it in another direction, but it didn't sound or mesh as well with what had come before, so I continued with the first idea pattern. It's not one of my best, but it's not one of my worst ones either. I'm sure if I give it some time then come back to it, I can make it better. It'll be fun to see how I can flesh it out. I think it's a piece with possibility. The webmistress of Soul Food Cafe took an exerpt from a favorite short story of hers by Walter de la Mare called The Visitor. It is one of the many she uses as visual or guided imagery to help writers get their creative juices flowing. There have been heavy rains in the last week. You walk, absentmindedly, along a familiar path in the meadow. You lift your eyes to see a pool of water in the green hollow of the meadow, where none has lain before. The water, a product of days of rain, stretches out, gray and sparkling. Floating upon this wild water you see two strange birds, the like of which you have never seen before. You guess that these might be stray seabirds. They are as white as snow and they are disporting themselves gently in this new pool as if it were a haven of refuge or a meeting place which they sought from the moment they had come out of their shells. You watch them, fixed motionless, afraid that you will disturb their happy play. Inching closer you see their eyes shining in their heads, note the marvelous snow of their wings and their coral beaks reflected in the shallow wind-rippled sea. They appear to have been companions for all time. They preen their feathers, uttering faint cries of delight, as if telling secrets to one another. You gaze with greedy eagerness, aware that you are learning a great secret. You dread that these wild creatures will rise and fly away, so under your breath you whisper words of encouragement to persuade them to stay. The birds have no fear of you being there, eyeing you with bright eyes that reveal curiosity of their own. They share their secret with you. The Visitors Stay there, please. Thhhaaattt's it. What are you saying, I wonder? Inching even closer, slowly and cautiously towards the strange birds, I try to project an air of calm in case their curiosity changes to fear and they suddenly take off, leaving me bereft of their wonderous company. One makes a trumpeting noise, like that of a swan and I pause in my tracks immediately, not daring to breathe. Is it warning me off or just saying "hello?" The other, the smaller of the two and obviously the female, trumpets what seems a reproach. She turns her white head again in my direction and fixes bright black eyes upon me and trumpets a second time. This time it seems to hold an inviting note. Taking encouragement from that I move slowly in their direction once more until I am at the pond's edge. Kneeling and sitting upon my heels, I watch them watch me. I so want to put my hand out and touch one, to see if its snowy feathers are as soft as they look. But I don't dare, so I keep my hands folded loosely in my lap. That would be presuming too much, surely. They look like birds of royalty, while I am a mere commoner. Their feathers, the pristinest white I've ever seen, almost hurt the eyes as rays of golden sunlight radiate softly down upon us in the meadow. Beautiful and graceful, sounding a lot like the Trumpeter Swan but on a slightly lower pitch, they have the look of a raven about them--a buoyant, water-adapted raven. Seconds, or maybe minutes, pass by as we continue our assessment of each other. Silence reigns in the meadow, except for the normal sounds of nature: birdsong coming from high up in the boughs of trees ringing the glen and small insects buzzing, going about their business. The wind, cool and sweet with the last vestiges of rain, rustles playfully through the green leaves, making them shimmer and dance. It brushes softly against my skin, tickling my cheek as it plays with tendrils of my brown hair. The birds' feathers are also playmates as it ruffles and moves through them. My curiosity regarding their secret can no longer be held at bay. I need to know. I must know! "What are you saying?" I ask again, this time aloud. I address the female, looking her in the eye, for she seemed to welcome me earlier. She swims close, and like my desire to know, I can no longer resist the urge to touch. My hand, on its own volition, moves gently and touches her back. A smile slowly blossoms on my lips, curving them upward in delight. They really are soft! I marvel. I begin lightly petting her, momentarily forgetting their secret in my joy. But I gasp as all of the sudden I'm drawn to another place, a place that is neither here nor there, a place of pink mist and white light. There is no discernable ground, yet I am not falling. Merely floating it seems. I look about, wondering if I'll see a building--or the ground--as the mist thins in areas and thickens in others. But I don't. I am alone, but for this mist and light. Not even a sound is heard until... Hearing the trumpeting of these white "ravens," I look up to my left and see them descending agilely to land before me. Hello, the more adventurous one says, her beak not moving. Where are we? I question, going down on one knee to better meet their intelligent gazes. My mouth, I notice, remained unmoving as well. Thought transference? I quickly wonder to myself. The male bird dips his elegant head in a nod. Yes, we communicate by thoughts, he affirms, obviously having heard my pondering. No need for spoken words here between your world and ours. Your world...? I dumbly echo, trying to adjust to the impossible reality of my surroundings and companions. My pale feathered friends share a look and laughter trumpets inside my head. Of course! the female states cheerfully. Our world! Hidden by powerful magic it is. Merlin, the great Magician created a rift or veil between the two to protect the magical beings from man, who would use our gifts to further his own greedy purpose after good King Arthur died and Excalibur was taken back by the Lady of the Lake. I see... I say slowly, awed by everything still. But you're allowed outside into our--my--world? What if you're seen and caught? I worry. There are no birds like you anywhere in my world. You sound like a swan, yet look like a raven and prefer water. If caught, you would be studied, maybe even be put in a zoo! Her mate gives me a wise, assuring look. Do not fear for us, he tells me. We're allowed to wander past the boundary when it rains heavily and during the soltices, when the Earth is washed cleaned and Nature's at her peak or lying dormant. And only the unselfish and good-hearted can see us there. We love your water, the smaller bird interjects happily. It's so ordinary, so diverse! There's very little magic whatsoever in it! It can be salty, or fresh like this! And it smells clean. That's what draws us there to your world, you know, after a heavy rainstorm. Because The Veil separates us like an invisible wall, magic builds up until it becomes almost a heavy aura or cloying scent. The rain washes away everything old and noxious, weakening our confines, releasing excess magic and leaving behind the innocent and the new. We like the simplicity of your world, the male adds. Not being bound by the force that is magic. There, we can be water birds, simply ourselves, not required to do any magic. What magic do you do? What are you? I ask. We are Sangrie, the female explains, birds that sing for the rulers of the Manga, the Mountain Elves. We sing of ancient times, now and of the future. It is what we do, her companion states, but it grows tiresome, always being commanded to foretell. Never sought for our company alone, we are summoned often from the Near River to sing what we see, what we know. In your world, there are no demands, no orders to know events past, present or future, the snow-white female says, cocking her head a little to the side. Those who come upon us are usually children, innocent and appreciative of the beauty around them. They delight merely in our company and to see us playing. I nod, completely understanding that, for it is how I felt upon first spotting them. Upon first sight you know they're extraordinary creatures with something singular about them. You don't know what it is, but hope to find out, comprehending this chance encounter is a once-in-a-lifetime experience. You realize you've been granted something special. As I have, I recognize and my heart warms with the gift I've been given. I know your secret, I say and smile with joy. The gift of friendship! Because I wanted nothing more than your presence, you stayed and gifted me with this knowledge and your friendship. The bigger bird inclines his head again. Yes. You may have sensed our magic, but all you wanted was to know about us. You were fascinated by our playing, not what we could do for you. We can be ourselves, his beautiful companion says happily. That is a gift itself. Always be yourself; let others see the real you. But don't let them use you and take you for granted. Remember, let others be themselves as well. Do what you can for yourself and be appreciative for their skills or help. It's no fun being forced to use your skills on the whims of others. Or to be invisible as a living creature except for those desired skills. I nod solemnly. I won't forget, I promise. As abruptly as I was wisked to the place of pink mist, I blink and find myself at the water's edge, again in the meadow. The sounds of nature now fill my ears and the wind blows the lingering scent of rain our way. The two Sangrie are calmly floating on the pool's gray rippled surface, staring at me. I blink a second time and smile warmly at them. I know I will never forget this moment and will always carry it deep within my heart. The snowy birds trumpet a farewell and spread their wings before taking flight. Yes, indeed, I think to myself as I watch them grow smaller in the blue sky then disappear behind an aspen, I was granted a rare gift. And I will do as they ask. Everybody deserves that. But how sad and ironic. In trying
to protect them and the other magical beings from man's greed, Merlin
had created a prison of sorts, where they are trapped until released
by torrential rains or the power of the solstices. There, in that
prison they are taken for granted and are sought after only for
their oracular skills. My snowy friends are right. We need to do
what we can on our own and be grateful for the skills and help of
others. Footnote Rough, I know. But, as I said earlier, it was only supposed to be a 20-minute exercise. *sheepish look* Obviously, it became much more. And to be honest, I'm quite surprised by it. When I first started on it I had no idea what the secret was going to be. I just let the story unfold as each spurt of writing came to me. It wasn't until about midnight last night that the message revealed itself to me. Be yourself. The gift was friendship, but the lesson was in being the real you. Not letting others take you for granted. When I first started this project, I didn't think I'd see much gold right away, or see something significant. But already I have found my first nugget. And though rough, it's still real and valuable!
The Alluvial Mine is the property of Heather Blakey and Miners who have generously shared their work. Please do not replicate any part of this mine without written permission. |
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