3+ Hours Of Sleep Stories For Spooky Season

Drift off to four autumnal sleep stories written and read by Laurel Hostak Jones (Sleep & Sorcery), accompanied by soothing ambient music. Meet the spirit of the pumpkin patch. Encounter your past and future selves in an enchanted corn maze. Revisit the nine lives of a bookstore cat. Celebrate Samhain at the school of sorcery.
Music: Sense of Relief by Hannah Lindgren, via Epidemic Sound

Transcript

The slanted light of autumn afternoon is something to be savored. It falls golden on the crossing of paths, Sunshine sweeping through the brisk air to warm hands and faces. So utterly bewitching is the quality of light and the sound of crisp leaves spun up in a spiral in the wind. The scent of cinnamon and cider on the air. To walk in autumn. Is to always feel yourself. On the edge of another world. Poised upon the liminal. Indeed, You think. It is the very brevity of the season, Its status as a transitional moment, A brief pause between the collective inhale of summer and the exhale of winter that makes it sparkle so They say that the approach to All Hallows Eve is a time when the veil between worlds is at its thinnest. You can feel that acutely. One good step lightly on the crooked beams of autumnal light and slip, You think, Right into another world. On this sweet October afternoon, The moon, In the shape of a reaping sickle, Is already present in the pale sky. You wouldn't have noticed. Accept it as you pass. A little boy of no more than three threw his arms to the sky and cried out, The moon, The moon, For his mother and father to see. This is a beloved playground for the little ones and families in the fall. The sprawling, Many-acred property offers endless delights for the season. Hayrides till dusk, A winding corn maze perfect for getting irrevocably lost in. An apple orchard. With all kinds of varieties ripe for the picking. And of course. Your domain. The region's most magnificent pumpkin patch. Across its gentle slopes lie tangled vines punctuated with the most perfect pumpkins imaginable. They come in many shapes, Colors, And sizes, From plump and spherical sugar pie pumpkins to massive carving specimens and lumpy heirloom squash varieties for decorating stoops and porches everywhere. Visitors come for the thrill of picking their own pumpkins and for the evocative backdrop for family photos. Today, The weather's been kind. The first truly brisk autumn day, But ever so clear. So you've seen record-breaking besweatered crowds since the morning. But closing time approaches, The days are getting shorter after all, And visitors must be out before the first strands of violet dusk climb over the horizon. Already they've begun to filter toward the exit and the other attractions, Carrying their pumpkins, Their bushels of apples, And their half-empty bags of kettle corn. You genuinely enjoy the hubbub of the fall festivals. But you have to admit it's a relief to see the families depart. After a long day of work, You're itching to put on a kettle of tea and relax. Soon enough, The last of the stragglers board the bouncing wagon strewn with bales of hay. And disappear over the hill. Dusk is settling with just a hint of moisture in the air, And a few early stars make their appearance in the sky, Twinkling attendance to the silver scimitar of Moon. Your charming cottage awaits at the edge of the pumpkin patch, Bordered behind by thick and tangled woods. On your approach, You notice the silhouettes of two large black birds huddled together conspiratorially on the edge of the roof. You've seen this pair before, And even nicknamed them Hugen and Munen, Thought and memory. After the pair of ravens sacred to the Norse god Odin. But are these ravens or crows, You wonder? You've never quite been able to tell them apart. You smile, Recalling something you once heard on the subject. A crow. Is a bird. With a big black bead. A raven. Is a bee. With a big black bird. As you get closer. The birds. Whatever they may be. Croak loudly and retreat in a thunder of wings. During the day, Your home serves as a favorite backdrop for family portraits. Given that you always do it up. With the most abundant natural decoration. Wreaths of apples and autumn leaves. A cascade of pumpkins, An heirloom squash up and down the stairs. You wouldn't be exaggerating if you called it the cutest, Coziest cottage in the world. On crisp fall evenings like this, You picture yourself as the consummate hermit or the friendly witch of the woodside. The cinnamon-infused besom just inside the doorway brings home that picture and enlivens your senses as you enter the little house. It's amazing what just a simple doorway can do. Just by stepping across the threshold, Moving from the outer world to your inner sanctuary, It's as if a magical transition takes place. You move into a softer, More effortless version of yourself simply by stepping inside. You feel your shoulders drop and your face slacken, Releasing all tension and strain with an audible sigh. Your sofa and the hearth look oh so inviting. And you love to kick off your shoes and light a fire. But you have company coming tomorrow. And you promised them a pie with one of your prized pumpkins. So into the kitchen you go to set about baking one. You've done yourself a few favors already by making the dough for the pie crust ahead of time and pre-pureeing the pumpkin. You roll out the dough methodically leaning into the rolling pin to achieve a perfectly thin crust. Baking has always been a meditative act for you. Though it requires precision and attention to detail. You live for the little bit of room. In every project. For creativity. Delicate balance of spices to amplify the flavor of the fruit. The shaped cutouts in the crust to add a decorative flourish to the dessert. As you mix the custard, You take a deep whiff of each of the spices, Cinnamon, Nutmeg, Clove, And allspice, Savoring the evocative fragrance of fall. You pour it into the pie shell, Watching the spiced mixture form ribbons and settle gently to stillness. As the pie bakes, You carefully clean the kitchen, Wiping down the countertops and dusting excess flour into the waste basket. There's a little bit of straightening to do in the sitting room, But it's nothing much and it's an easy way to pass the time while the dessert bakes. Finally, When its enticing aroma fills the cottage and the timer dings, You remove the piping hot pie from the oven and set it on the counter to cool. With that out of the way, You can finally put on that kettle of tea. It comes to steaming quickly. You pour the hot water over an infuser of loose herbs and leaves, Immediately releasing their scent on the air to mingle with those in the pie. Oh, How good it feels to clutch the mug between your hands, Feeling the warmth seep through Putting on a cozy knitted sweater, You retire with your cup of tea to the porch where the air is just brisk but not quite cold. The perfect fall evening, You think, Sitting down in a rocker. The splinter of moon has risen higher in the sky. And a great sweep of stars now twinkle down upon the pumpkin patch, Their light just bright enough to delicately illuminate the tops of the many pumpkins. What a kingdom, You think. What a realm to oversee. One of mischief and family fun. Of abundance and hard, Hard work. Sinking back into your rocker, You allow your body to embrace the subtle sway. The steam from the tea rises in swirls, Climbing the cool air of the night. Crickets are beginning to sing. The property is well away from any major roads or highways, So the quiet that settles around you each night is utterly peaceful. Unpierced by the sounds of cars, Airplanes, Or anything man-made. Only nature hums about you, The song of the land most alive in the night. A gentle movement. The evening breeze and the soothing fragrance of the herbal tea are almost enough to send you into a trance or a doze. You find yourself slipping into a state of deep relaxation and contentment. And there you stay. Gently rocking back and forth. Undisturbed and perfectly at peace until… Your eye falls upon a curious play of light out there on the pumpkin patch. At first, You think it's just the catching of a headlight reflecting from the one twisting country road that runs through the property. But it's unusual for cars to come this way well after closing time. And besides, The light persists long after the flash of headlights would have moved on It's not quite like anything you've seen before. Fireflies and the like. It's bigger than an insect, But still, You think, Quite small. It's far enough away that you can't get a perfect estimate of its size, But you reckon that the little thing would fit in the palm of your hand. And the way it moves. Dance like. It makes loops and twists in the air. Just a few feet above the ground. Curly Qs and figure 8s. Of funny. It really is dancing. Maybe some whirligig toy left behind by one of the visitors today. You sip your tea, Eyes fixed on the spectral light making its practiced patterns in the It seems to be changing color too, Shifting from an ombre of oranges and yellows to a fluorescent violet with a core of pale blue. You are utterly transfixed by it. Mind aflame with curiosity. But should you approach it, Finally, The hesitation dissolves as curiosity wins. You rise from the rocker, Leaving your still steaming mug of tea on the windowsill. And move down the steps of your porch onto the soft, Spongy soil. Toward the object. The entrancing light. You feel drawn toward it inexorably. Your footsteps are light. And the little thing keeps dancing there. Like a leaf upon a fluttering wind. But as you come nearer. You tread upon a few fallen leaves which crackle beneath you. That very instant. The dancing light. As if startled. Or disturbed by the sound quickly brightens, Then darts out of sight. You stop in your tracks and search the area with your gaze. Where can it have gone? You are about to write the whole thing off as an apparition or illusion, The moonlight reflecting off your windows or some other phenomenon. When you notice. That one of your pumpkins is sporting a halo. A hazy aura of golden light rings it, Faint like a penumbra but very real. It pulses subtly. You crouch down and slowly inch toward the pumpkin in question, Leaning over it to try and glimpse the source of the light. Beyond the full orange squash, There is indeed something hiding. There it is, A small, Amorphous gathering of fire, Its flames licking gently at the air. It does not dance as before but shudders vaguely, Its light dimming and recharging in a manner like breath. Inexplicably, You feel a wave of pity wash over you. As if this is some lost animal, Quivering and hiding. Before you can think better of it. You utter an inquisitive hello. Just as before, When you startled it with the crunching leaves, The tiny ball of fire swiftly expands, Its color shifting to a bluish white. Before softening back to reds and yellows, Soothing down to its normal size. Then, Something truly unexpected happens. In a rolling and unfolding of flames. The ball of light opens its eyes. Strange as it is, The effect is altogether cute. A cartoonish face. Emerges in the center of the fire. And blinks up at you. Your heart softens. It's okay, " you reassure the unlikely creature. I won't hurt you. You're not sure why you're moved to say such a thing to a being made of fire. But you do. All you can think is that it looks lost. And far be it from you to refuse aid to wanderers. That's the thing about living beside a pumpkin patch and tending to the growth of those seasonal treasures. You pick up stories, Folklore, And traditions from all over. The custom of carving jack-o-lanterns comes from a tale of such a wanderer. Jack, The trickster, Outwitted the very spirits of the beyond. Only to find himself condemned to wander the Earth forever. With only a hollow turnip as a lantern to light his way. His namesakes are carved and displayed each year at Halloween. A time when even the least observant among us can sense the thinning of the veil. The changes in the weather, The turn toward longer nights and darker days. Perhaps it's this innate sense you have of the season as a portal that keeps your breath steady now. And makes it seem all too ordinary, All too possible for something from another world to have slipped through. If the little ball of flame is in fact a visitor from someplace beyond, And it's chosen to manifest here in your pumpkin patch, What are you to do but offer it some comfort? Can you speak? You ask the creature. Unmistakably. With a kind of rotating flicker, The thing nods, Blinking still. So it can speak. But it hasn't yet. You try another question. Where did you come from? But to this, The creature only turns from side to side, Slowly, As if searching in vain for the door through which it entered. Perhaps you think, To get answers, You'll have to offer something first. You start by offering your name. The creature's eyes widen briefly, Its flames softening to a pale yellow before returning to the more familiar gradients. Do you have a name? You ask. You're beginning to doubt that the floating fire can really understand you. But just then, It begins to change. The colors shift through a whole spectrum of blues and purples, And it seems to swirl like liquid stirred in a pot before collapsing, Solidifying and settling. It drops from the space of thin air onto the crown of the pumpkin between you. And though it is still ringed in licking flames, The creature has assumed a more tangible form. Before you sits a small, Lizard-like amphibian. White as flame. A salamander if you're not mistaken. And finally. . . They speak. Are you the guardian of this place? The salamander asks. Their voice is childlike somehow, And yet it sings with the wisdom of ages. Why you begin, I suppose I am. Though I've never taken that title. But this is my place. I live and work here. The salamander inclines their head toward you, Almost in the fashion of a bow. I hope this form does not displease you, " they say. One never knows. No, Not at all, You say. But who are you? A moment later, You amend your question. Feeling that it does not come to the heart of your curiosity. Have we met before? This causes what appears to be a smile to curl across the face of the salamander It's quite a pleasing effect. You've met my brothers and sisters most likely. There are too many of us to count. We warm the heart. Eat the cauldron. Spark the movement. I hope I didn't frighten you, " the salamander continues. It doesn't usually take me this long to find shelter. But perhaps. . . As you are the guardian. You can help me. I will if I can, You say. But can you tell me where you've come from? And what you are. Ah, Sighs the salamander. It may be better if I show you. Hold out your hand if you will. Still kneeling in the soil, You extend a hand toward the creature. They step gingerly from the top of the pumpkin onto your fingertips and into the center of your palm. You expect warmth, Even heat to emanate from them, But instead, All you feel is a soft, Tickling sensation. Then, The salamander changes shape, Once again assuming the form of a small ball of fire and closing their eyes tightly as if summoning energy. The light from within becomes brighter than before and more expansive, Reaching wide from the blue-white core to engulf the whole of the pumpkin patch, Your cottage, And all your visible surroundings. The light whites out the sky. The stars and the wisp of a moon. At first it is dazzling. But as your eyes adjust to the change, It softens. All around you is elegant movement. Organic and unbound. A play of light and color that calms the mind. It's as if you stand within a milestone of liquid luminescence. You reach out with your free hand, Feeling only slight resistance in the atmosphere. You stretch through pure and shining ether. The illusion, The casting, Whatever this is, Remains in place only for a short time. But the weightlessness you feel. The sense of pure elation lasts much longer. Soon the ball of fire in the palm of your hand seems to call back the light it extends Slowly, The great engulfment of light and movement recedes. A night settles once more over the land, Seeming all the darker for the comparison. There again are the moon and blinking stars. And the sweet sounds of crickets humming in the grass. And your hand is the salamander. Tender licking flames all about them. You feel a quiet prickle at the back of your neck. A tingling of understanding. You recall that salamanders the very real but undoubtedly amazing animals. Have long been given mythic significance. Long ago, Before modern biology sought objective truths, They were thought to be born of flame. This, Of course, Was due to the fact that they liked to make their homes inside of decomposing logs. When those logs were then lit in the fireplace. The salamander would flee. Appearing to have sparked spontaneously into being at that very moment. Do you converse, You wonder? With the very spirit of fire. The very element itself. But if so, How did they come to be here? The creature seems to hear the question. But you do not speak it aloud. Each year, About this time, A doorway opens, They say. And one of us falls through to your world. We leave our element, So to speak, In search of shelter in yours. We come to light your night as they grow longer. What if I do not find a home before the dark moon? A place wherein I can spark and maintain my embers Then I shall be forced to wander this world and never returned my own. The salamander's tail stirs strange emotions within you. It's as though by holding this creature, This amphibian of sensitive, Absorbent skin in your hands, Some of their longing and homesickness seeps into you. You resolve to help if you can. This is why I sought you out, Guardian, " says the salamander. To beseech you for shelter. I could make a fire, You say, In the hearth. That is my home there, " you gesture to the cottage, Still and silent in silhouette but I could not stoke it all night or leave it burning as I sleep. Or work in the field. You sigh. The moon is waxing, So it's another month yet. Before the dark moon. Where and how can you make a place for a fire to safely burn all October long? Your eyes drift across the fields. The fire creature's predicament brings your thoughts back again to the tale of Wandering Jack of the Lantern. In whose name children now carve pumpkins for Halloween. Though he too was left to roam the earth. Tully was nothing but a will of the wisp. A ghostly light to tempt travelers from the past. But now, You see what you must do. And it's so simple, So sweet, That you can't believe it wasn't clear before this moment There's a reason the salamander, The very spirit of the element of fire, Was sent here through the autumnal portal. Why, When the veil reached its thinnest point, There was nowhere better in this world to be. You'll make a home for the spirit, Of course. One in which they can smolder for a whole season if they like. Come with me, You say to the spirit. Who climbs your arm to rest upon your shoulder. The tiny purple flames gently tickle your ears. You carry the creature through the rows of the pumpkin patch, Your kingdom, Until you find a fresh and suitable specimen. What do you think? " you ask, Crouching down beside a large, Perfectly round pumpkin. The salamander is pleased. Carefully, You detach the pumpkin from its vine and carry it back to the porch of your cottage. You haven't carved a jack-o-lantern yet this season. In fact, You were planning to carve the first one tomorrow when company joins you. That this is as good a time as any to christen your carving materials. You refresh your tea, And gather everything you need on the porch. Including a warmer sweater, As the thickening of night has brought in a pleasing autumnal chill. The spirit, Resuming the form of a ball of fire, Looks on inquisitively at your progress, Occasionally drifting into the same dance-like movement you observed before. You wonder what they must think of this world of yours, Of solid things and seasons, Of pumpkins and ravens. Or crows. Thoughtfully, Methodically, You cut the first hole in the pumpkin, Removing the crown to reveal the golden insides. These you scoop thoroughly into a pile on a layer of newspaper. Perhaps you'll save the pumpkin seeds for roasting. Like most things, Which require time, Careful attention to detail, And just a dash of creativity You like this kind of work. It slows your mind down and allows you to soften into repetition and ritual. As you scrape at the walls of the pumpkin, Your body remembers how you've done this every year. Your muscles carry ancestral memory too. Your mind floods with memories of Halloweens with family and friends. Laughter, Mischief, And the cloak of safety the holiday casts on the spookiest time of year. All the while, You feel the presence and gaze of the little light. The spirit of FLYER. This is a comfort to you more than anything. The knowledge that by engaging with this old tradition, This beloved folklore, You are doing an act of kindness. Making someone feel welcome and safe in the darkness. As far as the design of your jack-o-lantern. This one you keep simple. The story of Wandering Jack keeps running through your mind, And so you elect to carve a simple smiling face on the surface of the pumpkin. The Spirit has no objection to this. It's very fitting, They agree. The moon travels as you were before. Bending across the sky along its predetermined arc. The time passes peacefully with small conversation between you and the Spirit. They tell you of their brethren. The fire people. There are spirits of water too. And air and earth. You wonder aloud if those other essential spirits ever slip into this world. And if they too must seek aid from its inhabitants. These are mysteries. You feel strange delight at your window into them tonight. You feel grateful that you are here to witness them. When at last your work is complete and a face smiles from the hollowed out pumpkin, You present it to the Spirit. The orb of fire takes a place inside the jack-o-lantern. And their light seems to brighten just a bit more once within. It shines through the open spaces, Sending sweet illumination outward. A glowing lantern to show you the way. To keep your home safe. To light the night in this time of darkness. It may well keep until the dark moon, You say with a grin. But if it doesn't, There are plenty more to take its place. Near, You gesture to the abundant field of pumpkins behind you. Each one beautiful, Nourishing and life-giving in its own right. The spirit sparks and smolders in their new home on your porch. Happy and secure. They smile through the jack-o-lantern. The Spirit offers you sincere gratitude. And promises that for the rest of your life, You will be blessed. And now. . . With the moon high and distant. It is time for you to rest. The last you succumb to the call of comfort within the cottage. Passing magically under the lintel. The scent of spice and pastry lingers still in the homely air, Tracing spirals. Feeling fuzzy and light, You retire to your bedroom. Where extra blankets await to warm you against the onset of colder weather. You sink into the mattress, Snuggling deep against the pillows of your bed. You are asleep. Only moments after your eyes fall closed. In your dreams, Guardian of the pumpkin patch. You swim through pure and cleansing ether. Dancing. Like the element of fire. Chaotic and unbound. Beyond the doorway. The magical doorway. The spirit of an ember burns, Cozily contained within their new home. Somewhere in the woods, A pair of crows. Or ravens, Roost in the branches of a sycamore tree. The crickets sing. The moon extends a shimmering curtain of silver light across the rows of the great pumpkin patch. She waxes as the year wanes. The portal. To a new season. Is open. How delightful are the shivers of that first crisp autumn morning. When you step outside to greet, Instead of warmth and humidity, A fine and chilly breeze The whisper of brittle leaves swept up and displaced down the quiet streets sunshine, Tinged somehow with a kiss of silver. The mingled musky scent of smoke and pepper, Decaying leaves, Changing soil. You can hardly hold back from throwing open the windows, Airing out the stagnant rooms of your home. Summer suddenly seems a far off country, Despite how long it lingered this year. All at once. Even if it felt like it might never come. Autumn is here. And how fortuitous that the sweep of cool air, The natural cues to the changing season, Should arrive on a day like this. This afternoon, You and your lifelong friends are indulging in a beloved autumnal tradition And it would have been an exercise in cognitive dissonance to do so in short sleeves. With relish, You pull your sweaters and flannels out of the back of your closet, Choosing an old favorite for today. For as long as you can remember, You and your friends have been visiting Hazelwood Farms together in early October. Every year, The farm holds a fall festival, Complete with pumpkin and apple picking, Hay rides, Farmer's markets, Pop-up haunted houses, And the pièce de résistance. A humongous, Intricate corn maze. When you were children, You came with family. You remember the anticipation. Of piling into the station wagon. Cruising down the old dirt road to the farm. The rush of staying up past your bedtime and giggling with friends on a hayride. Growing up. You. Melody and Jack. I've done everything in your power. To keep the tradition going. No matter how busy your schedules get. No matter how far apart you scatter. No matter how much you've changed. You make this gathering a priority. Jack even has a family of his own now. Who tag along to the festivities. The more the merrier indeed. The nostalgia feeds you. And in turn, You make new memories for the next generation. You become children again. All of you. Under the harvest moon. When a career opportunity surfaced last spring, You moved a few hours away to be closer to work. Your friends tried to let you off the hook this year, But nothing could keep you from making the trip to Hazelwood Farms. And the freshness of the fall air this morning has only invigorated you. You're excited about the journey. The whole region seems to have gotten the message about the changing of the seasonal guard. All along the open highway. The landscape is flushed with color. The trees sing with vibrant gold, Crimson, And auburn hues. A flood of memories come back with every turn of the road, Each one sweetly bound to your senses. It's as if you can truly hear the music of the two-piece band that always played in the pavilion at Hazelwood Farms. As if you can smell the sweet and salty aroma of roasting kettle corn. When early afternoon comes and you finally make the turn onto that familiar old dirt road. You are almost trembling with excitement. You've arranged to meet up with Melody and Jack's family at the large hand-painted sign that marks the entrance to the farm grounds. Since you appear to be the first to arrive, You stop to admire the sign itself. Something you've all too often taken for granted. It must have been repainted recently, As the colors are even more vibrant than you remember. Welcome to Hazelwood Farms, It reads in bold. Friendly letters in the foreground. Established 1914. A family destination. For all seasons. The background is an elaborate, Rustic illustration of the farm and its activities across an entire year. Spanning the seasons from left to right, Like a storybook. The winter section on the far left depicts the reservoir frozen over with tiny bundled ice skaters skimming the surface. In spring, The fields burst with tulips Summer shows visitors picking ripe berries and bell peppers. And finally, Autumn. The pumpkin patch a sea of orange and green. And a hayride. Carrying passengers over a hill. You lose yourself in the images, Picturing yourself skating through them from season to season of life. You are knocked from this immersion by a pair of arms which suddenly fling themselves around your middle. The impact is accompanied by a squeal as melody embraces you. You made it! She exclaims, You break apart and take each other in, Laughing. It's only been six months since you saw each other. But that may well be the longest period you've spent apart since you were in grade school. Jack and Charlie are right behind me, " Melody says. I parked right next to them but I saw you over here and I couldn't wait. You know how long it takes them to get the kids out of the car. I want to hear everything about the new job. But first, I have to tell you about what happened last week. Melody is talking a mile a minute, Squeezing months worth of catching up into the space of several seconds. But you soften into a breezy smile. Simply savoring the warmth of her presence. The chill in the air. And the rising scent of spiced cider that wafts down the path to the farm grounds. You have the feeling of coming home. After a long time away. Soon, You spot Jack and his partner Charlie coming down the path from the parking lot. Charlie pushes three-year-old Maggie in a stroller while the new baby, June, Is nestled in a sling against Jack's chest. You greet them with hugs and warm greetings, Marveling at how small and sleepy June looks. Yet she's so much bigger than the last pictures you saw of her. Together you go forth, Past the hand-painted sign. And into the festival grounds. Of Hazelwood Farms. Music fills the air. The acoustic guitar and drum kit of the same two-piece band that's been playing the Fall Festival since you were kids. You make a beeline for the kettle corn, Freshly popped and just as delicious as you remember. There's so much to do at Hazelwood. But it's always better enjoyed with good food and drinks in your belly. You and your friends catch up at a picnic table over snacks and fresh squeezed lemonade. I love this kind of weather, " says Jack, Wistfully. All this stuff. It feels. Spooky but cozy. Does that make sense? It's the thinning of the veil, Says Melody matter-of-factly. This time of year, The threshold that separates this world and the other world, Starts to sort of… She rubs her thumb and forefinger together, Trying to summon up the proper word for such a mystical expression. Well, You have to watch out anyway, Because the two worlds are so close together. That you could slip through or something could slip through from the other side like ghosts? " chimes in little Maggie. Like ghosts or spirits, Melody says. But it's nothing to be afraid of. That's why we celebrate All Hallows Eve. Halloween. Or the day of the dead. Because it feels like our loved ones, The ones who aren't here anymore that is, Are closer to us this time of year. You've always loved the folklore and mythology of the seasons. Most of which you know from melody. Who's always reading or waxing poetic about such things. But this motif of a wispy, Diaphanous veil barely holding two worlds apart one world of the here and now. Solid. Rational, Grounded. And the other world. More ethereal and romantic, Home to spirits and specters and shades It feels so entirely natural, Even if you can't explain it. It's as if that other world is hovering. Flickering in and out of sight. Just at the edge of your periphery. Or spinning endlessly in the tunnels of whipped-up leaves that rise with the wind. Is the other world, The home of the soul. The departed loved ones who watch over us. Or the domain of the fairies, Goblins, And ghosts that slip through on All Hallows Eve. Or something else entirely. You make your way to the pumpkin patch. Where Maggie flits frantically along the vine, Unable to choose just one to bring home to carve. When she finally picks one, A pumpkin almost the same size as she is, Her parents strap it into the stroller in her place, Which makes Maggie double over giggling. You can't help laughing either. As you watch Charlie confidently stride through the farm. Carding a pumpkin in a stroller. Even though it's been a few months since you all saw each other. And even before that, Life was starting to get so busy, So complicated with jobs and families. This silly moment. This whole afternoon feels so effortless. You and your friends simply slide back into each other's lives. Welcoming new members to this found family. Gratitude, Like a balm. Washes over you. There are caramel apples to be enjoyed at a stand near the orchard, And fields of zinnias and sunflowers to pick and take home. Or simply admire. When the sun starts to droop over the fields. The flowers blaze a bright gold. And the surrounding trees are ringed with halos and haze. The atmosphere shifts subtly as the day darkens and shadows begin to crawl across the farmland You remember Jack's words. Spooky, But cozy. With the day waning. There's one activity left on your list. And in your opinion, It's the best one? The corn maze. Hazelwood Farms is famous for this massive 25-acre marvel. Each year, The vast cornfield is transformed into a twisting labyrinth of seemingly endless corridors. Usually with some festive, Autumnal design. This year, According to the maps you procure from the ticket booth. The maze is cut into the design. Of an intricate spider web. There are multiple paths through the maze, With varying levels of difficulty. And travelers can consult the back of the map. Or hints. But you are proud. You've defeated the corn maze every year without once checking the cheat sheet. And you intend to uphold the tradition. As a group. You, Melody, Jack Charlie and the kids step under the archway and into the maze. The stalks of corn that line the path extend well above your head. Creating a sense of insulation from the rest of the world. The noise of the outside. All the families and visitors enjoying the attractions of the Fall Festival. Blend into a quiet hum now. It's as if you've entered a different world. Passed through a veil, So to speak. At several paces before you encounter the first fork in the path. Which way will you go? I think we are going to take the family-friendly route, " Jack says, Gesturing to the map. There's always a simpler path through the maze that's ideal for families with kids as it only covers a small portion. But we'll meet you at the cider tent when you make it out. Not if we beat you to the exit, You laugh. The little family takes the right fort. And you and Melody take the left. But your competitive remark has ignited a spark in Melody. And at every subsequent branch in the path. You find yourselves in heated debate. About which way to go. She wants to consult the map. But you are steadfast. You smirk and wager that you can make it through the corn maze faster than her on instinct alone. Even if she consults the hint at every turn. You're on. She smiles back. Then turns on her heels. I am going this way. See you at the cider tent, " you call after Melody. As she disappears around the stalks of corn. You inhale, Taking in the musk of autumn evening. Of loam and leaves. You listen to your gut to determine the path forward. It usually steers you right. You know for a fact. That there are dozens of other people walking the corn maze at the same time as you. From time to time, You hear laughter and conversation behind the walls that separate you. But still. . . You have a sense of blissful solitude here in the maze. It's quiet. And the last light grows faint. You don't yet need to pull out the flashlight they gave you at the ticket booth. But it won't be long. A brisk wind tussles the tops of the cornstalks, Rippling over the maze. All the impressions of this place. The high walls of corn the sound of the breeze. The feel of the ground beneath your feet. The smell of kettle corn and spices wafting over the place. Call up misty memories of every visit. Echoing through the intervening ears. Your senses are all heightened. Finely tuned to the details of this place and all the reverence you have for it. But it's perhaps a sixth sense. Something more difficult to define that guides your journey through the maze. Whenever you encounter a branching of the path into two or three divergent directions You feel a little tug deep within your body. One way or another. You think of the Greek myth of the Labyrinth of Crete. Built to house the half-man, Half-bull known as the Minotaur. When Theseus sought to slay the creature. He wooed the princess Ariadne. And elicited her help navigating the labyrinth. She spun for Theseus, A ball of thread. This he unspooled as he traversed the corridors, Marking his passage that he might retrace his way out of the labyrinth. As no other had done before. The sensation you have of being tugged drawn by greater forces. It's as if you are unspooling, Like Ariadne's thread. Moving forward. Guided by intuition. As if you walk a path already destined It's easy to let your thoughts wander in the maze. Through myths and poetic flights of fancy. The tale of Theseus and Ariadne ended like many myths. In events both tragic and sublime. Having slain the minotaur and won the heart of the princess. Theseus abandoned Ariadne. Heartbroken as she was. This wasn't the end of her story. She was found by Dionysus. The God of the Vine. Of fertility and festivity, Of theater and winemaking. Of orchards. And ecstasy. They married. And on Ariadne's head, Dionysus placed a starry crown. Declaring her a goddess. Then he gave her a place among the stars. Or bridal diadem. Becoming the constellation. Corona Borealis. The northern crown. You look to the skies, Which are ceding purple sunset to dim dusk. Stars begin to wink into clarity. You wonder if Ariadne's crown will be visible tonight, Once darkness has truly fallen. You click on the flashlight. The mistress of the labyrinth and her thread tug once more at your breastbone. Urging you onward. Love. Love. Moving back. To move forward. The throw of your flashlight bobs up and down in time with your footsteps. At times, Threads of light bleed through the cornstalks from maze travelers on the other side of your pathway. And now and then, You meet others at forks in the road. Genially greeting each other. Before continuing on your way. There are people of all ages in the maze. Sometimes, You'll almost run into another person, Or be so startled by someone coming around the corner that you'll drop your flashlight. In the confusion of stooping to pick it up. You'll get a good look at the stranger's face. And be so sure. That you know the other person. But never sure enough to put a name to the face. You imagine there are plenty of people who visit Hazelwood year after year. These passing travelers must be familiar to you. For no other reason than that you've encountered them before in the maze. In the orchard. In the pumpkin patch. As the sky darkens, You emerge into a wide space where the corn has been summarily cleared. You've reached the center. There are a dozen or so people here, Consulting maps or getting their bearings in small groups. And there's the lookout tower. Around which the entire maze is constructed. You climb the iron steps to reach the platform, Which looks out over the cornfield. There. Nose buried in the map. Is melody. Which way did you come from? You ask over her shoulder. She jumps, Then laughs when she realizes it's you. She screws up her face and looks down at the several exits that spill into the center That way, I think, " she says with little certainty. That I might be looking at this map upside down. Now, Side by side, You regard the maze from overhead. It's really a marvelous design they've pulled off this year. And from this vantage point. You can see how truly impressive the size of the maze is. You can hardly believe you're only halfway through. But from here. You can also see the wide open sky. Now crowded with stars. It's simply dazzling. I'm sure Jack and everyone are already draining their cider cups, You say. True, Melody agrees. We'd better get a move on, If we don't want them to leave without us. Bedtimes and such. There's no such thing as bedtime when it's hazelwood farm season, You say. Melody laughs. Still, You head back down to ground level. And once again, Part ways. You refuse to take the same path forward as Melody. Reluctant to be influenced by her use of the mask. And once again. Armed with only a flashlight. You are alone. In the maze. Your mind wanders. It strikes you as symbolic, The way this evening has unfolded. The way Jack and Charlie and their little ones took the first right turn. Diverging from yours and Melody's path. They were the first among you to start a family. Life took them down a different road. And you and Melody, Best friends for as long as you can remember. You've always had different approaches to life. She's always had a roadmap. She knows what she wants to accomplish and when she wants to accomplish it. She sets concrete goals, Makes a plan. Tracks her milestones every step of the way. You, On the other hand. Well you're different. You've meandered a bit. It's taken you a little longer to figure out where you were headed in life. Even now. You're still figuring it out You used to feel like it made you undisciplined. Or impulsive. But you've reached a place of peace with your nature. It's admirable to know what you want. To be strategic and clear about your goals But there's also something commendable about following your bliss. Being open to new experiences and opportunities. Even if they fall outside the conventional path. Sometimes you feel like you have been so many different people in your life. Tried on so many personalities, Careers, Dreams, Like clothing or costumes. Looking back. It's hard to even see the thread that connects all those past views. Cricket song swells over the walls of corn. The darker it grows, The more stars that blaze overhead. The more keenly you feel the idea, Of a thinning of the veil. As quiet as it is in your corner of the maze. You can feel a tingling at the back of your neck. A sense of presence. It's as if you can feel the position of every other person wandering the Khorne pathways. All those flashlights bobbing up and down in the dark. All those faces. Achingly familiar. Familiar faces. Your breath catches, And you stop in your tracks You think of the last face you saw in the maze before you reached the center. And the face before that. Adults. Children. Why were they so familiar? Just now, You see the spill of a flashlight around a curve in the corn. Slowly you move toward it. Ariadne's thread twitches and tugs. You turn the corner. There in the glow of your flashlight is a teenager. Brow furrowed as they contemplate the forking paths before them. You take them in. Noting their height. Clothing. The lines in their face. You exhale. Did you get lost? You ask. The teenager looks up. They hadn't noticed you before. No, They say with a feigned confidence. No, I'm just. . . Following my gut. Oh, You say, Not one for maps then. Maps are the easy way out. They respond with a smirk. You know that expression so well. Seeing it from the other side fills you with mingled pride and discomfiture. I agree, You say. You think about telling them how close they are to the center. To the lookout tower. That you hold your tongue and simply say, Good luck! Before you move on. But the teen calls after you, Imploring you to wait. You turn around to face them You lock eyes. You can see them studying you. Eyes full of curiosity and intensity. Then finally they speak. Sorry, They say flushing. I just. . . I thought you were someone I knew. And with that. . . They choose a path. And disappear. Behind a row of corn. What if you wonder? That other world Melody spoke of. Is really a world of memory. What if the ghosts and spirits that can pass so effortlessly through the veil between worlds are really echoes of the past. Ripples of the future. Past and future selves, Glimpsing each other as they slide along the delicate web. Of time. What if every familiar face you've seen tonight in the maze is a version of you. Poised at a juncture. Making a choice. That reverberates through time. Your mind turns again to Theseus. The prince who slew the minotaur and conquered the labyrinth. He is also the subject of a famous thought experiment. Which asks a curious question. Suppose that Theseus and the youth of Athens returned from Crete in their ship with thirty oars. And that ship was preserved in honor of their heroism. But over time. The boards of that ship began to decay. And so, The Athenians tore away the rotting boards and replaced them with new ones. And did so again and again. Removing the rod. And replacing the timber. Till none of the old planks remained of the original ship. So. The question is. . . Is it still the ship of Theseus? They save a human body. Or the cells that make it up. Renew and regenerate every few years on varying timelines, Of course. But it means that two snapshots of your physical self taken several years apart. Might show an almost entirely different cellular composition. Our cells die. Decaying like the leaves in autumn or the planks of Theseus's ship. And they renew. Like the earth in spring. So. . . How then? Are you still you? All these years later. All those shed skins lying behind. Those past selves who seem like separate beings, Made of entirely different selves. When those past selves are more like ghosts. What is it that makes you, You? Your body. Your memories. What is the connective thread? Somehow. Suddenly, But also just at the right moment You see the exit. Straight ahead. You charge forward. Emerging from the maze. The cider tent is just a few paces away. With warm, Market lights glowing like little stars in the dark. When you reach it. You find that all your friends are already there. Waiting for you. It seems instinct alone didn't win the race for you this time. But there are many paths through the labyrinth. None is inherently right. Or wrong. Or better or worse. But if you're lucky. There will be friendly faces along the way. And friendly faces. At the journey's end. You join your friends at their picnic table under the tent. Steam spirals up from mugs of hot, Spiced cider. Melody has her laughs about beating you out. And you take them in stride. The twists and turns of the maze seem like another world. A lifetime away. You wonder if any of your friends had similar experiences to yours. If they felt the thinness of that veil. Under the rising moon. What makes you, You? You wonder again. As the laughter. And wistful conversation of your friends. Your chosen family wash over you. Here in the place where you forged a thousand memories. Where you'll make countless more. For yourselves and any other loved ones who join your orbit. For the next generation. The connective threads. Becomes clear. It's your relationships. It's the love and shared experience that binds you together across time. Through the endless turns of the maze. Through decay. And rebirth. Love and friendship renew you. Again and again. Affirming your choices. Affirming your own unique path. Just over the horizon. Obscured by the lacy silhouettes of trees about to drop their leaves. The Corona Borealis. Ariadne's Crown. Shines. Though you're no longer a little one. The rituals surrounding All Hallows Eve never fail to send you into a state of pure, Childish glee. The feeling of bright giddiness runs through you like a current of electricity, Made ever more tingly and effervescent by the rush of students down the marble staircases toward the feasting hall. Voices, Laughter and shouts and whispers bounce off the thick stone walls of the castle, Home to a centuries-old school of sorcery. Your feet, And the feet of hundreds of other young witches and wizards, Fall softly into well-worn grooves in the stairs, Steps once trod by the great sorcerers of the ages. This year, Your final year in school, You're keenly aware of the legacies and shadows in which you walk. Every time you climb or descend this staircase, You glide closer to a nebulous future beyond books and homework and classes. A strange freedom awaits, For which you are equally excited and desperate for time to slow down. So that you might savor the joys of this season. The Halloween celebration is the most highly anticipated annual event at the school. The staff pulls out all the stops in celebrating the occasion, Beginning with the most magnificent banquet supper. Even before you set foot in the hall, The sweet and savory aroma of the Halloween feast wafts toward you, So potent it's almost visible. Your mouth waters at the first whiff and you feel almost dizzy with delight. The cooks must have truly outdone themselves this time. And as you pass through the doors, Arms hooked with your two best friends to avoid being separated in the supper rush, The sight of the feast nearly knocks you out too. On top of the glorious scent, The hall is decorated from stone floors to cathedral high ceilings. There are pumpkins of all sizes, Some small enough to fit in your hands, And others nearly the size of houses. These, You know, Were grown in the pumpkin patch by the gamekeeper Caradoc. You could see them growing when looking out of your dormitory window. And you marveled each day. At their ballooning size. Some of the smaller ones bob and float in the air and are intricately carved with enthralling faces, Magical symbols, Or exquisite patterns. Candles flicker in their centers and across the hall by the thousands. The long tables that line the hall are dotted with magnificent centerpieces, Floral arrangements of pure black, Midnight purple, And deep crimson. Black dahlias, Bat orchids, Queen of the night tulips and black roses, In between, Elegant gothic candelabras hold dripping white tapers with pooling wax. And oh such stunningly plated dishes of food. Rare delicacies and comfort foods and homemade candies and desserts are piled in dazzling abundance. A shiver runs up your spine. You and your closest friends, Violet and Braum, Hurry to your favorite table and slide into the benches before you lose the seats. You like to sit closer to the teacher's table on feast nights, And especially the Halloween feasts. This is for a few reasons. Ostensibly it's to be in sight of the show-stopping centerpieces at the head teacher's seat. But more than anything, It's to get a close look at the teacher's Halloween costumes, For no one puts in such an effort as the teacher's. This year is no exception. There are several eye-catching ensembles at the staff table. Caradoc, Who towers over even the tallest wizards, Makes an exceptionally convincing Frankenstein's monster. The magical history teacher Professor Lovage, An eccentric but likeable character, Is dressed as what must be a 19th century vampire. And the headteacher, A stately, Usually straight-laced woman, Has done herself up as Queen Elizabeth I, Complete with powdered face, Lavish collar, And overstated gown. Decadent pearls and rubies are strung around her neck, And a sparkling diadem rests atop fiery curls. Most astoundingly, She appears to have enchanted the threads of her brocade. The Tudor roses embroidered in her gown bloom and close before your eyes. It's subtle, Captivating magic. As students hurriedly fill the benches and as eyes widen and mouths water at the sight and smells of the feast, The headteacher stands, All eagerly await her command before digging into the mountains of food. She raises her arms, Gives a word of welcome. And then. With a sparkle in her eye cries in joy. The word is hardly past her lips before hands begin reaching for drumsticks, Candied apples, And warm flaky hand pies. Where before there was laughter and conversation, Now the only sounds echoing about the hall are the clinking of cutlery and exclamations of culinary delight. It's the most sumptuous, Satisfying meal you can remember. And perhaps even more delicious for knowing that it will be your last Halloween feast here, At least as a student. Indeed, This realization seems to fall upon your shoulders like a cloak. There's a sweet sadness to it. A sense of being already past this moment. And looking back upon it with nostalgia. You glance at Brahm and Violet surreptitiously as they gulp down their beverages and enjoy their suppers. And you smile to yourself, Aching to hold the moment just a little bit longer. The smell, The taste, And the warmth of the feast. Let it sparkle upon your eyes and ears and tongue just a little longer. The student costumes provide a visual delight as well. Nearly everyone has traded in their school uniform, Black robes, Vests, Skirts, And slacks for over-the-top outfits. Plenty of goblins, Ghouls, And ghosts abound, But the best costumes are those that utilize some bit of magic. Like the headteacher's brocade roses, One student. Who you know to be gifted with conjuration, Is dressed as a kind of nature spirit. Birds and butterflies made of wispy smoke sit in her hair and on her shoulders to complete the effect. Another classmate who has a talent for pyromancy wears a crown of green flames. It's not long before bellies are full, Plates are clean and the feasting hall reverberates with utterances of satisfaction. A most excellent feast, All seemed to agree. The best in anyone's memory. Your cheeks flush with warmth and your head swims. Content and drowsy, You push away your clear dish As subdued conversation begins again, Out of the corner of your eye, You see the Head Teacher stand once more. Her brocade blossoms quietly and she speaks with calm composure. Now that you've consumed your weight in sugar, She says, A smile breaking across her lips, Your teachers and I invite you to join us on the castle grounds for a most beloved tradition. For some of you, It's your very first Halloween or Samhain celebration at this school. For others, It may be the last before you leave our hallowed halls. You feel a small lump in your throat when she says this. I assure you, Wherever you may fall on that scale, This is a night you'll remember for years to come. Now, Despite it being the umpteenth time you've witnessed this exact spectacle, You have to stifle a gasp when the empty dishes and serving ware vanishes without a trace at the wave of the headteacher's wand, Cleverly disguised as a queen's scepter. In place of the tableware at each place setting now sits a small, Tightly wrapped bundle of herbs. You hear exclamations of amusement and delight from around the hall. Earthy floral and herbal perfumes now sparkle above the last traces of sweetness and fruit. Bring your bundle with you as you make your way to the grounds, The headteacher continues. Keep it close. You already know the meaning of the small gifts, And a bittersweet emotion washes over you at the sight Your bundle, At a glance, Appears to contain sprigs of thyme, Sage, Dried chamomile flowers, And artemisia. You hold the bundle to your nose and inhale the blend of clean, Silvery fragrances. It's different from the herbs you received last year. Lavender, Rosemary, And vervain. You'll have to consult your herb lore texts to find out what these flowers mean. The headteacher urges the occupants of the hall to form orderly queues and travel outside in an organized fashion. She calls on student leaders to help shepherd the movement. There's a titter of anticipation over the crowds, A jumble of voices, Many turned up as questions posed by the youngest student sorcerers who have no idea what to expect. But for you and those who've been here for years, The excitement is no less palpable You can hardly stop yourself from grinning as you, Brahm, And Violet join a queue toward the heavy oaken doors at the end of the hall. You clutch your bundle of herbs to your chest, Careful not to break the brittle, Dried leaves. There is a gust of crisp, Cool air as you pass through the doors and break from the crowd. The fresh air fills your lungs and dances on your skin, Invigorating after the warmth and drowsiness of the feast hall. The sky is clear black and speckled with stars, Lit brilliantly by a yellow waxing moon. The night smells of cinnamon and sweet smoke. And over the rugged, Sloping grounds your eyes locate the source of the smoke and crackle A large bonfire dances, Throwing orange light onto dark grass and illuminating the nearby circle of stones, The oldest known structure on this ancient, Magical site. Students and teachers spill onto the grounds and shouts of delight echo into the darkening night. It's a beloved tradition indeed, The Halloween festival, An evening of gleeful activities, Festive customs, And impressive spectacles. Teachers are scrambling to station themselves near various activities and shepherd the hollering crowds. You stick close to your friends. Brahm mutters so that only the two of you can hear him. He's laying out a thoughtful strategy to hit all the most popular activities before the closing circle. We'll hit pumpkin carving with Caradoc first, Then flying for apples, Then wind down at the campfire for marshmallows and spooky stories with Professor Lovage. What about the costume contest? " pipes up Violet, Who's gone to great lengths to pull off her Snow Queen costume. Real snowflakes and icicles, Enchanted so they'll never melt, Speckle her hair and hang from her shoulders. Brahm who dons the same half-hearted werewolf costume as every other year. Doesn't seem too interested in the costume contest. But you convince him to at least go with you to root for Violet. All in all, It sounds like an excellent strategy. Brahm has clearly been thinking about this for some time. The crisp air of the night, The sounds of childlike elation on the air, And the growing feeling of nostalgia sends goosebumps down your arms. The back of your neck prickles pleasantly. There will never be another night like tonight, You think. And you intend to make the most of it. While newer students and those lured by the nearest, Flashiest activities break off to have their faces painted. Or collect candies and bonbons. You and your friends tumble down the hillside. Toward the gamekeeper Karadoc's cabin near the edge of the forest. It's lit with floating torches, And the adjacent pumpkin patch looks just as inviting as the feasting hall. I'll be it. Cozier. And quieter. Karadoc welcomes you with a jovial greeting. A few other students are not far behind. He encourages each of you to grab a pumpkin. But beware. Those big ones may look like a great blank canvas, But bigger squash means more seeds to scoop. Despite the warning. You, Brahm, And Violet decide to carve one of the biggest pumpkins as a trio It's about the size of a small pony. Violet directs you and Braum to perform incision charms to remove the top of the pumpkin. Part of you almost wants to scoop out the insides by hand. It's tradition after all, The sensory experience of pumpkin carving. But Violet has a better idea. Being the whiz that she is. She magically transforms the pumpkin seeds into little floating orbs of light like will-o'-the-wisps. They float, Enchantingly, Inside the pumpkin's enormous cavity. Faintly glowing behind its skin. She's brilliant, Really, " admits Brom to Violet's bashful grins. You work together on the design, Using your perfected incision charms to cut into the pumpkin. As you chip away at the flesh, More of the wispy glow flickers from inside. When you're finished. The three of you stand back to admire your work. Even Caradoc, Who's trying to instruct a pair of first-year students to manually scoop out their pumpkin as they haven't mastered many spells yet, Hurries over to heap praise on you. You've created a rather impressive design based on the three hares motif, The one with three rabbits or hares chasing each other in a circle. But instead of hairs, Each of you has carved the likeness of your individual animal familiar. Violet is a cat. Brahms is a falcon, And yours? Well, You can remember like it was yesterday, When you first sought to acquire a familiar. You went to the Wild Hunt, A shop that collects magically sensitive animals, And the owner instructed you to follow your intuition. You discovered you're familiar that day. And the creature has been by your side ever since, Like a protective spirit guiding you through your childhood. While looking at the three familiar circle carved into your oversized pumpkin, You put an arm around Violet and Braum's shoulders. You can't imagine the last few years without them by your side. And you're confident. That they'll still be with you on the next step in your lives. It's a comforting thought. That no matter where life takes you, You'll always have your friends. As you wish Caradoc a good evening and walk back up the hill toward the castle, You turn back more than once to see how brightly your jack-o-lantern glows. You can see it from all the way up the hill, Steadfast, Like a beacon. According to Brahm's well-thought-out plan for the evening. You make your way to the open pitch for Flying for Apples. In non-magical Halloween gatherings, The traditional activity is bobbing for apples. The fruits float in a barrel of water, And participants attempt to catch an apple between their teeth. But at the school of sorcery, There's a magical twist, As with everything. The apples instead float in the midnight air, And participants must mount flying broomsticks to retrieve one, Though they cleverly dart out of the way. An avid flyer. This is your favorite Halloween game. You borrow a school broom and weave in between the other players, Who are less adept at the art of flying. The cool breeze through your hair and against your skin is refreshing and enlivening. There's a piney, Coniferous scent in the air from the acres of forest beyond the grounds, Mixed with the rich scents of the bonfire and autumn spice. It takes you less than a minute to snag one of the floating apples, Despite its attempt to flick out of your reach. Coming to a smooth landing. You shine the ripe apple against your shirt and take a bite. Laughing as you watch your friends struggle to catch their own. Violet snowflakes catch a glimmer of moonlight as she glides by. It really is a wonderful costume, You think. And next up indeed is the costume contest. Though Violet's hair is lightly tousled from the flying, She joins the line of contenders with a clear advantage. There are a few who give her a run for her money, The student wearing a crown of enchanted flames for example. But Violet grins from ear to ear as she's pronounced the winner. An achievement for which she's striven since your first year here and never quite clinched. She takes her trophy with delight, Presented by the divination teacher. And she congratulates the runners-up on their excellent efforts. The stars blink brightly overhead as you endeavor toward your next spot, At the mouth of the forest, Where the magical history teacher leads a quiet campfire. You hear the end of a spooky story as you approach and take open seats on the trunk of a fallen tree. There's a smattering of applause and a collective shiver among the spectators. You, Violet, And Brom pick up marshmallows and sticks with which to roast them as the teacher begins the next story. Watching your marshmallow slowly brown in the flames, You hardly take in the content of the story. But you enjoy the cadence of the storyteller and the atmosphere it conjures. There's something about Halloween. And you've felt this way since your young childhood. Wherein the scary and the spooky become softened somehow. As though, In their moment of most attention, They blur around the edges. Becoming cozy. Comforting. And safe. You're not sure how else to describe it. But the teacher's story evokes this feeling of warmth and unexpected sense of comfort even as it drifts past your lazy attention. The tempered heat from the fire begins to slow your mind down. As you fix on the unpredictable movements of the flames and the depth of its color. As the story comes to an end, You and your friends join the applause, And the teacher announces that it's time to make your way up to the closing circle. Slowly, You and the other students begin to hoist yourselves up from the seats, Moving from the campfire at the mouth of the forest to the larger bonfire atop the hill. The teacher's Victorian vampire costume looks most convincing as they magically extinguish the fire. And as you proceed up the hill. You can see that the other activities are winding down too, As the teachers encourage their participants to move toward the bonfire. It becomes a slow, Spectral procession. Lines of young people silhouetted against the brightness of the leaping flames. You check your pocket for the bundle of herbs you received at the feast. It's there, Safe and intact. The once shrieking student body assumes a quieter, More solemn demeanor as you all approach the bonfire. There's a quiver of something. Energy or magic. Between you. As though you can feel the electric presence of everyone else gathering in the circle. As though they are an extension of yourself The heat issuing forth from the bonfire is pleasant and prickly. Slowly all assume a circle around the fire. You stand a row back, Allowing the younger, Smaller students to move forward. Once the circle is assembled, The head teacher, Still resplendent in her queenly regalia, Magically amplifies her voice. She sounds commanding and confident as she speaks over the crackling of the flames. She casts the circle, Invoking the ancestors of all those within it, Inviting them to join this gathering in blessing. On this night, She says. We celebrate the joyful and magical rites of Halloween. A night of merriment. And mischief. Beloved around the world. You've enjoyed your sweets and fun, I hope. But tonight also marks the ancient festival of Samhain, Dear to those who observe old ways, And deeply significant to those of us who channel the energies of magic present in this place. You've heard this speech before, But it does not cease to impress you. The grace and poetry with which the Head Teacher describes the Wheel of the Year. She goes on. At Samhain, We recognize the changing seasons. The end of the harvest and the dying of the earth. In that death, The darkening of the skies and the bearing of trees and growth We also look ahead to the promise of rebirth. The return to the light. And the blossoming anew. On this night, We remember our ancestors, For the veil between worlds grows thin and we can feel their presence. Their love. And their blessing. From beyond. As you listen. You picture in your mind the veil manifest. Black and thin and a flutter in the breeze It feels true, You think. The crisp air and dark sky and leaping flames The gathering and the energy between all in attendance. There's something here. At this fire. That was not here before. Something that will dissipate at the moment you break the circle. And will never come back again in this form. Again you feel a sense of nostalgia and of out-of-body observation. As though you look on this as a memory from a great distance. You realize your eyes have swum out of focus, So fixated and mesmerized are you by the dancing fire. Bright and black all at once. The headteacher continues. Just as the days shorten and the leaves fall and the plants die in anticipation of that promised renewal. I invite you to consider how you may follow self-same cycles. How with each passing year, You grow and change. Think of where you were who you were this time last year. Do you notice anything different? Have you let go of something? Or gained something. How well do you recognize yourself? The question sits like a mist upon you. Surely you've changed in recent months. Not suddenly or abruptly, But slowly and unnoticed. Things that were once important to you now seem frivolous. And things that once seemed like the stuff of a distant future are all at once upon you. As you breathe in the scent of cinnamon and soft smoke. You take stock of many of these changes. And then as you exhale. You feel yourself release them Accept them. Bless them. The headteacher goes on. Is there something? In the spirit of rebirth. That you can let go of tonight. Each of you, At tonight's feast, Were given a bundle of herbs. The exact bundle you received was conjured specifically for you. By you. According to this point in your journey. I invite you. And please know that this is only an invitation. To think about what these herbs might represent for you. Why you might have pulled these into your hand through your connection to this magic. And consider whether you'd like. To take that with you into the rebirth of the new year. Whether you'd prefer to let it go. And if you choose the latter. I invite you to step forward and cast your bundle into the fire as an offering. Remember, There is no right or wrong choice. Only truthful choices. Make your choice, In your time. A quiet rustle of whispers snakes through the circle. The head teacher steps back, Smiling quietly. For a while, No one moves forward. You retrieve your herbs from your pocket. You're not sure what you'll do. You hold the bundle to your nose and inhale once more. In the chill of the night, It seems different than before. The woodsy thyme and sage climb the ladder of the smoke. Then there's the subtle sweetness of chamomile. The Bitter Musk of the Artemisia. You wonder again what these herbs symbolize. Closing your eyes. You see vague forms. Human-like but somehow spectral Gliding like wisps, Or floating perhaps. Running now. Through moonlit forests with wild abandon. Running alongside the deer flitting between the trees like birds. You can feel a smile dance across your lips. When you open your eyes, You know what to do. You are the first in the circle to stride forward. With a deep breath and confident gesture, You cast your bundle of herbs into the flame. As the bundle disappears and dwindles in the fire. You feel strangely light Around you, Hesitations seem to fall away. And more students come forward, Casting their bundles on the fire. Some stay back, Clutching theirs tightly. Brahm still holds his. Violet, However, Her stride loose and gallant, Comes forward with a look of pride. She squeezes your hand when she returns to your side. You continue gazing at the flame which swallows bundle after bundle. Pleasant flowery and woodsy fragrances burst into the night briefly. Then dissipate. When stillness falls again over the circle, The head teacher speaks. She releases the circle. The ancestors, And the winds. As she magically dims the bonfire to a low flame, The darkness sets in slowly. And the moonlight takes on a silver-white glimmer. A procession of floating candles and cups appear. The cups slide into every open hand. You take hold of one, And feel its warmth against your hand, Replacing the heat of the bonfire. You take a sip of the hot, Spiced cider and feel it warm your insides pleasantly. The circle breaks, And chatter fills in the quiet left by the dying fire. With teachers leading the way, The students make their way across moonlit grass toward the entrance to the castle. And ultimately. . . To bed. But before you make it even halfway, You think about the burnt bundle of herbs. The act of letting go. You feel a surge of freedom. And abandon. Of blissful and impermanent youth. You whisper for Braum and Violet to hang back a bit. The three of you casually slip back from the crowd under the guise of enjoying the moonlight You've got an idea. Just as the head teacher said. It's a night for merriment. And mischief. And you're only young once. There are only so many chances. This chance, Fine and fleeting, Will be gone before midnight. Your friends don't need much convincing. Quietly and quickly, You steal away toward the pitch where an hour or so earlier you snatched floating apples out of the night sky. The pale moon gleams overhead. The heavy doors of the castle slowly close. You huddle, The three of you behind a tree. As Karadoc lumbers down the hillside toward his cabin. Not that he would chastise you if he found you. But it's all the more enjoyable for the secrecy. The mischief. Reaching the pitch, We find school broomsticks lined against the stands. Each of you takes one, Stifling giggles, Mount it and kick off into the air. Soaring out over the glistening lake, Between the dark green highland hills, Your hair whips in the wind and face splits into a grin. You skim the surface of the lake, Beneath which lie any number of magical creatures. Mermaids perhaps? Neptune's horses, Giant squids… the unknown. There's a rush of unbridled joy swelling in your chest, Growing sweeter and more uncontained for the thinness of the veil. This shining moment in the Wheel of the Year As you circle higher above the grounds, You and Violet and Braum let loose wild whoops and laughter. You feel young. And effortless. And unbounded. The embers of your childhood burn low on the side of a mountain. Offered to the flames as a gift. Never again attainable. Yet never lost. In this clean and crisp night air, You and your friends are golden and great. And endless. Children. Forever. Whatever lies ahead, Your heart will cherish these fleeting fancies. Feeling your heart open in a way it never has before. You surrender to the future. To the promise of rebirth and renewal. And to the unseen ways you'll change with each passing season. You let go. And in so doing. You fly higher. And lighter than you ever have. Soon, You'll touch down again. Your feet will thud upon solid ground and green grass. You'll shush each other as you sneak back up to your dormitories and slide into beds beside your already sleeping classmates. But not yet. For now, You'll soar over mountain and vale and castle and lake. Beneath. Glowing ever on. A jack-o'-lantern. Lit with Will of the Wisps. Enchanted by the bonds of friendship. And love. And innocence. Five o'clock comes with a wisp of orange sunset and not a moment too soon. Not that you haven't thoroughly enjoyed the fall festival that runs the length of Main Street with its trick-or-treaters, Families, And rash of excited customers. It's just that after all these hours, Your candy bowl is empty at last, And with only you to mind the shop, There's no way to run out and secure refills. So, With a sigh of relief, And the kind of contented exhaustion that only comes from a wonderfully productive day, You step onto the sidewalk and snap closed the chalk sandwich board, Inviting folks into your quaint little bookstore, The Candle and Quill. Burst however, You stop to admire it one last time. You take pride in the whimsical illustrations you make each day, Paired with puns or poetry. Today, In accordance with the festivities, You chalked a jack-o'-lantern, Bats, Spider webs, And of course, A black feline with its back arched in the classic posture You're no Picasso, But you fancy it's a keen approximation of Tybalt, The beloved cat who prowls the stacks of the shop day after day. His name is better known than yours by shop regulars, Despite you being the sole proprietor of the place. Of course it wasn't always your shop, It's only for the past six months that your name has been on the lease instead of Maggie's. Over the 40 some odd years that she ran the candle and quill, She became something of an institution in town. She created space for community gatherings, A launchpad for local authors and illustrators, And a gateway to discovery for readers of all ages. You feel fortunate to have come up in her shadow, Serving as an apprentice bookseller for the last years of her time here. You learned so much from her, Not just about the intricacies of the trade. But also about how a physical space brought up in love can bring compassion and restoration to a community. Mags and Tybalt the Cat were practically local celebrities, And you loved simply being part of the wondrous thing they made. They were such a harmonious pair that you'd often hear Maggie talking to Tybalt, Having elaborate, One-sided conversations with him, As if he might actually respond. The more time you spent with the two of them, The more you expected him to one day open his mouth and talk back. When Maggie announced her retirement, For a little while it looked like the last call for the cherished local bookshop. The township paper decried the end of an era, And locals even formed petitions to keep the store open in her absence. You yourself couldn't bear to see this place disappear, Selling out its stock and withering into memory. So, With Maggie's advice, And a great deal of scrimping and saving, You arranged to take over the shop and even sign a lease for the studio apartment upstairs. With it, Since you'd built a bond, And the candle and quill wouldn't be the same without him. Came to a bolt. In those early months of running the place yourself, Through the hardships and growing pains, He was a constant companion, A reminder that you were never alone. Maggie comes to visit often, And the amiable black cat chirps and springs to her heels, But you fancy you've become a close second in his heart. When he's not prowling among the back shelves, Or sleeping on a sunny windowsill, He spends most of his days near you. You tuck the sandwich board inside the door and wave to a few passers-by under their Halloween costumes. You recognize them as baristas from the coffee shop next door. The light of late afternoon is twisting through the flame-crowned oak trees that line the main street. Crispy leaves lift lightly on the breeze and settle in untidy piles on the sidewalk. The door of the coffee shop swings open, Creaking at the hinges and letting out the mingled aromas of mulling spices, Coffee, And vanilla. There are more activities planned for the festival after sundown, And the charming atmosphere you encounter on the sidewalk tempts you out into the world. But on the other hand, There's accounting to do, And you're looking forward to a quiet night in after all the day's hustle and bustle. There's time to decide, You suppose. Freshly rosy cheek, You step back into the shop. And with a satisfied sigh. Lock the door behind you. You close the blinds in the front window and flip the sign in the doorway to the side marked closed. We'll see you next time. There's some tidying to do of the displays, Which were all knocked off kilter in the excitement of the festival day. You straighten up around the shop. Knowing you'll thank yourself when you come down at opening tomorrow. And have it already done. You water the houseplants in the windows. Then, You take up residence behind the checkout desk to count the cash drawer and reconcile the day's business. As if sensing you've finally sat down for the first time in several hours, Tybalt comes trotting from behind one of the shelves with a squeak and leaps effortlessly into your lap. Reward him with several pets from head to tail. And a scratch under the chin. That elicits a sonorous purr. You've grown accustomed to working with him in your lap, Or seated on the desk, Or even snoozing on the paperwork you need. The two of you have a sort of pas de deux about the business, Dancing together through your days. As you meticulously count up the bills in the drawer, The weight of the purring cat in your lap acts as a relaxing and grounding force. You feel immeasurably secure. And it helps to see that you've done one of your best sales days in months. Running a small business comes with significant challenges, But you count yourself extremely favoured to have the support of this community. It's a testament to Maggie's work. And the effort you've put in to sustain her vision. When at last, You're finished with the end of day accounting, You let your shoulders drop. Roll your neck and stretch your arms to the ceiling. Another good day, Buddy, You say to Tibble. Scratching him behind his ears. What should we do now? Tybalt's eyes close and his face settles into what looks like a dreamy smile. Whoever said black cats are bad luck must never have had the pleasure of meeting one. This one, At least, Is unendingly affectionate and has brought you rather good fortune. Now, In anticipating your rise from the chair, He jumps from your lap and slinks off into the bookshelves like a swift-footed shadow. Tonight, You have the perfect excuse to stay inside the shop rather than joining the late night festivities. You've been in talks with a small regional publishing house about hosting one of their debut authors for a signing and book launch event. They send over an advanced shipment of the writer's novel for your stock, And you've been meaning to give it a read so you can interview them at the event. With the light through the blinds turning to amber sunset, You're in just the right mood to catch up on some reading. You slide the box out from under a table in the modest storage room in the back and untuck the cardboard flaps. Puncturing the shrink wrap and removing one of the immaculate paper bags is immensely satisfying. You love getting new books in, Especially by first-time authors. Just like it was for Maggie, It's a personal aspiration of yours for the bookshop to be a place that launches new voices from all walks of life. Every time you hold a new book in your hands. You're holding someone's dream. Come true. With your copy in hand. You head to the reading lounge near the back of the shop. You sink into a large, Wing-backed chair upholstered with forest green velvet. You light the vintage standing lamp for extra reading light as the shadows of the bookshelves begin to lengthen. The spine of the book crackles pleasantly as you open it for the first time and begin to Old books may have the enchanting smell and feel of history, But new ones are special too. There's something satisfying about being the first to open a volume and set eyes on a page. The novel begins in an unrecognizable world. You know enough to understand that this novel toes the line between science fiction and fantasy, But little more. With a young woman protagonist who is curious about an unexplained earthen structure at the outskirts of her town. There's a palpable sense of mystery and myth woven into the first chapter, Pulling you in quickly. After she searches for clues to the nature of the monument, The main character is followed home by one of its inhabitants. A feral cat. You nestle deeper into the chair, This is off to a very intriguing start. Night settles over the shop and the main street. Faintly from beyond the bookshelves, You can hear a twinkle of seasonal music punctuated by laughter and muffled speech into a microphone. Any urge you had to venture out into the party, However, Is extinguished by your growing investment in the young author's novel. You read on and on and on, Flipping pages faster and faster as you become increasingly engrossed in the story. So engrossed, In fact, That your surroundings seem to fall away into a sepia haze. Is it any good? Comes a voice from between the bookshelves You start looking at once toward the door of the shop. Are you so absorbed in your reading? That you hadn't heard the tinkle of the shop bell. But no. You're sure you locked it? When you came back in. Didn't you? And didn't you turn the sign around? But stranger still, There appears to be no one there, Between the door, Desk and displays. No customer wandering in from the festival and ignoring the shop's closure. You slide a bookmark in between the pages and stand, Going to the door to ensure there's no one there. And to double check the lock. Sure enough. The door is securely bolted. So that you only imagined the voice. Shaking your head as if to rid yourself of the delusion. You start back toward your chair, Eager to find out what happens next to the young woman and the curious feline. Sitting there at attention in the center of the chair, However, Is Tybalt. His green eyes sparkling in the lamplight. Move over then, You say to him. I'm on a roll with this one. So it is good then, This is the same imagined voice You blink hard, Drawing a sharp intake of breath. It seemed, For a split second, As if Tybalt's mouth moved as the voice manifested in your head. As if indeed the cat were speaking to you. For a moment, Your mouth sits agape and you simply stare at Tybalt, Waiting to hear the voice again. In typical feline fashion, The black cat doesn't blink, Holding you to an impossible staring contest. I'm sorry, Did you just… you begin trailing off when you realize how ridiculous the question will sound. But then from the mouth of the bookstore cat. Comes an answer. About time you listened to me, " says the voice. There's no mistaking it now. Tybalt is actually speaking to you, As if that were completely ordinary. What, You stammer, But a loss for anything more sophisticated. All this time continues to evolve. I've just been waiting for you to start paying attention. But good, You've come around. This can't be happening, You say. I must have fallen asleep while reading. I have to snap out of it. Please, Tibalt interrupts, Don't go pinching yourself. Yes, I can talk. Always been able to. Just most people don't listen. Can't listen. It takes time for them to understand. I know, I know, It's a bit of a shock But isn't it fun that we can finally have a chat? Really, I'd rather skip all the I'm dreaming, I'm losing my mind, This isn't real fluff. The last part he hastily adds, Noticing your left hand beginning to form a pincer. You relax. Come now, He says. A hint of the resonant purr beneath his velvet voice. Why don't you make a cup of tea, Calm the nerves, And then I'll explain everything. Dazed, You find yourself nodding, Then retreating to the storeroom to turn on the electric kettle at the cat's suggestion. You watch the water slowly bubble to a boil within, Then pour it over a bag of chamomile flowers. Returning to the reading lounge with the hot mug between your hands, You approach with caution. Tybalt is poised on the end table beside the green velvet chair, Casually licking his paws He looks up when he hears you coming or a moment you think it must all have been a dream or a hallucination. That you've returned to find your cat perfectly normal, Dispossessed of any human language but that perception is instantly shattered. Is that better now? Tybalt says. Why don't you have a seat? You do sit down, Never taking your eyes off Tybalt, Whose fur gleams under the golden light of the lamp. It's really not such a big deal, " he says with an edge of reassurance. Maggie and I conversed all the time. Of course, She was something of a cat whisperer. I wasn't the first one she could speak to. Somehow amid all the amazement. You recall Maggie's elaborate, One-sided conversations with the Black Cat. Now those memories glisten with new light. Tybalt was talking back. The whole time. You just couldn't hear him. Can, You begin to ask, Unsure what the question will be, Can all cats talk? Yes, He says, Almost puffing out his chest with pride. Well, We all can. Not that we all do. And it takes some time to learn your languages. Often whole lifetimes as a matter of fact. We learn by being close to people. And then, The rest is up to you, Whether you're one of the few who can hear. Now he leans in and his eyes sparkle, Like someone imparting a delightful secret. Only the best people can. Maybe it's the soothing scent of chamomile, Or the gentle tones of Tybalt's voice that or the comfort of the familiar velvet chair, But you are becoming increasingly at ease More than that, Your astonishment at the sheer reality of the situation is swiftly giving way to your curiosity. Your mind slowly catches up with everything he's said thus far. Wait, You say, Your wheels turning. You said it can take lifetimes to learn human speech. What does that mean? The thing about having nine lives. To Bolt's eyes' glitter. Oh yes, He says, It's true that cats have nine lives, And what's more, We can remember our past lives. Not right away, But the longer we live, The more we can see of our former selves. How we've changed and how the world has changed. I can even show you, If you like. Show me. All at once, It seems like the atmosphere in the shop is suspended. You can no longer hear the sounds of festivity from the streets. Time seems to slow or altogether evaporate into mist. Look into my eyes, " Dybbult says. You look, Staring deeply into the emerald green eyes. The lamplight reveals golden flecks inside the green. Two sparkling gemstones against the black velvet of his fur. As your focus deepens, A darkness creeps in around the corner of your vision. Letting the backdrop of the bookstore fall away into void. Moments later. Void is replaced. With soft light. And gentle sounds. The cry of an unfamiliar bird overhead. The voices of children playing. The sound of fire crackling in an oven made of clay. Finally, You break your gaze with Tibble to take in your surroundings. Instead of in the cozy corner of the candle and quill. You now stand outside in a courtyard. In a foreign land. Shade falls over the ground. From a mud brick house. A young woman. Slides a roll of bread dough into the oven. A pair of children play at a table game with an intricate board and woodcarved pieces. They're clad in white linen shifts and their heads are mopped with sweet black curls. Tybalt winds his way around your legs in a figure eight. What is this place? You ask. Egypt, He responds, My first life. You are still taking it all in when a flash of rusty brown darts across the courtyard The woman attending to the oven lets out a little cry and calls after it in a language you don't understand. Then, A moment later, A slender brown cat emerges, Licking its lips. A beautiful cat with a pair of very familiar, Gold flecked, Green eyes. Is that you? You ask the black cat at your feet. That was you in your first life. The woman stoops to stroke the cat, Who purrs and closes his eyes. Everyone knows cats were worshipped in ancient Egypt, Tybalt says. It's true. But for us house cats, Life was simple enough. They loved me for keeping mice and pests out of the house. I loved them for simply being them. You watch the children abandon their game to run over to the brown cat who instantly drops to the ground, Rolls over, And shows his belly. The sound of laughter rings like music through the courtyard. And slowly Softly. The setting dissolves like sugar into a glass of water. And you're back in the dimly lit bookstore. Your first life was as a house cat in ancient Egypt, You say, Almost in disbelief. Tybalt inclines his head in something like a nod. Well, You say? That would be like me being Cleopatra or Julius Caesar in a past life. Funny you should mention that, " Dybbult says. Would you like to see another? You nod eagerly and gaze once more into the cat's green eyes. Your surroundings fall away, Replaced by a bustling street. Though it's not the kind of modern street to which you're accustomed. Pedestrians draped in rustic dyed fabrics clog the way, And market stalls border the Straight ahead is a marble-pillared rotunda Indeed, All the structures around are built of marble and the like, Marked by architectural features like arcades, Columns, And pediments. Tibalt slinks along by your feet as you follow the flow of foot traffic toward the imposing rotunda. Tybalt, You say? Is this Rome? In the year 44 BCE, To be precise, He says, My second life. There I am in fact. You follow Tybalt to the steps of the rotunda through a break in the crowd. Lounging in the shade are no less than three cats, A smoky grey and two calicos. One of the calico cats is a kitten. Likely only a few months old by your estimation, Being groomed behind the ears by her mother. Our eyes are green and gold. This was a hard life, " Dybbult says. But still a good one. As he speaks, An elderly man ambles over to the shady patch of stairs. He leans down and leaves a bowl of water beside the cats. The Grey One stands first and begins to lap the water before he is joined by the other two. The Romans respected us, Even allowed us in their temples when they shooed away all other and as a family. We ruled the streets and alleys of Rome. You smile to see the affection shared by the little trio of cats. There's some sort of a commotion beginning on the top steps of the building. But you can't understand the language. The cats don't seem to take much notice of it. Come along, " says Tybalt softly. As he walks away from the crowd, You follow, And the streets of Rome dissolve into an entirely different landscape. Mediterranean heat gives way to misty moorland with blustering winds. You step through the long, Damp grasses toward the crest of a hill. Upon which a formidable rock stands in silhouette against a pale sky. As you draw closer, You perceive something to be sticking out of the rock at a cockeyed angle. Nearer still, With Tybalt by your side, You recognize the protruding item to be a sword No way, You say breathlessly, Is this… You've reached the top of the hill, From which vantage point you can see two figures Now three, Slowly ascending from the other direction. One is tall and cloaked, Bearing a staff The second, Small and lanky, No more than a child. The third is a cat, Pure white as snow. The whole drama plays out before you with exquisite brevity. The cloaked man accompanies the boy who would be king to the enchanted stone. The child, Shaking with nerves, Grasps the hilt, And with a flash like lightning, Pulls the sword effortlessly from its rocky prison. The cat stays close to the older man, Rubbing its sides against his legs. You were Merlin's cat, You say in disbelief. Ah, I saw so many wonders in that lifetime, " Tybalt says wistfully. In those days, It seemed like magic lived in every moment. Dragons hid beneath every mountain. And the Golden Age would last forever. I saw only a fragment of his reign. But if a king's rule may be measured by how he treats the cats in his kingdom, Arthur was a good monarch indeed. From here, As the young King Arthur brandishes his sword, You catch a glimpse of the White Cat's reflection in its blade. The green eyes gleam. And to Shadow Merlin, The Enchanter, In his most magnificent years, Tybalt continues. Well, I dare say I had a role in his magic. Some say we cats can travel beyond the veil in and out of this world and the spirit world. But the truth of it is, We learn to walk in both. Given the charmed spectacle of what Tybalt has shown you so far, You are in a good mind to believe that statement. This way, He says, Nudging you at the ankles. There's much more to see. You follow the black cat into spiraling darkness which reassembles into a stone chamber dimly lit by flickering torches. An austere window open to the night lets in a flood of moonlight which falls over an older man seated at a hearty oaken table. Before the man lies a massive tome with thick pages and leather bindings. You move closer to peer over his robed shoulder. Observing that he paints. With a narrow brush. At the edges of the page. It's a dazzling document. The chapter page. Of an illuminated manuscript. As a bookseller, Naturally you become instantly engrossed in the beauty of the page and the You've seen many pictures of such medieval manuscripts embellished with flourishes, Illustrations and gilding, Even seen some behind glass in museums. But to witness it this close, And in progress no less, Is entirely exhilarating. You are so mesmerized by the strokes of the brush and the details on the inner page that it takes you some time to recognize what it is the artist is painting in the margins. And beyond that. He's painting from life. A skilled artist is decorating the outside margin of the page. With the form of a silver tabby. Curled up. On an open book. Your eyes find the far end of the work table, Where the same image comes to life. A small silver tabby snoozes lightly on the open pages of a small volume. Most, Like him, Didn't care for us cats. Thought we were suspicious or evil, Says Tybalt. But many came around when they realized they needed help to keep mice out of the monasteries. In turn. We became a favorite, A representation in their holiest texts. This one was very kind to me, As I recall. And you taught me my love of books. You follow Tybalt to his next life, Which peaked aboard a ship on a wind-tossed ocean. He was a black and white stowaway, Living off the stored grain of the travelers and hitchhiking rodents. He was one of the first of his kind to set foot in the Americas, Where his closest kin were the prowling mountain lions. In the next life, He looks most like himself. A sleek, Black house cat with a tuft of white across his chest, Golden green eyes shining through the past. He's the companion of a young woman who receives visits at her home from families suffering fever, Injury, And illness. The cat curls up in the patient's laps, Bringing them profound comfort and well-being. As the lady prepares herbal poultices and tinctures for healing. And in the next, He's a pampered, Well-fed angora curled on a crimson damask pillow on the mantelpiece of an elaborate rococo chamber. Below him a dozen or so powdered noblemen converse in French. One so heavily adorned with capes, Sashes, And medals that you must assume him a king. Beneath the window, A royal French garden extends as far as the eye can see. Versailles, You inquire, Amazed. 18th century, Tybalt responds, Well before the revolution, Of course. You follow him through to one more life. And you're surprised to find yourself again on the streets of Rome. Now, However, The bustle of ancient life is replaced with modern, Cosmopolitan energy. The streets, Once trod only by pedestrian and horse, Are filled with luxury cars and sightseeing buses. But ahead, Behind glass stanchions and sunken a story below, Is an excavated ruin dappled with cypress trees. You recognize some of the columns and structures from the opulent Roman buildings you saw in your earlier vision. This is, If you're not mistaken, The same site. One of the wonders of Rome, You think. Is the preservation of such sites as the modern world grows up around them. The living side by side of past and present, And the constant reminders of the formerly grand empire's provenance. But the most enchanting thing about this site, You realize, Is that here and there, On broken marble steps, Or in the shade of columns, Or under the cypresses. There are cats. Dozens of them. The place is almost overrun. But a more languid conqueror would be difficult to find. In their astounding number, The cats of the ancient ruins sleep. Obey. Or a graze, Unbothered by the goings-on of city life. This is Largo de Torre, Argentina. Says Tibble. And it contains the remains of the theatre of Pompey, On whose steps I enjoyed much of my second life as a rascal. It's there, You see where that tree grows, That Julius Caesar was betrayed on the Ides of March. And now it's a cat sanctuary? You ask. In the shadow of mankind's greatest achievement, Both its triumphs and its tragedies, You'll always find us enjoying the shade. That's me, Over there on the steps. The tortoise shell. You really came full circle, You say with a smile. You could say that, " Tobolt says. Now. Shall we go back? You nod and Tibalt leads you through the swirling darkness one last time. Until your surroundings settle once more into the familiar shelves and shadows of the candle and quill. Tybalt sits again upon the end table, And you in the green velvet chair. You lived so many extraordinary lives, You say. Were there for legendary kings, Immortalized in manuscripts, Assisting healers. It's amazing. But there's something sticking at the back of your mind. Your brow furrows. With them. This is your ninth life, You say with a twinge of sorrow. And it's such an ordinary one. The gold fleck, Green eyes glitter. Not so, My friend, " he says sincerely. You see, I'll let you in on a little secret. Every cat. The whole world over. Even those of us who have been fed on caviar in France and worshipped in Egypt. Longs to wind up where I am now. Only the best cats can be reborn as bookstore cats. You feel moisture spring to the corners of your eyes. It goes on. I have the company of books, More books than ever I saw in my previous existences. I have affection from friends and strangers alike. I have the comfort of attention and solitude in equal measure. And as for this being my last life. Well, I have a feeling it's going to be a long one. And also a blessed one, Especially now that you've learned to listen to me. Such sweet words from the visage of your constant shadow, The ever-present mascot of the candle and quill, A being who, Until tonight, You never suspected could hold such beautiful ideas, Brings deep waves of emotion over you. It's a rush of pure instinct and love that inspires you to scoop up the slender black cat, Wrap him up in your arms and pull him into your lap. I'm glad you chose to live your life here, " you say, Stroking his fur and scratching behind his ears. Tibble to purse. So, He says. Now that that's out of the way, Is the new book any good? It is not the night you expected to have. But with the autumn wind whistling outside the windows of the bookshop. And the distant sounds of the fall festival. Melting into a chorus of mysterious voices. You settle deeper into the green velvet chair. And embrace your feline companions for the rest of the evening. You read aloud, Sharing in the wonder of books, Building a home together. Out of stories. The shelves around you sing of the ancient world. The ways of healing. And the legends of great kings. Their stories intertwine and meet in Tybalt. The humble anima. The very soul. Of the candle and quill.

Reviews

It put me straight to sleep 😴! I’m going to keep listening to hear this story! Or, I will be sleeping 💤 with the story ☺️

oh Laurel ..!!.. fabulous listening to this on Halloween morning … will finish this evening … perfect mix of enchantment mystery warmth intrigue reflection magic lessons and LOVE … thank you for sharing your gift of word smithing…!!..

Your soothing and relaxing voice helped me to relax enough to fall asleep. Thank you for contributing a bundle of your wonderful stories.

🖤🐈‍⬛🕷️🐾🕸️🧡🎃👻💀