The Autumn Fate in The Haven.
When you got up this morning.
You were glad to see the day promised to be wonderful.
There was a faint autumn mist on the ground.
But the sky was bright.
And by the time you dressed and went downstairs,
The mist was beginning to clear.
Today there is a little fete in the village.
A sharing of homemade goods and local produce.
For a few weeks,
You have been quietly busy spending time at the old lady's cottage,
Or she has come to your house.
Once you enjoyed a late breakfast at the old manor and picked fruit from the orchard.
The trees bowed down with their bounty.
Today.
You will take your own jellies and jams to the fate.
And the village will gather,
Friendly and relaxed.
Autumn has come quietly.
Brushing the leaves into warm colours.
But the sun still holds a gentle memory of the summer.
By the time the old lady comes up the lane.
It is a perfect fall day.
Neither too hot nor too cold.
The Pony Trap has come to pick up your jars.
And the driver will set up your stall.
So that you and the old lady can enjoy a walk to the village.
Without carrying heavy baskets.
Once the pony trots down the lane.
You leave the cottage and cross into the small wood.
There are still some wildflowers blooming beside the path and in the clearings.
But the small stream,
Swelled by river from the moors,
Sounds deeper than its light summery chuckle.
The air too is sharper.
The richness of growth faded into the earthy ascent of autumn.
It makes you think of bonfires and frost.
And hot drinks.
But there has been no frost yet.
And the leaves have not yet begun to fall.
You walk under a gold and bronze canopy.
A pheasant struts across the path.
Where the sunbeams pierce the trees.
The light is old cold.
The great oak stands vast and serene in its glade.
And both of you stop and observe it.
This ancient and enormous old tree.
You always feel that it too is a friend.
When you come to sit beneath it.
You talk quietly to the old lady as you move on.
Coming out into the field of the standing stones.
You look across to the fairy wood,
Which is not far away.
But always seems distant.
Like a spreading forest in the wild parts of the world.
You know from the old lady that very few have ever been invited into it.
You suspect she has.
And also that the kind old gentleman at the manor might have.
But you rarely mention it.
You wonder if there are distant paths that you might walk.
Even as you think it.
You see the glowing white of the great stag standing under the eaves of the wood.
You and the old lady both pause and nod your heads in acknowledgement.
And the stag bows its own in response.
You decide that tomorrow.
You will look at your map of the haven.
Because seeing the stag always means something.
The old lady's eyes twinkle at you,
Like a kindly conspirator.
And you continue on.
Down past the standing stones.
Warm in the sunlight.
And through the gate into the village street.
The stalls have been set up along the street.
Their little warnings bright.
You have come to the fates and fairs here before,
But this is the first time.
You have had a stall of your own.
The pony trap driver is finishing unloading your jars,
Which are nicely displayed in little wickerwork trays.
They nod to you.
Lift a hand and drive away.
The old lady says that he will come back later to drive you both home.
The villagers smile and greet you as you spend a moment returning their hellos.
Before going behind your stall.
You add a few finishing touches here and there.
And are also pleased to find a chair.
That has been bought so you can sit down if you wish.
The shopkeeper comes along with a hot drink for you and the old lady.
And admires your display.
Soon.
The villagers are walking between the stalls.
Stopping to choose from them.
Two of the stalls have baked goods.
One savory with fresh bread.
The other sweet.
Cookies.
Scones and biscuits.
As it is lunchtime.
They use it as an excuse to spread the bread,
Rolls,
Biscuits and scones with your jam.
And it's obvious they are enjoying it.
You're very pleased at their praise.
Remembering picking one golden afternoon.
From a bush of lush blackberries.
There were plums too,
From the manor orchard.
And earlier in the year,
Strawberries and raspberries.
Watching everyone else eat makes you realize that you feel hungry yourself.
Knowing there would be plenty of food,
You only had a light breakfast.
The old lady tells you she will look after the store.
And you thank her and wander around the Fade.
From the farms.
There are cheeses.
Creams?
Yogurt?
And ice cream.
The shopkeeper has cakes.
There are stalls of fresh fruit and vegetables.
Take homes.
And soup in steaming pots.
Someone has lit a small barbecue and the scent of charcoal rises in the still autumn air.
The little garden beside the shop is open for anyone to sit.
And you take your lunch there to eat.
You savour the delicious food.
Just taking your time.
And enjoying the day.
Returning to your store.
You see that almost everything has gone.
And the last to go are in the basket of the old gentleman from the manor.
He greets you very kindly.
And says he thinks he was lucky to get your last pot.
Which he'll have with scones and cream tomorrow.
Then,
He adds,
He came to the fete to invite you and the old lady to the winter dance.
The old manor has been shut up for a long time.
But now that he is home.
.
.
He means to continue the tradition.
You thank him and accept.
As the old lady nods with a smile.
Obviously.
This is not news to her.
And you will ask her about this winter dance later.
But now?
You take a look around at the other stalls.
Not all is food.
There are crafts.
Pottery.
Paintings.
Beeswax.
Candles and soaps.
Jewellery.
Everything that a country fair might display.
Your basket gets heavier as you quietly stroll from stall to stall browsing.
As the afternoon slips into evening.
The sky blushes with the oncoming sunset.
You join the old lady and the gentleman from the manor for a hot spiced drink that warms you as the external warmth of the air begins to fade into autumn coolness.
One or two stars are already starting to gleam.
The storeholders take down their stores.
And,
As promised.
.
.
You hear the sound of the pony trap as it comes up the street.
The driver getting down to dismantle your stall.
It will be kept with the others in the village hall.
Soon the little village street is clear and people begin to drift homeward.
The driver helps you onto the trap.
And the old lady and gentleman follow.
The trap moves smoothly along the street.
Past the old inn.
Where the door is open.
And light gleams into the dusk.
The innkeeper is standing in the doorway and waves to you as you pass.
The little harbour on your left is quiet.
The sea are still as glass.
And tinted pink with the sunset.
All of you are quiet,
Now the day is over.
And you are pleasantly tired.
The pony trap turns down the lane toward the manor.
A few windows warmly lit.
And the old gentleman gets down saying that he will see you both soon.
The trap turns as he walks up the path to the front door.
And it takes you back to the lane.
That curves up to the old lady's cottage.
She'll see you tomorrow,
She says with a grin.
And you agree.
As you have not forgotten your thoughts about untrodden paths of the fairy wood.
Your own house awaits you,
Warmly welcoming,
And you thank the driver.
Then open your own front door.
This home that you love always seems glad to have you return.
You go around closing the drapes.
And then make your way upstairs to your bedroom.
Unhurried.
You get ready for bed.
And then go to the window that faces toward the fairy wood.
There is a thin moon above it.
A pale crescent like an archer's bow.
This night is still and serene.
You lay down and make yourself comfortable.
Thinking pleasantly about the day.
About the kindness of the people here.
How relaxed and friendly and safe it all is.
You think about your map of the haven.
And the paths you have not yet trodden.
And the winter dance.
You close your eyes.
And your home.
And the haven embrace you.
Guiding you softly.
Gently.
Sleep.
Sleep.
