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Black Fox Hill
There was once an old woman of meagre means who
travelled the long road to market every week to trade her herbs for meat and
bread. When Winter began to cast his shadow across her path she worried if her
supply of sweet dried leaves would last the season to keep her fed. The sky was
heavy and grey as she traded her last bundles of skullcap and meadowsweet for a
cut of lamb and a small soft loaf.
She took a short cut home over the hill as the
wind and rain punished all around. As
she was pulling her cloak around her she noticed a black dog at her side. She
realised the creature was a fox but its fur was the colour of night and
glistened with stars of rain. It was thin and weak and could hardly stand
against the growing storm. Their eyes met and she recognised its desperate
plight and need. Without hesitation she reached into her basket and gave the
poor starved creature her cut of lamb and soft white bread. She watched the fox
as it disappeared into the trees with her weeks nourishment and chastised
herself for being a such a foolish old woman to put a fox before herself. She
sighed and smiled and shook her head.
The blend of quickening twilight and blinding
rain threw the woman off her course and she was surprised to find herself on
the wrong side of the hill. Night was falling with alarming speed and she was
eager now to be home in her cottage stoking the fire. She was cold, wet and
hungry and had enough provisions for a day or two..but after that she would
have to dig again into her dwindling harvest to pay for more food.
She found herself on a path beneath a looming
cliff and giant boulders and saw a light flickering amidst the rock. She did
not know of any dwelling here but on investigation found the light source to be
a small window in a squat building. The building was of stone like the cliff
face and seemed to have grown from the very rock itself, it was so neatly
wedged into place.
A young woman appeared at the lit window and
beckoned her in. There was something familiar about her amber eyes and her hair
that shimmered like the dark river. The young woman wafted serenely to the
fireplace and gestured the older to sit and dry herself.
Without a word she handed the old woman a
steaming mug of tea. It was highly fragrant and instinctively the visitor
closed her eyes and took a sip. The metallic taste took her by surprise and
when she opened her eyes the house had gone…the young woman had gone.. and her
mouth was full of coins. The black fox sat beside her. The vixen seemed to be
fully restored to a gleaming health .
The rain had stopped. The old woman spat out the coins until she had
filled her basket with the shining silver and her laughter had filled the night
with gold.
R.H.Revelle
The Gatekeeper
--The Gatekeepers --
There was once a Wizard
who lived in a tower on a hill. He was only a young man but his face was lined
with worry beyond his years. At the top of the tower was a room where the moon
slept when she wasn’t riding the sky. She trusted the Wizard to guard her while
she rested but as soon as she had dimmed the Groblins and Boglins of the land
would try to steal her away. The wee folk wanted her to shine in the night of
their own world. She could create a circle of time to allow them to count days
like mortal folk. The passing of time is the only thing a fairy cannot own and
so naturally, that is the only thing they desire.
It was the wizard’s job to
keep the moon safe from their golden nets. But it was a great responsibility to
be in charge of such a beautiful treasure and although he used his most
brilliant and sparkling magic he knew there would come a day when the wee folk
would cut through his spells and capture her when he wasn’t looking. Every
night he had to find a new spell, one better than the last, because by the time
the next day came the wee folk would have learnt how to break it.
One night the poor wizard
was feeling out of sorts and try though he might he just couldn’t think of any
new magic to outwit the fairies. He searched his library and all his scrolls
but no inspiration came. He’d used the last of his staring stones and sticky stair
charms. He’d no more blinding blue fire and green screaming mist and he was all
out of prickly pin rain, trembling trees and thorny door dragons.
At last he went out into
the night and looked sadly up at the full moon. ‘My Lady,’ he said, ’I am bereft. Alas I
cannot house you here when the dawn comes. I have no more new magic and I
cannot guard you by myself against the wee folk.’
The moon sighed and smiled and brushed his sad face with her silvery
touch. ‘Then I
shall send for the Gatekeepers to aid you.’ She whispered.
The birds came, one by
one. Deep and black as the old forest itself, with obsidian eyes that glittered
with an ancient understanding.
By dawn the trees and skies around the Wizards tower were filled with
the dark cries and wings of ravens. They watched the hill and the surrounding
land while the moon slept peacefully in her room… for the wee folk, though
cunning and clever, dare not mess with ravens. The wizard slept soundly in his
bed and the creases of worry fell from his young face. And still to this day,
the ravens guard the tower and roost with one black eye ever open.
R.H.Revelle
