Who’s Hallowed Bones Shine In The Moons Amber Glow?

Call me Tel’Gath. Which is more of a title really, if you must know. But whatever they have called me, or what I choose to call myself is private, as I have never had a name. But, you bags of flesh require labels, I know, so it will suffice. I am called many things though, just so you know.

Ahhhh…yes, the point. Would you be angry if I said there is no point? Cause, really, em, there is no point. Like, at all. Not one single point. At least to why I feel compelled now to share what I have seen. No point at all.

Nope, nada points, no purpose. Suppose one could say these tales are just, well, tales actually. Just so. They are in no particular order, although sometimes they have an order, em, of sorts. Like the beat of your own heart…1…2…3.

Others are vignettes, brief glimpses, into those who inhabit these hallowed streets I have come to love, in this place I dwell. Where ever “here” may be. Again, you’re the one with the label fetish, I don’t pay attention to those details.

This place. So if there is a particular point, perhaps it is just about a place. This divine place. This lovely little crossroads. I’m not sure if it is MORE special, but it is special to me.

Why I have chosen now to share, write of, imagine, make up? I have no idea. Complete and utter mystery; even to me (if you must know).

I know, I know, I’m suppose to know this stuff, but I don’t. Is it reality? Well, lets just say it’s MY reality.

To be honest? I don’t care really. Immaterial. I don’t sit around questioning the why’s and what for. Not my thing.

These tales are what they are.

See, we are all born, we live, and then we die. Even me. Though, um, like a spiral. So, yeah, I’m infinite. I bet though you sort of figured that out. I do try to be straightforward, well, once in a while.

Otherwise, all mumbo-jumbo-hoogey-moogey speak. Dang, I love the looks on your little faces when I channel this stuff at you. Like, whoa, what the? One of my favourite past-times, you know, making up complicated messages FROM THE BEYOND.

But so, you are infinite, you know? No, really. You are.

Course, what you choose to believe is all fine and dandy to me. Makes no diff. Merely a way of seeing, experiencing maybe, its all one and the same.

That’s something, I’ve always found your insistence on these, em, names, titles, divisions, beliefs, labels, that human desire to organize flux into anchor, rather amusing. Futile really. Yet, infinitely amusing. Love watching you fuss and froth over details, mere perspectives. Laughable, truly truly amusing. Has probably kept me sane, all these years, eons, whatever.

But I digress, which is my habit. Back to the non-point of these pointless tales.

So, stories generally have a beginning, a middle, and an end, right? But these tales don’t follow in the footsteps of complacency. The timeline is not so straightforward, not that simplistic. Yet, maybe sometimes they are. We’ll see.

Ok, so maybe these vignettes of those I see, what I witness within the confines and beyond The Village, is the point. That is all. How I see it, and them. As I witness their griefs, their triumphs, their discoveries, their secrets, maybe sometimes their very souls, I will occasionally share with you. To what point? Again, I don’t know. So get over wondering about a point, k?

There is no higher, em, OTHER, at play. No direction from the great big head in the sky (or the one below).

In time, and over time, if there is to be a point, the point is that there is no point. Like Seinfeld, ‘cept I am no Seinfeld. Moohaha

Yeah, a mystical spirit making pop culture references, how un-mystical. I don’t play by the rules

Anywho. Here’s another from those Tales Of The Village.



Who’s Hallowed Bones Shine In The Moons Amber Glow?

Spirits of White Light and Goodness, what do I need to know? And a hand flashes across the old oak dining table.

Through the window behind her, the moon hung low in the dark sky, filtered through the copse of trees behind the house.

The log cabin was set at the edge of town, had been Jodee’s home, of a sort, since her brothers death. It had been the place their Father escaped to, when he longed for his North Country home. Now it was her escape. Cramped into the small, open room, centre stage, sat her Mothers ancestral table. In the far corner lay a rough pallet on the floor. A small woodstove provided her with warmth, and an old oak Hoosier cabinet served as the only other furniture, cept the sink. Out the door, lay the old outhouse.

It was at that table she had watched her Mother, every full moon from the door of her bedroom, ask the same question; and tossing the ancient runes, awaited an answer.

It had been the same, month after month, year after year, on this ancient wood, realigning herself to this path that her daughter now saw taking shape. This group, this time, this month, that hour, was prophesied long ago. A prophesy so ancient, that the knowledge of who first said the words was lost. Jodee only knew that she was now obliged to play a role.

One tiny piece of the puzzle had been lost with her Mom’s sudden death, so many winters ago. Everything else she had locked up tight in her own soul, yet that one piece she must find for herself.

But they never said, those old rune bones. They never blawdy said!!!…letting her frustration get the better of her. Again.

{growl} And she grabs the neck of her beer and pours back a swig. As the candlelight flickers, she turns her head back to the bones, and out the corner of her eye, she sees something creeping by the tree line.

And when the time comes,
his bones will be thrown,
and to each will be honed
to its own.
It is that which will draw,
them forth to the caw…

Blah, blah, blah…the ancient words dancing in her head.

Thomas, get in here. I can see you.… turning her head towards the open screen door, and the silent summer night washes across her face. Arising, she walks barefoot to the door, swinging it open with a creaking.

Alas, not this night. No gatherings this night; she hoped.

This night was her night off, and like clockwork, he would venture forth from his cavorting in the woods. A naked wale escapes his whiskered lips, and out from the woods galloped his black and white feline self ; rubbing his furry bum on the doorframe, than entangling himself at her feet in a figure 8 … “damn it Thomas, just get in here!”

And so he saunters, across the time worn pine floors, poking his head in to his food dish, sniffing the contents. Moving on, giving the small wood stove a wide berth, inspection of the spartan accouterments complete, leaps up onto the table, curling himself in a shiny black & white abstract ball within the empty wicker basket placed in the centre.

Thinking himself a rather fit centrepiece, no doubt.

One eye opens, as Jodee returns to her chair, and reaching out a hand, she tickles him behind his silky ear.

Purring, Thomas resumes his slumber, and Jodee her ancient bones laid before her.

So each may be,
count One, Two, Three,
round the tree.
To be found,
around and around.
With my name,
you will know.

The Name, what’s your name…she quietly mutters to the shadows.

And she reaches out, taking the last swig of her beer. Rising, she closes the big oak door on the night, striping off her remaining cloths, she hangs her long, soft red robe, and descends to the pallet on the floor.

The night sounds drift in through the screened window above her head, and as she drifts off, she hears the soft cooing of an Owl off in the woods.

But do I want to know she mummers into her pillow, turning her head to the wall.

She hears a thump…and the pitter patter of little feet. Thomas curls his warm body into the curve of her legs, and she drifts off into the embrace of sleep.

More Tales Of The Village

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