Story) The Naming Well... The Quest for a real Name...

This is the full story... of the picture-book short story which I wrote recently . . .

The Naming Well  

The Story of the Quest for a real Name    

                                      

THERE WERE NO PEOPLE in Wildemeade. So, it was quite surprising, to notice a small child making her way through the countryside, along a pearl-white path. She was a happy and free-spirited child; full of joy. She had red-brown hair, and light grey-green eyes, full of sparkle, but she had no name. Why this was so, she had come to find out. For in Wildemeade these things could be discovered and this she knew; although I cannot tell you how.
    

   But I must go back and begin at the beginning; and tell you that Wildemeade was very much a part of Everland. It was out west of the secret place, on the far side of the Rayverley. The wide, River Rayverley was the border between the secret place and Wildemeade. (I think I will have to draw you, a map.)    

   It was a sunny day in Wildemeade. The picture-book clouds were making their way across the sky. Their fleeting shadow-shapes were passing over the countryside far below. The story-telling paths and rivers were winding through the hills; their secrets and dreams, wide and lively. The rabbits and field mice, moles and voles, squirrels and woodpeckers were all gladly going about their business in the most ordinary of ways . . . But, the whole Land of Wildemeade, and everything in it, was waiting . . . waiting to be discovered. So now it opened its arms and heart to this little child who had found her way into it; searching for what was hers; or for what she seemed to have lost. Or, maybe, had never had? She really didn’t know. It was a mystery. As she wandered along the pearl-white paths she could be seen asking questions of all that was around her.    

   She came to the edge of a large meadow. She saw the Flowers. She bent down to them. ‘Do you know my name?’ she asked; and she listened.   

  ‘Is it Rose, or Alchemilla; Anemone, or Marigold?’ they answered. ‘Is it Dianella, or Daisy; Clover, or Columbine?’   

   ‘No,’ she replied. ‘They are not my name.’   

  ‘But you are like a Flower!’ they said, ‘You are like us! Delicate in heart! ...We beautify all places, though no one stops to look at us, closely. But, see! We are always admired! For we look up at the Sun and he sees us. He shines on each one of us and knows us. It is he who enjoys our fragrance. We are his pleasure. And you, too!’ said the Flowers.   

  ‘I, too, am known in heart, like a delicate fragrance?’ she wondered. She walked on.    

   The day was wonderfully bright and warm. Still, she listened to the sounds in this new land, all around her, to hear what she would hear; for that it was full of wonders, she was now quite sure. The warm breeze grew stronger. The rising wind whorls in the meadows were carrying the sweet piping songs of the skylarks, spiraling upwards, ascending with joy. The bitter-sweet sound touched and entered her heart; and it was as though she flew with them, lifted from all her earthly cares.  

   Soon she came to the beginning of a small wood, and she stopped. She saw the Trees. She looked up at them. ‘Do you know my name?’ she asked; and she listened.   

  ‘Is it Aspen, or Juniper; Acacia, or Willow?’ they answered. ‘Is it Hazel, or Laurel; Linden, or Rowan?’   

  ‘No,’ she replied. ‘They are not my name.’ 

  ‘But you are like a Tree!’ they said, ‘You are like us! Strong in spirit! ...We hold out our branches like hands to the World; accepting all we are given: rejecting nothing. So nothing ever worries us and we grow tall and strong. And you, too!’ said the Trees.   

   ‘I, too, am strong in spirit, like a living Tree?’ she wondered. She walked on. 

   She made her way through the sunlight-dappled woods. Sunshine was pouring through the upper branches; which were all busily lacing themselves together into a delicate sheltering canopy above her. She listened attentively to the living creatures which made their home there; watching the shadowy butterflies, dance their way through the trees, and the singing birds, flying from branch to branch as though they were following her. And she thought on all the wonderful things which she had heard and seen; growing in wisdom and understanding as she did so. 

   Presently she left the woods, which had become steeper and steeper, and came to the top of a low green hill. She saw the Clouds. She looked up and up at them and pondered. ‘Do you know my name?’ she asked; after watching them for awhile, and she listened.   

  ‘Is it Cirrus, or Nimbus; Altostratus, or Cloud?’ they answered. ‘Is it Ribbon-Rain, or Cotton-Breeze; Airy-Swirl, or Billow?’   

  ‘No,’ she replied; and she laughed. ‘They are not my name!’   

  ‘But you are like a Cloud!’ they said. ‘You are like us! Full of mystery!  ...We are blown and shaped by the Wind and no one knows what shape we will be tomorrow. Or where we come from or where we are going. We are new every day. And you, too!’ said the Clouds.   

   ‘I, too, am full of mystery, like a beautiful Cloud?’ she wondered. She walked on; tirelessly following the little white path as it continued to meander through the hills.   

   The day was drawing to a close; tiny swifts and swallows, the daintiest of all winged creatures darted by. The sun had set and the sky just above was a pale sea-glass green; and the first star - the evening star - had appeared. Higher up, the evening blue of the sky was deepening to royal blue and the stars began to come out. Slowly they started to shine, and so, softly as the sky began to darken. Then - very faint - fainter than the sound of a falling feather - their singing could be heard! No other song of the night was so beautiful! For those who had ears to hear it, it brought the most exquisite joy - joy as of a tiny opening in a curtain of love, and a heavenly stream of happiness flowing through it from another, brighter World. As she wandered on she heard it; and it gave her courage and the strength to continue her quest through all the lonely land of Wildemeade . . . searching for her name.

   After awhile she came to the top of the highest hill. It was now very dark. She saw the Stars. She looked up and up at them, and quickly dared to question them. ‘Do you know my name?’ she asked; and she listened, carefully.   

  ‘Is it Antares, or Electra; Maia, or Zaniah?’ they answered. ‘Is it Talitha, or Gemini; Aquila, or Lyra?’   

   ‘No, ‘she replied. ‘They are not my name.’   

   ‘But you are like a Star!’ they said, ‘You are like us! Brightly shining!  ...We are bigger than the Earth, and yet we seem as small as a dot. We are brighter than the Sun, and yet we seem only a dim pinpoint of light. No one sees anything but the tiniest part of us. And you, too!’ said the Stars.   

  ‘I, too, am brightly shining, like a hiding Star?’ she wondered. She walked on.    

   Slowly, she made her way down the steep hills. As she did so the moon came out, full and round and golden; the stars faded a little and it became so light that it was almost like day. She came to a little brook and sat down beside it. She saw the moonlight glittering on the waters flowing between the smooth round stones of the shallow stream; and it seemed to her as if it were made of silver. She dipped in her hand and drank, then sat back and pondered. They all knew their own names, she thought; but not hers. No one knew her name; nor could they know it, she realized. Only she herself could know it, for it was, herself, who she really was: the child she was inside; which, of course, no one can see, not even, her; except by her heart of hearts, somewhere deep inside her. She walked on.  

   At last she came to a dark, tall forest. In the forest was a Well, deep and full. A low stone wall was around it, covered with moss. It was very old; and, although she did not know it, it was the 'twin' of the Well of Delight, far away in the Candlewoods. She knelt beside it and looked down into its silvery waters. She whispered softly to the Well of Wildemeade: ‘Do you know my name?’   

     ‘Yes,’ said the Well, ‘I know your name. I see what no eye sees. I hear what no ear hears. I understand the secret things of all who gaze into my depths: for I know what is within the heart of all who love.’ 

   And it was so, that as the Naming Well spoke to her, her own name, she was filled with joy! For she was known: and loved! And now she knew it! ‘Of course,’ said the Well, to her, gently, ‘this is your secret name; your new name, which only you can know and no one else. But I will give you another name, by which you will be known in the World beyond Everland. And always, remember,’ he added, ‘the Flowers and the Trees, the Clouds and the Stars, they all answered you, wisely, Cariarna; because they knew you, too, my child.’ 

   All at once, a shining white pearl appeared on the wall of the Well beside her. She picked it up and held it to her. Cariarna, named well, was pleased and happy. ...And soon she fell asleep in the Land of Love and Beautiful Dreams, holding her secret name written in the beautiful white pearl in her hand.
 

                                                         *

‘And I will give him a white stone, and in the stone a new name written, which no man knoweth saving he that receiveth it.’   - Revelation 2: 17

                    

                                                                   *

                         

“I am sitting by the house in the shade, it is a hot sun-kissed day and I have been staring out on the many plants and flowers about me... and thinking that each of us is like a flower, not only having beauty, but more so in the way that no-one really stops to look at us closely, or take in, our bit of fragrance, and not many are cut and put on show in a vase. We get a fleeting glance, but what is wonderful is that like a flower we can smile back up at God for our short life and know that we are his pleasure and that he sees all detail, even a tiny mountain flower on a barren cliff that no eye would ever view he sees... a flower does no work to be beautiful, it just ‘is.’”      - Raymond John Scott 

                                      *