THE STORYSPINNERS OF EVERLAND
*
A Series of 8 Mystical Picture-Book
Stories
(For Ages: 7 - 77 yrs)
(Text Only)
*
Book
One....... The Moon-Spinners
Book
Two...... The Treasure of the Dark
Book
Three.... Marcos and the Dove
Book
Four..... The Butterfly Story
Book
Five...... Amryn and the Nightingale
Book
Six........ Miranda and the Sparrow
Book
Seven... The Naming Well
Book
Eight.... The Door in the Tree
*
Book
1. THE STORYSPINNERS OF
EVERLAND
THE LEGEND OF THE MOON-SPINNERS
Mary
Stewart’s Greek Legend
from her Novel
THE MOONSPINNERS
The Legend retold for
Children
*
(A Children’s
Picture Book; (Text Only))
*
_______________________________________________
SOURCE: THE
MOON-SPINNERS; By
Mary Stewart
A classic suspense novel for adults; first
published, 1962.
Sourced from: TRIPLE JEOPARDY: An Omnibus Comprising:
My
Brother Michael; The Moon-Spinners; This Rough Magic;
Hodder and Stoughton; London; 1978; (latest edition: 2017)
________________________________________________
Judith Deverell
THE STORYSPINNERS OF
EVERLAND
THE
LEGEND OF THE MOON-SPINNERS
*
Everland! Everland!
The Land that Ever was!
The Land of every heart’s delight
Wherein we ever are!
FAR
AWAY in Everland, the Land of Beautiful Dreams, they tell a story to their
children in the evening, by the fireside, so that when they go to bed at night,
they might find love and joy and peace, and happiness in the dark, and be
comforted.
All quiet in the gloaming, seeing by the
firelight, the silver-bright storyspinners gather their young ones close beside
them. They bring out their ancient silver-bound storybook, all glimmering in
the soft, warm light, and turn the page and tell them this tale . . .
*
THE STORYSPINNERS OF EVERLAND
THE LEGEND OF THE
MOON-SPINNERS
DEEP
IN THE HEART of the country of Everland, where the swans fly high over the
patchwork of fields, to find their rest and sleep in far distant green valleys,
a wondrous thing is happening through the night. Three girls are walking along
the hilltops; or, bending down at the edge of the sea helping the World in the
night.
Early every evening, the three girls are
rising from their watery homes in the three little streams in the furthermost
valley. They are the moon-spinners. Their names are, Love, Joy, and Peace; and
each has their part in making the night, safe.
In the gathering dusk, as day begins its
journey into night they are leaving their bright streams to go walking. Their
watery feet have made a path through the long, flower-studded grass.
The girls are walking to the hills. As they
look up their steps are as light as air. There is a little fluttering breath
and upon the hand of Love, alights the sleepy sparrow. Upon, Joy, the sweet
nightingale comes to bless: she sings in the dark! Upon Peace, the grey ringdove,
she is whispering, rest. The feathered creatures of the air are come to help
their work.
For as the three maidens make their way
along the green hilltops they are spinning. Love, Joy, and Peace each hold a spindle
and onto these spindles they are spinning their wool. The birds are helping
them catch the light. The mist-white moonbeams
reaching down to the earth are their wool. This is why they do not carry a
distaff; for their bundle of wool is the moon, the ball of light in the night.
The moon-spinners are spinning the moon down
out of the sky. The moon is getting less and less. The ball of light waning as
it is wound upon the spindles of Love, Joy, and Peace. This is the good work
that the moon-spinners do for the World. Every
night it is their job to see that the World gets its needed hours of darkness .
. . less and less light
.
. . to help
the hunted . . . to keep the mouse, safe from the owl.
Not until the moon is all gone have the
moon-spinners finished their spinning, for awhile. The moon must be spun away,
now and then, you know, so that the World might have darkness, and rest.
On the darkest night of all, the
moon-spinners carry their spindles down to the sea to wash their wool. The wool
is sliding from their spindles into the sea; unravelling as the moon path in
long threads of silver-shine rippling across the water. With the first strands
of the newly washed wool, there is the New Moon! Rising from the sea! The
thinnest crescent of light. The faintest light in the dark.
The moon-spinners are bending down at the
edge of the sea; to make sure that the moon gets more and more of the washed
wool. The moon is getting bigger and bigger. Now the moon-spinners are giving
to the World its needed hours of moonlight in the night . . . more and more
light . . . to help the hunter . . . to help the owl, to catch her prey.
When all the wool is washed and wound again
into a round ball in the sky the Moon is full. Now the moon-spinners can begin
their spinning, once more . . . taking the light away . . . little by little .
. . to make the night safe for all hunted things.
Every night, since Time began, the
moon-spinners are there walking the green valleys and hills of Everland . . . making
their way through the long flower-studded grass with their watery feet and
their little lifting birds . . . making the night safe spinning the light away.
*
Book
2.
THE
STORYSPINNERS OF EVERLAND
The
Treasure of the Dark
*
(A Children’s Picture Book; (Text
Only))
Judith
Deverell
THE
STORYSPINNERS OF EVERLAND
The
Treasure of the Dark
*
Bright Everland! Clear Everland!
The crystal jewels inside
your stone
Deep in this heart are
mine to own
Your treasure of the dark
AWAY
IN THE CANDLEWOODS in the country of Everland, the Land of Hope and Beautiful
Dreams, lived the ever-bright, and ever-living, storyspinners: . . . tellers of
tales . . . spinners of yarns. The storyspinners’ yarns were filled with all
the wisdom and wealth of Everland. For that Everland was full of wonders, and
for all to discover, was a certain fact. It was true.
On some warm nights, the silver-bright
storyspinners would light their lanterns, take the children up onto the roof of
their little house, where there was a kind of balcony, and sit outside on
silver-spun cushions and spin their story-yarns for hours and hours.
One starry night, after the storyspinners had
told the legend of the three young maidens who spun the moon away, they lifted their voices,
once more, and told another of their silver-shine stories, which were hid inside
it. For inside all the outside things were tiny jewels of light. And this is
the silver-bright story-yarn they spun this night . . . the treasure of the dark
. . .
THE STORYSPINNERS OF
EVERLAND
The Treasure of the Dark
BEYOND
THE MOUNTAINS OF SENSENNAE
in
the heart of Everland, is a secret place, further in and further on, where the
streams and valleys, and hills and caves can speak. Of course, they don’t speak
with words, but with love, for Everland is the Land of Love, as well as the
Land of Hope and Beautiful Dreams.
Here the streams in the valleys are babbling brooks. They murmur mysterious
things. Here the purple hills and caves are wuthering
wastes. They mutter marvellous mysteries. In fact, all of everything, which
was beyond the Mountains of Sensennae, could speak the language that has no
words.
On a lovely crispy night . . . the night
before the moon-spinners began to spin the moon away again . . . a curious
thing was happening. An unheard of thing. Up in the purple hills a tremor could
be felt. A quiver in the earth. A shiver in the hills. It was the beginning of
a twinkle~dew night, when you could hear the earth talking.
The strange quivering in
the ground became stronger and stronger. The shivering in the hills became like
the trembling of something...hurt. All the furred and feathery creatures of
Everland, stopped in their tracks, or flew down to the treetops, to learn what
it was. It had never been sensed or felt before. It could not be seen or heard.
It was something entirely new. They could feel it in their bones. They gathered together to listen wondering
what it could be, and what it meant. Then it happened.
The misty-crispy clouds
melted away and the Full Moon shone brightly. Now up in the purple hills, a
dark cave could be seen. Still the earth
was quivering and shivering . . . and more . . . and more.
Suddenly, there was a great . . . RUMBLE . .
. and out of the mouth of the cave came, a small, round, grey stone. It rolled
over the edge of the cave. It rolled . . . down . . . and down . . . and down.
It rolled down the purple
hills to the Lake of Light. There at the
edge of the moon path it came to rest. Still the ground was quivering. Still the
hills were shivering. The gentle creatures of Everland watched and listened
carefully. They were not afraid. They knew that everything that happened held a
story inside it.
And it was so, that the quaking of the earth
and the groaning of the hills, did one last quiver, one last shiver, and all at
once there was a loud . . . CRACK . . . !
The stone split open!
What a wonder was there, for every eye to
see! For inside the stone was a hollow space; and it was lined with a bed of
brilliant, shining, purple crystals! Amethysts! Thousands and thousands of
beautiful jewels! Shimmering and sparkling in the moonlight.
The Moon looked on. She saw the stone
broken. She saw its story. What it was and what it meant. All along her
silver-shining path on the Lake of Light, she whispered it, speaking in the
language that has no words.
Down among the linden trees beside the Lake
all the creatures of Everland, great and small, drew near to hear the Moon unravel
her secret. They knew that since the dawn of Time, the Moon had looked down
from the sky and had seen the Earth. So now, they listened, and with all their
heart, to what she would tell them.
‘The stone is the heart of the World;’
whispered the Moon; ‘the quivering of the earth and the shivering of the hills
are the troubles and fears of its heart.’ she told them, shining down her
milk-white beams along the Lake of Light. ‘When the World, groans, inside
itself, the dark cave of the earth rolls away its precious stone to come and comfort
it. When the World, cries out, the stone splits open, and the treasure hid
inside it, can be seen.’
‘Long years have now passed,’ continued the
Moon, ‘and the World’s sorrows have formed many precious, sparkling jewels. Before
the stone of the World broke open the jewels were unknown. They were hid in
darkness. No one had known they were
there. But now love has won! The World cried out and love burst through! And
its precious gems of light and life are shining . . . out . . . for all to see!’
‘Do you see now, the
treasure of the Dark?’ asked the Moon. ‘The Dark
is the place where it was growing. So, you need never fear it!’ She smiled,
‘All along the jewels of light were shining in the dark, but the darkness couldn’t
understand it, of course. Because it couldn’t see it! So, only when the World loves to the end, and its heart breaks
open, can its treasure inside, be seen, and understood. Out of darkness the
light shines!’
The
Moon shone lovingly down upon the Earth and with much compassion. ‘When you mourn,’
she said, ‘your heart swells and breaks open and you can see the beauty which
has been growing there, all along. The jewels have come from your being brave: from
being kind and loving when it is hard. Every sorrow becomes a jewel when your
heart is true.’
The Full Moon shone brighter than ever now!
Brighter than ever before! As she sang her sweet, silver-shine lullaby, her
message went rippling all over the Land of Ever and Ever. Everland! The Land of
Love and Beautiful Dreams; and her happy shining children closed their eyes and
went fast asleep.
*
(The Stone of the World was like a geode.)
*
Book 3.
THE STORYSPINNERS OF
EVERLAND
MARCOS
AND THE DOVE
Journey to the Secret Place
*
(A Children’s Picture
Book; (Text Only))
Judith Deverell
THE
STORYSPINNERS OF EVERLAND... MARCOS AND THE DOVE
Journey to the Secret Place
*
Beyond
the River! Beyond the hills!
Your
thoughts make flowers grow
To
find the place of teardrop seeds
Journey
to the secret place!
BEYOND
THE RIVER CHAEBAR in the country of Everland, the Land of Love and Beautiful
Dreams, the silver-bright storyspinners, would, on some chilly nights, build a fire
in the clearing in the Candlewoods, not far from their little house, and sit,
cuddled up warm with their young ones, and spin silver-lit story-yarns for
hours and hours.
When all was still and the fire burned low,
the storyspinners brought out their ancient silver-bound storybook, with its
hundreds of pages, and beautiful pictures, and told another of their moon-lit
story-yarns they so loved to spin . . .
Hid in the midst of the fair country of
Everland, the Land of all things pure, where all things were possible, there were
not only, streams and valleys, and hills and caves that spoke, there were
flowers and trees which could speak, also. This is the story of how they first
learned to do so, those lovely flowers of Everland, of whose wonders there were
more stories to be written than there is paper in the World to write them on.
THE STORYSPINNERS OF
EVERLAND... MARCOS AND THE DOVE
Journey to the Secret Place
*
A
SMALL BOY set off on a journey. He wandered from his home in the Candlewoods,
up through the sun-kissed meadows and up to the Purple Hills where the grass
thins and becomes all heathery and rocky.
He was not alone. The grey ringdove the
friend of the moon-spinners flew after him.
‘Where are you going, Marcos?’ she asked
him.
‘I have heard a sound,’ he answered, ‘and I
am going to find it and see what it is.’
‘Then I will come with you’ she whispered,
softly, ‘and share your journey.’
Following the sound no ear could hear Marcos and the dove soon reached the craggy tops
of the Purple Hills. They looked up to see the great, white, snowy peaks of the
Mountains of Sensennae. He must find the way through them to find what he was
looking for.
‘Where is the way through? Do you know?’ he
asked the dove.
‘Through?’ she answered, her heart swelling
with joy.
‘Yes. Through . . . ;’ said the boy, ’the way
through the Mountains to the secret place where all things can speak
the language that has no words. For I must find the sound I hear and learn what
it is. Perhaps, it is there?’
So the Dove flew up, high into the air to
search for the way through. With her loving-knowing eyes she soon saw what must
be the way. She flew back to the boy to lead him into a narrow place up in the
mountain tops.
It was like a tunnel. Starry-lit with tiny
glow worms all the way along it. Through this tunnel, a valley of shadow, dark
and narrow they made their way. After a long and fearsome time they came to the
end and saw where it had led them. Below was a bright grassy place with a very
large pool in the middle. One, single, tree with silver-gold leaves stood at
its edge.
Marcos gasped! Here was the sound. This was
where it was coming from. It was in the pool.
Treading softly, he went down the long
slope, to the pool of the still small voice,
and knelt beside it. It was like a mirror and he saw his face reflected
upon its silvery-bright surface. He met his tears.
‘What does it mean? What is it?’ cried the
boy. The Dove flew down to him.
‘This is the sound of the World,’ she said.
‘It is the sound of your own heart crying. It has led you here. The pool is
made of the tears of the World. They are speaking the sound you heard in the
language no ear can hear. The tears are the thoughts of your heart. All are
precious. All are counted and kept. They help the World.’
In a quick-bright flutter of her shining
wings the Dove flew up to the single, silver-gold tree. ‘They are like seeds...’ she added; whispering faintly.
‘. . .
Waiting to be sown . . . ,’ the echo he caught fainter still.
Though he did not know what it meant, Marcos
was listening with all his heart; and with his eyes, too. All at once, in the
long flowery grass, beside the pool, he spied a small glass bottle, carved with
a strange and intricate pattern clasped in a fine filigree of silver. It was
beautiful!
‘Dip this bottle into the pool and fill it,’
said the Dove, who was watching. For all along she knew what it was, and she
rejoiced. ‘Take it back with you to the Candlewoods. You must help the World. Each
droplet spilt from it will be a seed. When all the seeds are sown the World
will know how much it is loved.’ and she flew away.
The boy did not understand what the Dove had
told him. But he obeyed. He filled the little bottle; and sat back down again,
holding it in his hands. A great sigh came from deep within him. ‘How can I
help the World?’ he cried. ‘This is impossible!’ And he shook his head with a
great sadness for the World. Suddenly, from it hundreds and thousands of
sparkling seeds flew up! Caught by the breeze, they went floating along upon
the living Path of the Wind, until they fell to the earth, and sunk into the
ground.
The loving thoughts of his heart were seeds!
And because this was Everland, where all things can be, and all things were
possible, the seeds sprouted, at
once. They sprung up and grew into the most splendid flowers.
The flowers bore seed. The Wind carried
them, further. They drifted and danced . . . far away . . . all over the secret
place beyond the Mountains of Sensennae. More and more flowers of every kind
and colour grew up; tipping the balance, turning the tables, changing things,
everywhere! Solomon, in all his glory was not arrayed as one of these: the
first flowers of Everland, speaking wonders, which have no end.
Marcos looked on. He saw what happened to
the seeds. He understood. And he knew now what he would do. The boy smiled. He
picked up the small glass bottle and set off with the grey ringdove upon his
new journey, full of joy. When your heart is
pure wonders can happen.
Back through the dark narrow passage they
went, down the Mountains of Sensennae, down the Purple Hills, and along the
sun-kissed meadows to the Candlewoods, and on and beyond, to help the World
with his tears.
*
Book 4.
THE STORYSPINNERS OF EVERLAND
The Butterfly Story
. . . The Shadow & the Glory .
. .
*
(A Picture Book for Children &
Adults; (Text Only))
Judith
Deverell
A little child shall lead them.
*
Hand in hand with a little child
Homeward bound...
Spirit-led, completely…
Take me all and make or break me
Only, make me like a little child…
For in the middle of my muddle
I saw a little one beside me cuddle
All led by grace upon another sea
Waiting, patiently, for me… to see
*
THE
STORYSPINNERS OF EVERLAND
The Butterfly Story
. . .
The Shadow & the Glory . . .
*
Come, lie down in the grass
Dip your feet in the stream
Hear the shine of a butterfly
That from far is made near
TIME UPON TIME, age upon age, in the
fair country of Everland, the Land of Love and Beautiful Dreams, the
silver-bright storyspinners and their ancient book, slip silently through the
rolling waves of the years, quietly unravelling the simple mysteries hid in the
heart of all things. The signature of Love, weaving through everything he made,
writing his living wonders in everything there is that we might see and know
him. We have not to look too far to
see his handiwork sitting right beside us.
And it was so, that on this starry-black,
Night of Nights, when the moon-spinners were done with their spinning, and the
Moon was gone, the silver-bright storyspinners sat on the porch of their little
house, upon silver-spun cushions, spinning their story-yarns for hours and
hours. They turned one page. Then another and another; until they came to the
story of the most wonderful Butterfly that there ever, ever was; and with a
sigh, wondering if the World would remember what it had lost and forgotten.
THE STORYSPINNERS OF EVERLAND
The Butterfly Story
. . . The Shadow & the Glory . . .
A NEW BUTTERFLY had appeared in
Everland in the midst of the garden of children. It had never been seen before.
It was beautiful beyond description. Full of life and joy, and such, lifting
liberty, that it seemed it could take you with it, everywhere, and through,
anything. It was like no other butterfly. The sight of its lovely
opal-sparkling wings, shimmering in the early morning sunlight brought gasps of
delight to the children. They danced in the middle of the garden like little
butterflies themselves, newly escaped of their cocoon.
Tender hearts overflowed with boundless joy.
The butterfly alighted upon the shoulder of one of the smallest children
then flew onto his hand. Even from the first moment of its appearance, he had
loved it; nothing in him that wasn’t of it. The child remained perfectly still,
lying beneath the green willows among the fragrant flowers of the meadow his
feet dipped in the flowing stream.
Rewarded for his stillness, time melted away as he gazed and gazed upon
the beautiful butterfly, shining with life and light on his hand. It swept him
up and renewed his whole being and he followed the living butterfly
whithersoever it flew . . .
Oh, how all the children longed to share this wonderful new freedom that
the butterfly had brought them! Even a new way of living! A new way of seeing!
Then some of the older and wiser ones reasoned amongst themselves as to how
they should do this.
They came to the conclusion, that if they could just catch the butterfly
then they could pass it around to their friends, so that they might all share
in this wonderful new joy together.
Their idea seemed good to them, so they did it.
They caught the elusive airborne butterfly dancing and shimmering in the
warm morning sunlight. They pierced it with a pin. Then they stuck it on a
piece of paper. How eagerly they anticipated the delight their friends would
have when they saw it.
So the children laid out the pierced butterfly, decently and in order,
just as the entomology textbook had taught them. Then they carefully placed it
in a box. They were thrilled with it. Here was proof! Now at last all their
friends would be able to study it for themselves and find out all about it, and
learn of the glorious new life of the butterfly and come and join them in the garden.
They passed the box around expectantly.
So shadows come and the glory
fades.
While some saw nothing but a decaying, common garden, cabbage white, and
thought their friends had quite lost their senses: these lived on the outskirts
of the garden, others did see a beautiful butterfly and became fascinated with
its exquisite markings.
They spent much time, and many a happy hour examining it with magnifying
glasses, making careful notes of the detailed patterns on its wings, and then
comparing them with the textbook. They uncovered many amazing things about this
new butterfly. They found exciting evidences of life, encoded in its lovely
markings, which they were most earnest and diligent to teach to one another.
Those whose interests and passions seemed similar gathered themselves together
in separate groups in the garden.
Oh, the myriads of messages and fascinating things to learn! They took
great delight in these things. With them, they were fulfilled and content.
Although, there never seemed to be quite enough and their search for more was
endless. Never having: never finding: they hadn’t got it.
So shadows came and the glory faded.
Then
one of the smallest children, who lived in the centre of the garden, came and
looked at the dead butterfly in the box.
‘What have you done?’ he cried, as he held the lifeless thing in his
hand; and he threw it down to the ground and wept in brokenness of heart.
*
Things big and
little, near and far
Wake my aching heart
to hear
The piercing light
that fills the air
From in me here to
somewhere there
*
Book
5.
THE
STORYSPINNERS OF EVERLAND
AMRYN AND THE NIGHTINGALE
The
Magic Where You Are
*
(A Children’s Picture Book; (Text Only))
Judith Deverell
THE
STORYSPINNERS OF EVERLAND . . . . . AMRYN AND THE NIGHTINGALE
The Magic Where You Are
*
Within the desert! Within the heart!
The
Land that’s not too far --
If
the golden rose your life inside
The
magic where you are!
ON
THE OTHER SIDE of the River Chaebar, in Everland, the Land of Love and
Beautiful Dreams were the Candlewoods, where the silver-bright storyspinners
lived with their children in a little house nestled amongst the evergreen
candle trees. One moonless night, when the stars shone brightly, they took the
children on a walk to the Well of Delight. It was not far. Soon they were there,
sitting beside it under a star-spangled canopy of listening trees.
Ever-young,
and caring, the silver-bright storyspinners opened up their ancient
silver-bound storybook and from its pages, took up a Cup, and leaning over the
Well, dipped it in, and brought it out, full and overflowing with Delight!
This, they tipped out, every drop, for the Candlewood creatures to drink,
pouring it into a low, shallow basin in the rock beside the Well. Once they had
cared for the needs of the creatures the storyspinners turned the page, and
cuddled up warm with the children, spun their ever-bright story-yarns for hours
and hours.
And it was so, that on this ordinary evening,
when all was extraordinary, of course, the storyspinners of Everland spun this
yarn . . . the story of Amryn and the Nightingale . . .
THE STORYSPINNERS OF EVERLAND
. . . . . AMRYN AND THE NIGHTINGALE
The Magic Where You
Are
TIME WAS, WHEN the
World was young and angels walked the earth, that there was a drought in the Land
of Ever and Ever. Not so much a drought from a lack of rain, but a drought from
a lack of hearing. The World had forgotten how to listen. People forgot that
all things could ‘speak’ and tell them about the inside things of them, to help
them where it was most needed and to make them happy and they no longer
listened. So, a desert had appeared where once, were green meadows and flowing
streams. It came to be called, the Looking-Glass Desert; for it would shine
like a mirror under the hot sun. Much could be seen and heard in it; if, that
is, there were any left who could still hear . . .
Early one evening, a young boy could be
seen, sitting on a rock, looking out over the Desert. Wherever he looked,
everything was dry and empty. There were no watered places. No green living
things, anywhere. The boy looked out and out. And the more he looked, the more
he knew that what he saw all around him was just . . . empty space . . . in an empty place.
It was like a land waiting for something to happen; waiting something to fill
it. It was yearning. It was the Wuthering
Waste waiting for something to bring it life. It was thirsty.
As the setting sun sank below the horizon a
small brown bird flew by, near him. Amryn glanced up. He watched it circle
above him. The little bird was singing as she flew round and round him. Soon
she alighted upon the rock beside him and sang her sweetest song. As she sang,
the boy listened, and her melody melted his heart. It came trickling through,
like a stream running, and woke something in him. The little Night-Singer flew
up again. It seemed to him that she bid him to follow her. So he rose from the
rock and hurried after her. He followed her, a long way.
After awhile she flew too far ahead for him,
and she darted down, out of sight, behind a dry and dead-looking thorn bush.
Tired and despondent, the boy sat down. Why was he following her, anyway, he
wondered? He closed his eyes. Why had she wanted him to follow her, if she was
only going to leave him here, where the Land was dryer than ever?
All at once she was beside him again. She
flew on to his knee and sang to him, once more. This time, her song was so
sweet a light broke inside his heart, like a star shining. And at last he saw
what she had wanted him to see; that the Looking-Glass Desert was not just all
around him, but inside him, too, telling his own story, inside himself. Now he
could hear her talking to him in the language no ear can hear, nor tongue,
speak. ‘The desert shall rejoice and blossom as the rose;’ said the
Nightingale, joyfully; and she flew up into the air upon her bright wings of
hope. ‘In the wilderness... waters shall break out... and streams in the
desert;’ she sang, faintly, as she flew away.
The boy considered her words; and said: ‘Oh,
but if that should happen there would
have to be rain! And how can this be? For as everyone knows, there is no rain
anymore in the Looking-Glass Desert. So this thing is impossible!’ But as the
little Night-Bird flew up into the evening air, he heard her sing once more her
promise to the World. ‘The desert shall rejoice and blossom as the rose;’ she said. And her words, which were no words, fell softly to the earth . . .
like petals falling . . . and as they fell Amryn took them in . . . as
thoughts.
All at once, he got up and walked quickly to
where he had seen the Nightingale dip behind the thorn bush. There he spied a
hole in the ground. In the hole was a pattern made of many small pebbles. A
picture...? The gift of a mystery, here...? For that the little Night-Singer
had led him here, to see this thing, he was sure. Amryn stared at it for a long
time. But he did not understand what the Nightingale had wanted him to see.
Like all the Children of the Looking-Glass Desert, he, too, had forgotten how
to hear the speech of all things.
Next evening the boy could be seen again,
sitting on the look-out rock, gazing out across the Desert . . . thinking and
wishing . . . wishing and thinking.
And again the Nightingale came to visit him;
this time to see if he would understand and follow her, further. And he did; up the low winding hills, through
the crags, and on and up and up to the highest heights. Here there was a small
cleft in the rock and Amryn and the Nightingale slipped, silently through.
Once on the Other Side, the boy suddenly
stopped. Here he smelt a wonderful fragrance speaking upon the Wind. ‘Listen,
to the whisperwills!’ sang the little Night-Singer, darting on before him. And
Amryn knew the beautiful scent of the herbs of the earth whispering a mystery,
willing a wonder for him, drawing him onward through the Desert.
Soon he came to the cliff at the end of the
World. He lay down to look over the edge. There below, he spied a shining
wonder: a golden rose, living joyfully, happily growing out of the dry bare
rock, where no eye would ever see it; where no one would ever notice it, or
admire it.
‘What you were missing;’ sang the little
brown Nightingale. ‘. . . missing: missing!’ And all at once, Amryn remembered
the pattern in the earth that he had seen behind the thorn bush. Here it was!
Matched! Not an empty hole in the ground with a dry pebble picture. But a
full-thing in his heart with the LIVING LIFE it had been speaking of. In a
flash, the shine of the Rose was in him and he was full. It began to rain. And
in him, and all around him, the desert rejoiced, and blossomed as the rose.
‘Bloom where you are though no one will ever notice you;’ whispered the
Nightingale, as she flew round the rose; ‘...the Magic where you are . . .
where you are;’ sang the echo through
all the earth.
And the World remembered what it had lost
and forgotten and began to hear again. The drought was over. The World was
watered, inside, and out: in streams of water, living streams of joy! And the
Nightingale flew by him, and was gone: her work, complete.
*
Book
6.
THE STORYSPINNERS OF
EVERLAND
MIRANDA AND THE SPARROW
When the Trees Talk
*
(A
Children’s Picture Book; (Text Only))
Judith Deverell
THE STORYSPINNERS OF EVERLAND .
. . . MIRANDA AND THE SPARROW
When
the Trees Talk
*
Seed
of silver! Fruit of gold!
In
growing silent wisdom’s speech
Love’s
four seasons tell their tale
When the trees talk
RUNNING ALONG the edge of the Candlewoods in
the country of Everland was a silvery stream; a babbling brook. It was the
boundary between the woods and the sun-kissed meadows; for it spoke the
beginnings of new wonders at the endings of the old as you crossed from one
side of it to the other. Here was the bridge, of old moss-covered stone, and
beside it, a bright pavilion. This was where the storyspinners sat this night
with their children spinning story-yarns for hours and hours. For it was the
storyspinners dream to open up the things which woke and touched the heart, to
bring their children the happiness there that lasts and lasts; for, ever and
ever.
It was the first evening of the Full Moon,
and their ancient silver-bound storybook lay open at a most beautiful page.
Here was a picture of a Tree, set in a richly painted border of crimson and
gold, emerald, royal blue and amethyst. It was the silver-gold Tree of the pool
of the still small voice; a marvel that had been planted by the kind act of a
small girl; a wonder, which could be made, in no other way. On the following
pages was its silver-bright story of how the secret place came to be full, not
only with whispering flowers, but with talking Trees.
THE
STORYSPINNERS OF EVERLAND . . . . MIRANDA AND THE
SPARROW
When the Trees Talk
ONCE, JUST A LITTLE while ago, a small girl
picked a path to walk on in the Candlewoods, that
made all the difference between her having the ordinary things, which fade
away, and the extraordinary things, which didn’t. She chose a pathway which
would lead her out of the woods to what was beyond and there she found a
wonderful happiness. She gave what she couldn’t keep to gain what she couldn’t
lose. She had discovered the way of all wonders. For, though, only very young,
Miranda knew it was unselfish love that worked the beginnings of marvellous
things.
Far away, at the edge of a pool in a secret
place, suddenly, a single tree grew up from that first small seed of love, she
gave. It was beautiful. It was a mystery. We do not know the half of what love
can do.
After following the path for awhile, the
small girl came at last to the bridge of the babbling brook. Nearby, she sat
down, and pondered, her feet swishing in the stream. ‘What shall I do, now?’
she said, to herself, quietly. She had a decision to make, and although she was
too young, she wanted to be sure she made the right one. Miranda looked at the
stream. She saw it running . . . on and on . . . without stopping . . .
endlessly giving and giving . . . and so . . . living and living? Never
stopping never growing dull and stagnant? And she wondered.
All at once there was a flash of brown wings
and a small bird flew down to her. He flew onto a dry stone near the middle of
the stream. ‘Listen to the brook!’ he sang, ‘Hear its babble! Hear what it says!’
Miranda listened.
‘Do what is in your heart to do . . . and
live, live, live!’ she heard, as the
running water swept by; and she gasped with delight. The brook had answered
her!
Miranda turned to the little brown bird, who
was watching her. ‘Then will you come with me, and help me?’ she said.
‘That is what I am here to do!’ said the
Sparrow, as he shook his wings; which made them shine with love. Together they
crossed the bridge and journeyed on and on upon the little girl’s quest.
After a time, they reached the secret place
beyond the Mountains of Sensennae and came to the pool of the still small
voice; the pool of tears. There Miranda saw a lovely tree, brightly shining;
all silver-gold. She went and stood beside it; and looked at it more closely.
Its leaves quivered and sparkled in the dancing Wind and there were small shining
fruits all over it. And, most curious of all, upon its middle branches, on
either side of its trunk, it bore a little silver nutmeg and a golden pear. ‘This
is what in your heart you planted. Lovingkindness, given, is living! And faith, grown, is a living tree!’ sang the Sparrow and he flew up into the
branches and plucked the silver nutmeg and brought it to the girl. He returned
to the tree and picked the little golden pear; and gave that to her, also.
While Miranda marvelled at the two trinkets
in her hand, the Sparrow flew down to the edge of the pool and pulled up a
single strand of grass. In his beak it became a golden thread. This he gave
this to Miranda. She laughed and strung her treasures on the golden ribbon. It
was a necklace, which she tied round her neck. Happily she reached up to pick
the shining fruit. For the tree, willing gave up its all for her.
The fruits were small and round; and grew
like cherries. But, inside, instead of cherrystones, there were sweet and
delicious nuts. ‘How can I carry so many?’ Miranda wondered. But before she
knew it the Sparrow had helped her. He was beside her now with a small basket
made of thin and supple reeds, all deftly woven together; as marvellous as the
nests he wove each spring.
‘Scatter the fruits of the tree of life,
everywhere;’ said the glowing Sparrow, ‘for everywhere they are sown, talking trees
will grow! And when the trees talk . . . then you will know wisdom’s silent
speech . . . for love’s four seasons will tell their tale!’ and the Sparrow
flew on and away, and Miranda followed, sprinkling the little nut-fruits over
the ground as she went.
Soon they came to a steep hill. It was too
hard for the small girl to climb. But Miranda began to climb the steep grassy
hillside with its rocky little outcrops, scattering the fruits as she went.
Suddenly, she lost her footing and tumbled down the hill. She fell a long way;
but she was not hurt. She was wearing the silver-gold necklace: love and faith
. . . the gift of the little nut tree . . . the silver nutmeg and the golden
pear. Miranda had thought that she ought to be able to do everything well, and
do it correctly. But love never asks us to do what we feel we can’t. The loving
intentions of her heart were sufficient. The kindly hovering Sparrow picked up
the fallen basket and scattered the nut-fruits for her.
Overnight they entered the ground and grew;
even as the flower seeds once had. In the morning, talking Trees were all over
the secret place! They grew and grew! Many of the dancing tear-sown flowers and
whisperwills were grateful for their shade. Many of the creatures, furred and
feathered were glad for their fruit.
Season by season... spring, summer, autumn, winter... the trees
spoke to Miranda: Of her new beginnings... of the flowering of her life... the
appearing of her fruits of love. Even the loosing of her hold on what she
knew... falling from the pages of her own book of life... and her winter branches
all bare of visible life, even here. These were the talking trees, who knew
everything, but who said nothing, for they were too wise. In growing silent,
wisdom’s speech: the language of the heart, which all who love can clearly hear
and speak.
‘What can you give that you cannot keep, to
gain, what you cannot lose?’ asked the Wind, as he gazed upon all things, in
his strong blowing all over the land of the secret place.
‘Love!’ answered the Sparrow. ‘It’s only in giving it away that it’s
real. Only when it is real, can it return its reward: ...happiness! ...and more
and more, love!’ and as he spoke this,
his common little song, to which so few really listened, he flew on and
away, and Miranda followed, growing in wisdom and understanding, day after day.
The Wind danced over the water in the pool
of tears, and danced over the sea in the shining moon-path, and cried, ‘Even if
all the feathered creatures of the air ...the Ringdove, the Nightingale, and
the Sparrow cannot catch me, I will catch them in my arms and turn their songs
into speech.’
And
it was so, that through Miranda and Marcos and Amryn, the little friends of the
Wind, the World learned to listen, and to the sound in all things. It heard the
things which would set it free and forever and ever.
*
Book 7.
THE STORYSPINNERS OF EVERLAND
The
Naming Well
The Story of the Quest for
a real Name
*
(A
Children’s Picture Book; (Text Only))
Judith Deverell
THE STORYSPINNERS OF EVERLAND
The Naming Well
SOMETIMES
MIRACLES happen; even just tiny ones and they change things a bit or turn them
‘upside down.’ Sometimes finding things can lead to Wonders; which is what
happened to the storyspinners of Everland, in the strange way they found their
mysterious, ancient, silver-bound storybook. For the storyspinners did not
write this book, themselves it had been given to them, and in a most curious
way . . .
Long ago, after a night of howling storm, the
storyspinners woke before the dawn and went out into the Candlewoods to see
what they should see; whether or not the storm had brought any damage to the
woods.
They soon came upon a giant candle tree that
had fallen. It looked as though it had been struck by lightning, for the tree
was split in two. In the centre of the opened tree they found a large,
beautiful, silver box. They lifted it out. But they could not open it. It was
locked. The storyspinners took the silver box home with them and gave it pride
of place inside their little house in the Candlewoods. But where was the key?
One day, sometime later, in the winter, when
they were cleaning out their fireplace they spied something among the ashes. A
silver key! It must have been in the timber of the great fallen tree, which
they had cut up for firewood. All at once, they remembered the silver box. They
tried the key. It fitted! It turned in the lock. Slowly they opened the
beautiful box, raising the lid, and found inside the huge, ancient,
silver-bound storybook; with its hundreds of stories and its marvellous
pictures.
We know that the storyspinners came to
treasure this book. Reading it every night to all the young ones around them;
perhaps, some of its strange little stories could change the way of things, or
turn them ‘upside down.’ They understood that this book was to be kept safe by
them and passed down through the generations, for all time. To be kept for the
thousands of gentle people in the Earth who still loved beauty and truth;
which, when tied together worked healing love, rising joy, and ever-living
peace . . .
The Naming Well was
just one of the many silver-bright stories in this most mysterious book. It was
the story of the quest for a real name . . .
*
THE STORYSPINNERS OF
EVERLAND
The Naming Well
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 will make for the endpapers of this book,
perhaps.)
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, spiralling 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.
Presently 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.
Slowly she made her way through the
light-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. Intrigued she pondered all the things she had heard and seen; growing in
wisdom and understanding as she did so.
Presently she left the woods and came to the
top of a low green hill. She saw the Clouds. She looked up and up at them. ‘Do
you know my name?’ she asked; 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 ancient 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-- her secret name written in the beautiful
white pearl in her hand.
*
Book 8
...The Door in the Tree...
IT WAS ALMOST ALWAYS SUMMER in Summerlea -- a
warm, wild, seaside place on the shores of Wildemeade in Everland -- for when
Worlds are young, there are of course always days upon days of blue skies and
sunshine, even in spring, and the most tantalizing sea breezes blowing, all
hinting of secret things waiting to be discovered.
It was early morning; and on the wide, red,
river road, a young boy was on his way home to his father’s small cottage. His
father lived on Summerlea’s Ocean shore, and he was walking alongside the
estuary of the River Summer, which would soon meet the great open Ocean, from
where he would make his way south, along the wild white beach, home.
But sometimes things do not turn out as we
expect them. And, just then, as a bird of light darted across in front of him,
Firlan came to the high stone wall of the Garden of Dawn, and stopped. He
always passed it on his way home. No one lived there; and he knew the door was
always kept locked; but, this time, he felt he would explore it. So, he turned
off the road, and walked along the little track outside the wall, until he came
to the old green door.
It was not locked! It opened easily.
Surprised and happy he walked through and found himself in an old orchard.
Apple trees were there, pale with new green
leaves, and white with snowy mists of sweet spring blossom. The trees looked
ancient and overgrown; dreaming, in their own way, he thought, all longing to
share their secrets; for these were forgotten trees, in a long forgotten
garden. Before he had gone no more than about three steps inside the orchard,
he looked down. There, at his feet, on the mossy stone path was a round, flat,
silver thing. He picked it up and cleaned it on his shirtsleeve.
He stared at it. On one side of it was a
picture of three angels; each one surrounded by a circle of leaves. On the other
side were again, three circles, but with writing inside each one: ‘Child, Only believe.’ ...and... ‘Be kind to be happy.’ ...and... ‘Be brave
to be free.’ He saw the thing had a small loop and a link at the top; and
all around the rim, on both sides was a mystery written; which although he
could not understand what it was, he knew it would be true. And he thought of a
cave in a cliff and an island of riches in a silver shining sea.
He was carefully returning it, putting it
back on the path where it had been, when he heard a voice say to him, quietly: ‘Don’t be afraid. You may keep the silver
medallion. It is yours.’
Firlan straightened up and waited a moment,
wondering if it was really, alright. Then he leaned down, picked up the
beautiful thing again and put it in his pocket. He looked around about him then
turned and taking the left-hand path walked on around the edge of the orchard,
just inside the wall.
Before long, he came to an alcove in wall: a
curved recess. Here there was a half-round, white marble seat inset within it,
and a white marble angel in the wall above it. He stared a moment, and sighed
and sat down. He breathed deeply. The drifting air was thick with the scent of
apple blossom. Tiny birds fluttered in and out of the tangled branches. Blue
and yellow butterflies skimmed by.
He took out the silver medallion and looked
at it again. ‘Child, Only believe.’ it said, in the first circle of words. Firlan
thought of his especial hope and dream. ‘Only believe...?’ Was it so simple?
The angel in the wall above heard his
thoughts, and said: ‘All who dream find
open doors. All who hope find wings. Take no thought for your life: Only
believe: and receive.’
The boy listened. Although he did not
understand, the words were beautiful to him, like a sweet song, a mystery, something
magic; as an arrow finding its mark and striking his heart they entered him and
forever after dwelt in his soul.
He got up and kept on walking along the
orchard wall, until he came to a crossing in the path. There Firlan turned and
took the wide avenue on his right which went through the apple trees. Soon he
came to a place, surrounded by a low stone wall, paved with flat stones with
tall weeds between them. In the centre was a fountain. A wide stone pool with a
white marble angel in its centre, holding a water jar, from which the water
poured and poured.
Firlan sat on the rim of the fountain,
listening, watching the splashing water. The sunlight made diamonds of the
stray droplets. A rainbow was shining through them. He read the words in the
second circle of the medallion: ‘Be kind to be happy.’ Firlan thought of the
angry fishermen who lived near his father’s cottage. ‘Just, be kind... and he
would be happy...?’ Was it so easy?
The angel in the fountain heard his
thoughts, and said: ‘Though the simple
things are hard, the hard are simple. Being happy find only kindness. Being
kind find your purpose and what matters.’
The boy listened. He did not understand; but
he felt, that here was something worth thinking about; even a thing, worth
winning. For he sensed in his heart that this was, wisdom; and what he had heard
his father call, treasure.
Firlan went on along the avenue of apple
trees beyond the fountain. He soon came to another cleared space; surrounded by
a low overgrown hedge of lavender. In the centre was a sundial. A third white
marble angel, holding the World upon his shoulder, and on top of the World, a
flat disc, which was the face of the sundial, with its gold lines, and strange
numbers, and golden gnomon: the raised arm upon which the sun shines the shadow
of time.
He stood a long while watching the line made
by the sun then gazing in the direction it was pointing to. He took out the
medallion and read the third circle of words: ‘Be brave to be free.’ He thought of his father and himself
and of their fears for their safety.
‘Just, be brave... to be free?’ Could he do it?
The angel in the sundial heard his thoughts,
and said: ‘To be free, be brave. Fear
only to remain fearful and fear nothing. Enter courage and find your mission,
and what it is that you shall do.’
Firlan listened. As he listened, he heard,
and began to understand; and inside him he was a soldier winning a war no one
could see. Suddenly, a spark of joy rushed right through him like lightning and
he felt as light as air. He smiled.
He stared again at the sundial in the face
of the angel, and in the direction Time was pointing to. ‘Isn’t there, here, a
way? The way I should go...?’ he wondered. Although, the orchard path from here
on went through a great tangle of briars and brambles, and would be hard to go
through, he would follow the path of the sun choosing not to be afraid and see
what he should see.
Scratched by thorns, stung by nettles,
Firlan reached, at last, an old ivy-covered door in the high wall on the far
side of the apple orchard. He pushed his way through and stood outside on
moorland. Beyond him he could see the open Ocean that he had known all his
life; but this bare windswept land before him, he had never seen before.
Remembering the direction of the sundial, he
kept going straight forward, until the sun’s line brought him to the edge of
the moor and to a long, steep slope down to the shore. Starting out down the
little track he found before him, suddenly, far below, he saw his father! He
was laying on the ground, lying as though injured; and clasping something large
in his arms. Firlan raced down the treacherous narrow path, as fast as he
dared, till he reached his poor father.
‘Father...!’ cried the boy, in despair, as
he knelt down beside him, ‘Father!’
Slowly, Andrayus opened his eyes, and said,
‘Don’t be afraid, my son. I will be alright now... now that you have come. But,
Firlan how is it that you are home so early? Have you found a new way? Oh, but
how good it is that you have...! Here, you must take this box, before they
return! Hurry! ...You will know what to
do! ...Take it!’
Andrayus loosed his hold on the beautiful
silver box that he had clutched so tightly to him; and painfully reached into
his shirt pocket and took out a small key and a rough silver chain. Exhausted, he closed his eyes, and said,
again, haltingly, ‘Take the box! ...And these things! ...Take them,
child...! ...Go! And God be with you.’
As Firlan took the things from him, he
quickly saw that his father was not badly injured; that he was only very tired
and had fallen. Perhaps, he could safely leave him and do as he asked? He knew
this would please him and he loved his father with his whole being. Suddenly, Firlan
remembered the Garden of Dawn and the words of the angels. All at once, light
and understanding came! And once more he was as a soldier, winning the war
which no one can see: the inner battle to overcome and to do what was right.
And it was so, that like a wish on a wing,
it was not a moment longer than it took him to put the necklace and key in his
own pocket, and clasp the silver box to him, than he was in another place,
plain lifted away.
All around him now were tall young trees,
like candles. A forest of candle-trees . . . the Candlewoods! He had heard of
this place in the stories his father had told him; these, he knew were in the
ancient book inside the silver box he carried. Firlan looked around him. All at
once he spied quite a different sort of tree. A tree with a door in it; and
from which a little river of water trickled.
‘Enter
courage and find your mission and what it is that you shall do.’ The words
of the angels! And it dawned in him, who he was, and his life’s purpose, and what
it was that he should do; even as, also, his father had said he would know.
Full of happiness from knowing he was now
truly helping his father, Firlan went and opened the door in the tree; and
bravely, entered.
Inside he found a spiral stairway; which
seemed to him to lead up to the clouds and to a far distant seashore. But at
the foot of the stairs, he laid the box down and opened it. From his pocket he
took out the silver disc and the strange silver chain his father had given him
and stared at them a moment in some puzzlement. It was as though they belonged
together. He threaded the chain through the matching link on the medallion and
put the completed treasure inside on top of the book. He closed and locked the
box and dropped the key.
A beautiful fragrance was in the air as
Firlan turned back to the open door behind him. He looked out to the view of
the woods that he could see framed by the doorway in the tree, and to the
little spring that came from the roots of the tree and flowed away in a trickling
stream. He could go home that way, the known way, through the woods and
meadows, hills and mountains, or, the unknown way and climb the staircase.
He shut the door in the tree and climbed the
stairs. His mission complete . . . the book saved . . . safely hid inside the
tree.
Far away, sitting outside a little cottage
door, a tired but happy boy sat with his father, leaning against him.
How he got there? His hand in his father’s
hand: Only believing. What eye has
not seen, nor ear heard, so much and more has God prepared for them that love
him.
. . . . .
Further and far away down the line of Time,
three silver-shining angels could be seen reading stories to a group of young
children in the Candlewoods, from an ancient silver-bound storybook, passing on
its hid treasures of wisdom and knowledge, and all things which would bring, to
all who ‘heard’ them, much happiness and joy, peace and love.
And it was so, that one, clear and starry
evening, sitting in their cosy cottage deep in the Candlewoods these three
silver-shining storyspinners of Everland took from an intricate silver box
their huge and endless silver-bound storybook. They turned its many thick
vellum pages to one of its simple stories they chose to read this night.
It was quite uncanny, but they seemed to
know the right story to read each night. And though these seemed simple on the
surface, they were all woven with dark strands like a diamond paned window with
stories inside stories.
And this night, at the end of the tale, one
of the older children got up and went over to the shelf where the book’s box
was kept, and she looked inside it. There tucked in a corner at the bottom she
saw a round, flat, black thing, tarnished, on an old blackened silver chain.
‘What’s this?’ she asked, as she took it out; ‘You haven’t shown us this
before!’ She went and found a rag, and began to polish it; for it looked
interesting.
After a minute or two, one of the
storyspinners sitting by the fire, looked up, slowly, and, staring at the
excited child, who was gazing intently at what she was polishing, quietly began
to speak, telling them all, a new story . . . the one inside the one before . .
.
‘Once, long ago, we lived in a far away
garden, the Garden of Dawn; where the tang of the ocean drifted in, in hazy
mists across the cliff tops and over its walls; and where the early morning air
was so bright, with the first rays of the sea-light, that world became young
again, and younger and younger, every dawn: light dawning within and more and
more. It was a Garden of Dreams, but from it we heard and saw all that went on,
along the coasts of Summerlea.
‘At that time there lived a foreign
fisherman and his small son in a tiny cottage on that wild shore. One day the
man sailed away to distant Wealthy Bay. He was gone a long time. When he
finally returned he was met by a rough mob of fishermen in the harbour village.
They wanted to see his catch of fish and what he had brought back from the
Wealthy Islands; for their boats were too small and frail to sail so far, and
they had heard many astonishing tales of the riches of those islands, which
they had never been able to get to, themselves.
‘The man showed them his plentiful catch and
a large silver box he had found there. The other fishermen believed it must
contain great treasure; and so they sought to take it from him. The man told
them that it did not contain any riches, which they would deem riches, and he
escaped and sailed quickly away to the little cove where he lived, further
along the coast. His boat was a fine one and faster than all other vessels. It
had been given him by his old father-in-law; who, mercifully, had not taken it
back.
‘For several days the man and his young son
were afraid of these fishermen, that they would come by stealth and steal the
marvellous silver box. For inside it were truly, riches, indeed; but not gold,
or silver, or jewels, as the fishermen had thought, but a book . . . a large,
ancient, silver-bound book, full of the most wonderful stories! The man read to
his son from this book many of its simple and wise stories. They both loved
what they ‘heard’ and ‘saw’ in these stories, which was true riches, to them.
But they did not know who had written them; or who had placed the book and the
key in the silver box. Nor who had left it unlocked in a small cave, in the
seashore cliff of one of the islands which the man had visited. All they knew,
in their hearts, was that the book must be preserved, and not come into the
hands of those who would despise and destroy it.
‘It became time for the boy to return to his
mother; and he left his father’s hut for his mother’s beautiful house on the
upper reaches of the estuary of the River Summer.
‘And, in due time, the young boy set off
once more, upon his return journey to his father’s meagre dwelling...‘
Suddenly all was quiet.
The voice had fallen silent. For now it
could be seen that the children had all suddenly perceived, what happened next.
Also, just at this moment, Elana had finished her polishing, and had thrown
down her rag, crying, ‘Look...! ...Look what’s on it! ...The three angels, and
the three writings! It’s the silver medallion in the story!’
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