Behind the heavy iron-hinged oak door of the kitchen,
Herbs loosen themselves from the rafters.
Twine slackened,
Sprigs of rosemary and thyme slipped free and dropped cleanly into bowls set out beneath them.
Along the wall,
A row of jars tipped in turn,
Each pouring dried leaves,
Crushed seeds,
Or fine powder into a large wooden bowl beneath before settling back into place.
At the far side of the room,
An iron pot hovered within the hearth,
Floating above the glowing coals.
Inside,
A long wooden spoon turned the liquid in slow,
Smooth circles.
Beneath,
The coals drew together and deepened,
Sending small flames rising again without a hand to tend them.
On the long wooden table,
Dough gathered itself from flour,
Water,
And salt,
Folding inward,
Rising,
Shaping,
Then easing toward the oven.
The door opened just enough to take it in,
Then closed again.
A heavy click of metal broke the soft rustle of the room's quiet workings.
The door's latch lifted and Orla stepped inside.
Closing the door gently behind her,
She stood for a moment,
Taking it in.
Before her,
Long beams crossed the ceiling,
Lined with hanging herbs Clay jars and glass bottles filled the shelves.
The long table stood at the center,
Worn smooth by years of use.
Ahead of her,
The hearth held its place along the wall.
Fire set deep within it.
Her quiet easing moved through her,
Slow and soft,
As tension she hadn't noticed she carried before began to loosen.
This was the room she had missed most.
More than the rest of the house,
More than anything beyond it.
She smiled now to see it,
Just the same.
Still working away with the sense that her return settled something that had been missing within it.
She stepped inside,
Her shoes clicking softly against the stone floor.
As she passed beneath the beams.
A bundle of time loosened again.
Releasing a few stems they fell into a bowl near her hand a jar slid a fraction along the shelf and tip.
Adding a measure of dark powder to what had already gathered.
A faint sweetness rose from the bowl and Orla welcomed it.
Her fingers brushed the edge of the table as she walked by.
The wood felt solid and smooth beneath her touch.
Near the hearth,
The air grew denser.
Carrying the scent of herbs and something earthier that had soaked into the stone over time.
The light there held amber and gold,
Drawn from the coals.
The warmth and scent of it settled into her,
A deep sense of belonging wrapping around her.
She couldn't help but smile.
Her heart felt a glow.
She had finally come back to where she was her truest self.
Here she could simply be.
The rest all fell away within this room.
By this half.
She breathed deeply,
Relaxing into the feeling.
Or a step closer to the pot in the hearth steam lifted in soft lines and faded into the air she felt the energy of the flames flow into her wearing away the weariness of her journey and clearing the tiredness from her mind As it filled her,
A light tingling moved through her arms and hands,
Her gift stirring again,
Ready to be used where it worked best.
And she would need it now.
Her family had called her back and she had been grateful to return.
Only she could draw on the hearth light to make what they needed.
She reached for a small clay cup and set it on the table near the hearth.
With a gentle nod,
A bundle of sage loosened above her.
Leaves slipped free and fell beside the cup.
Her fingers circled in the air and a jar nearby opened.
Powder poured from it into a waiting bowl.
Aula silently called the bowl to her and watched as it slowly came to rest between her hands.
From another shelf,
A small bottle lifted and tipped,
Adding a thin stream of clear liquid.
The mixture darkened then settled.
Above her,
Another herb loosened,
Lavender this time,
Falling in a soft scatter of buds across the surface of the bowl,
The mixture lightening at their touch.
She didn't have to think.
Each small action followed naturally into the next.
Bottles and jars tipped.
Flowers,
Herbs,
Seeds and more cascaded into the bowl.
Her hands moved.
Her power flowed.
But her mind was clear.
Resting in the feel of the moment and the joy of doing what she loves.
The contents began to swirl,
Following the slow circle of her hand above it her other hand lifted towards the heart.
The fire swells.
Flames leaned inward,
Then drew back,
Sending a deeper glow through the coals.
Light spread outward from the hearth,
Moving in a wave through the air.
Gliding across the edge of the table.
And catching along the rim of the bowl.
With Orla's gaze to guide it,
The ball rose into the air and drifted closer to the fire.
The light around it flared.
A faint glow gathered within the mixture,
As though an ember of the fire had taken root at its heart.
Paula breathe in slowly,
Calling the bowl back to her.
She lowered herself onto the bench by the table and wrapped her hands around the bowl.
Her gift gathered in her palms,
Where they rested against it.
Warmth built beneath her hands then began to move,
Passing from her into the mixture.
The liquid shifted as it took it in.
Thickening,
Darkening,
Becoming richer with each breath she gave to it.
She stayed there Be your limit.
Letting it move.
Her breath slowed and deepened.
In.
And Thou.
With each exhale a little more of her tension ebbed away moving through her arms and into the bowl as shoulders soften.
A chest ease.
Her body lifted and opened,
Allowing her breath to move even more slowly and deeply.
As she settled into the expanding calm,
Her mind found stillness.
Nothing pulled her away Only the feeling of her gift remained.
The way it drew from her heart,
Down into her hands,
Then into the mixture.
Like a stream flowing down its mountain path to settle into a still pool below.
She rested in it.
I'm loosened around her There was only this.
The warmth beneath her hands the slow rhythm of her breath.
The calm,
Steady flow moving through her.
And she remained there,
Held in it,
Until all that was needed had been given.
When she looked up,
She realized hours had passed when it had seemed like mere moments.
As it often did when she was using her gifts.
The kitchen had deepened into a softer hour.
Beyond the narrow window,
The dark had thickened fully.
The house felt quiet in a way only a sleeping home could feel.
She let her hands fall away from the bowl and rest upon the wooden table,
A feeling of contentment unfurling within her inner calm.
The journey back.
The time away.
The busy edges of the days before this one.
Those things seemed far from her now as though being here within the hearthlight once more had drawn them gently apart and set them elsewhere.
With her peace,
Also came a deep need to rest.
She had given much and felt sleep reaching for her.
Before she could,
She had one last step to complete.
This part mattered The brew had to be held properly if it was to carry the hearthlight until morning.
She hauled a slender glass bottle to her,
Its clear sides catching the fire's glow.
As it drifted from the shelf into her waiting hands.
A small funnel glided from its hook and settled into the opening,
A small sieve following close behind to rest on top.
Ola lifted the bowl and poured.
The sweet scented syrup passed through in a glowing amber stream.
Leaves,
Seeds,
Peel and petals remain behind,
Dark and fragrant.
When the last drops had fallen,
The sieve and funnel returned to their places.
The bottle settled on the table,
A deep glow held in its glass.
A cork drifted over from a nearby drawer,
Lowering itself neatly into the neck to seal it.
It was done.
Her family would have what they needed.
She felt her eyes grow heavy and knew it was time for her to rest now.
Above her,
The last small spells of the night continued on.
A line of bay leaves slipped from its string into a waiting mortar.
A jar of dried berries tilted and filled the dish below.
Near the oven,
A dusting of flour drew itself into a pale crescent at the edge of the board.
They would continue on without her to guide them as they had for months before.
Orla poured herself a small cup from an earthen pitcher on the table and drank it slowly.
It was a sweet,
Herbaceous drink made to ease sleep.
She had prepared bottles of it before she had left for her family to use while she was away.
The brew had deepened as it had rested.
The herbs had mellowed into one another.
Its honeyed warmth spread through her in a slow wave from her chest,
And a gentle drowsiness followed.
Settling into her limbs and drawing them into a pleasant heaviness.
She banked the fire with a wave of her hand the gold of the coals brightening before easing back to their smouldering glow.
The room dims slightly though the hearth light still lay wide across the nearest stones and the lower stretch of wall.
Then she crossed to the nook built into the side of the hearth.
It had always been her favourite place in the room.
Tucked next to the hearth,
Close enough to the fire that the warmth lingered for hours,
Half enclosed by stone,
With the wooden edges of the seat worn smooth by years of quiet moments spent there.
She lowered herself onto it and drew her feet up beneath her.
With a gentle flick of her fingers,
A folded blanket from an upper shelf floated toward the nook.
Stretching itself out as it approached,
Before wrapping her in its soft warmth and comforting weight.
The bottle stood ready on the table.
The bread cooled on its board.
The herbs hung above,
Unstirring,
Their day's work done.
The contents of the pot over the fire had stilled The whole room had come to rest.
Aula relaxed her head against the curve of the nook and let her gaze drift.
The warmth from the hearth settled across her side,
Her back and her legs.
Her body softened completely.
Her breath deepened once more Each exhale longer than the last.
In.
And out nothing pulled at her nothing asked for her attention.
She felt no need to hold onto any thoughts.
The kitchen had given her back to herself.
Its warmth.
It's magic.
Its homely beauty had gathered in her and quieted every scattered path.
Her eyes closed The scent of herbs,
Bread,
Smoke,
And the lingering sweetness of the brew folded around her.
And in the golden hush of the half-light.
Aula drifted down into sleep.
