The Dawn Singer from The Haven series.
This story is set in a mythical village known as The Haven,
And is one of many stories you can find in our Haven series.
To begin your journey,
Find a comfortable place where you'll not be disturbed and sit or lie down.
Close your eyes and take a few long deep breaths,
Allowing yourself to relax.
Now just fall into a natural breathing pattern and enjoy this immersive experience.
This morning you woke to a kindly day,
With a promise of spring in the air.
Though the woods are still bare of leaves,
There is a hint of warmth in the pale sun.
You are having a morning visit with the old lady,
And make your way down the lane.
The blackthorn,
Which some people call white thorn,
Is flowering already,
White as snow against its dark branches.
The old lady told you that blackthorn winter means a time in early spring when it might get cold again,
But not always.
She always tells you not to knock,
But just to come into the kitchen,
Which is warm and welcoming,
With its chairs and table and big agar range.
With its pots and bunches of herbs,
Its checkered tablecloths and bright curtains,
It is both comforting and cheerful.
She makes you both a hot drink and you sit down,
Talking for a while about the weather and the upcoming events in the village.
Then as you sip your drink,
Your eyes stray to a hand drawn map on the wall.
It is very similar to the one she gave you,
Showing the haven,
But this one seems to be expanded.
Seeing where your attention has gone,
She gets up and brings down the map for you to see.
You tell her that this one notes and names places that you have not yet seen.
Her face creases in a smile and she says that the haven is relatively small,
But still larger than you might expect,
Like an accordion or a piece of paper many times folded.
She tells you that these areas are called the Borderlands and that as you have been here quite a while now,
You will be able to see some of them.
Your eyes widen,
You have been so accustomed to the haven and its environs that you had no idea there was more to it.
You remember you had never seen the holy well on the margins of the fairy wood,
On the margins of the fairy wood,
And think of your long pony trap ride,
You passed places on that ride that you have never revisited.
The old lady nods,
She says that yes,
You would have passed through or near some of the places on this map,
But there are still others to find.
She squints as if looking at something far in the distance beyond the walls of the cottage and nods to herself again decisively.
The cliffs,
She says,
And that she will take you up there to see the dawn singer.
It is the pony trap that collects you,
The old lady already seated,
The driver helps you in and gives you a warm,
Soft fleece throw.
You slept well and simply woke at the time you knew you had to.
Alarm clocks are not a thing anyone in the haven seems to use or need.
Now you sit back and the old lady pours you a hot drink from a flask,
Saying you'll both have a nice breakfast at the inn after.
This pre-dawn is not cold,
There is no frost and the air is very still and sweet,
With stars glittering above.
Apart from an owl calling distantly,
There is no sound but the turn of the wheels and the crisp tap of the pony's hooves on the lane.
This is not a way you have come very often,
Except in the pony trap.
The lane turns north towards the moors to skirt the edges of the fairy wood and the wheels rumble hollowly over a little bridge.
You think that if you stopped and got out,
You could just go a little way to the holy well,
But that is not your destination today.
The road curves like a horseshoe,
The woods dark and secret and somehow alive on one side,
The land rising toward the moors on the other.
You remember passing through the fairy woods in the trap before you were ever invited to enter them.
Now the woods are on each side,
With the road a pale strip between them.
The scent of the woods is clean and somehow rich even at this time of year.
The fairy mound you imagine is still green.
You sip your drink as the old lady explains that the dawn singer does not come on any particular date.
Now it is because the first wildflower has bloomed.
It might be just one frail blossom,
Hidden on a bank or in a garden,
But the dawn singer is still there.
Always knows.
You want to ask how she herself knows that this is the day,
But suspect she will only chuckle.
Suddenly the pony trap slows,
Almost coming to a halt.
You peer out to see the pure white glow that can only mean the white stag,
And so it is.
The great creature stands on the edge of the woods,
Its head raised.
You feel the old lady nudge you and so you raise your hand in a gesture of acknowledgement.
The stag dips its head and then turns,
Fading back into the dark trees.
Always a good sign,
The old lady announces cheerfully,
As you settle back and the pony trots on.
Now the vane is rising toward the cliffs.
Now the vane is rising toward the cliffs,
Away from the woods.
There is a wind up here,
It smells of the sea and is fresher rather than chilly.
The trap comes to a halt and a driver helps you boast down.
Over the sea the sky is still brilliant with stars,
But looking towards the land you can see that fading of the darkness that heralds the dawn.
There is nothing here but an ancient standing stone and a wind-ridden tree,
Bent by the prevailing winds.
Bent by the prevailing winds.
You wait for a moment and then something moves,
The tree or the stone,
You are not sure.
There is a faint flash of light and then a tall figure is there.
A tall figure is there.
They raise their arms towards the moors and begin to sing.
It is both music and light,
As if the singer weaves both into song and instrument.
It is the wind too,
And the sea,
And the old,
Old land under your feet.
Everything seems to brighten,
As if the singer is calling the day to come.
The sky takes on a rosy hue,
Your eyes are open to the world.
Your blood tingles as if you had drunk something intoxicating and enchanting.
You can almost feel the power healing and exhilarating,
Flooding you.
Over the moors,
The sun in awesome power rises.
Spears of light flare and the land blushes into colour.
The air around you warms with the promise that spring is coming.
The singer is so brilliant,
You almost cannot see them,
But a deeper vision shows you the stream of their long hair and the radiance of their eyes as they look into the sun.
It might be a moment or an age that passes,
But then the sun has cleared the moors and morning unfolds.
The singer lowers their hands,
You think they look at you and are sure they encourage you.
You think they look at you and are sure they incline their head,
Then they step back into the standing stone and are gone.
The air is bright and seagulls call.
The old lady pats you on the shoulder and you both get back into the pony trap.
As she pours you another hot drink,
She tells you not many people have seen that.
You ask how many and she grins and says the driver,
Her son,
And her daughter.
She says that she has seen all of it,
But not all of it.
She says that she has seen the singer,
Herself,
And you.
Now you have been here once,
You will get to know when the singer comes and can go yourself.
The sun has seen all of its secrets.
The fairy wood,
Or the ancient yew,
Or the great oak,
The holy well,
The white stag,
Or any of those things that have been shown to you.
You settle back as the trap makes its return journey.
You close your eyes,
Listening to the wheels and hooves.
Your body still seems to be absorbing all that light and music.
You think that you might even doze for a while before you reach the inn.
You think of the incredible song,
And the power and brightness of it,
And that you still have a chance to hear it.
You think of the incredible song,
And the power and brightness of it,
And that you still have so many questions to ask,
But maybe they will be revealed to you in time.
