Story) When the Trees Talk . . .

THE STORYSPINNERS OF EVERLAND 
Stories from Everland's Ancient Silver-Bound Storybook

When the Trees Talk

 Miranda and the Sparrow

                                                  

 ONCE, JUST A LITTLE while ago, a young 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 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. Loving-kindness, 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 cherry stones, 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... 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. 

   And 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 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... for, ever and ever.

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Story) Amryn and the Nightingale . . .

A further picture book story from my new series:
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;' sang 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;' he heard, 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 high 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, new life, and tiny green growing things appeared, and grew up everywhere; and 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!

           

                                                                  *

Story) The Moon-Maidens of Everland . . .

     

Another picture book story from my new series:
THE STORYSPINNERS . . .

The Moon-Maidens of Everland

DEEP IN THE HEART of the country of Everland, where the swans fly high over the Fields of Always, seeking their night's rest in its far distant valleys, a wondrous thing is happening. Three girls are walking along the hilltops; or, bending down at the edge of the sea, helping the World through the night. 

   Early, every evening, the three girls can be seen rising from their watery homes in the three little streams in the furthermost valley. They are the moon-maidens: the spinners of moonlight. 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; and as they look up to the starry evening sky their steps become 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. All 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-maidens 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 they 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 they 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 three girls 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! 

   Still, the moon-maidens are bending down at the edge of the sea, cleansing and giving out more and more of the washed wool. And the Moon is getting bigger and bigger. Now the girls 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-maidens 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 three maidens-of-the-moon 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.

                                

                                                            *

This story is a retelling of an ancient Greek Legend. The legend has been sourced from Mary Stewart's splendid romance/thriller novel: THE MOONSPINNERS and retold for children and for all the young at heart.

Story) Journey to the Secret Place . . .

Another picture-book story from my series:
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.  

                                                        *

See Below...  (12. March, 2018)...  my picture book story, titled:  The Naming Well
The Naming Well  is the 7th book in the series: THE STORYSPINNERS OF EVERLAND. 

These stories are so new that I am still in the process of editing them; so please, re-read, for you'll find further pieces enriching the whole.


                                    *

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 

                                      *                           

Story) The Naming Well . . . A fragment of the story . . .

 Reflections... on an inner thing of unsurpassed joy; a thing as easily destroyed as dew upon the grass or the sheen upon the petal of a flower, but here, I’ll set it down in writing, exposing the treasures of my inmost heart in simple allegory . . . 

 IT WAS MORNING in Everland ~ that eternal morning of a magical land that has no end of delights to it. In dream I was walking slowly through the upward valley wondering if I could be seen or known of anyone or anything. I was lonely.

   Soon I came to the very top of a low green hill. I saw the Clouds. I looked up and up at them. “Do you know my name?’”I asked.

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

   “No,” I replied; and 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?” I wondered; and I walked on to see what I should see.

                                                *

A short extract from my picture book:  “THE NAMING WELL”

Poetry: Vol. 3. ) Love Never Entered Deeper . . .

The last built of all beginnings was the twelfth

Which was amethyst of shining royal purple

And in there, in that final foundation was faith 

All utter and terrible, as an army with banners

And things not lawful to mention on the earth

Were there, full unknown to the minds of men

But hid in God, in him who is all light and love

Where nothing that wasn't given from the first

Can be found, where all is of and in him and 

Nothing that wasn't pure was ever there, at all

And there all hid she speaks of a ray a true one

For no shaft of piercing love ever entered her 

Deeper: no shaft of piercing light ever brighter

And never of the like ever heard in God, at all

No other love ever entered her deeper