Tuesday, December 13, 2011

The Sorceress

Once upon a time there was a woman who was not a woman but a sorceress.  Looking at her you could not tell her age.  She moved as nimbly as she had when she was fifteen, but with a calm that her fifteen-year-old self would have envied.

Cats followed her everywhere, nudging their soft heads against her legs, tails held aloft because they were happy to see her.  She was good at scratching them under the chin and behind the ears, and she did love cats so.

They trailed behind her as she left the dusty country path and onto one of the paved streets leading into a coastal Tuscan village.  She unlocked the door to a smallish, two-story house and walked in, dropping her bag of books onto a wooden chair by the door.  Some cats followed her in, but others preferred to bask in the sun on the doorstep.

Not that the sun didn't find its way into the sorceress' house.  The windows were open, because she didn't really care about the furniture fading.  Large French doors led from the living room to a patio, which had stairs winding straight down to the ocean.  Sorceresses have no need for televisions, and where one would go was a cabinet with shells, interesting rocks, bits of colored glass, and driftwood.  Facing this cabinet was a long, comfortable leather couch with a blanket neatly folded on one arm.  A cat was currently curled up there, and the sorceress stroked it as she passed by.

She liked to spend some time each day out on her patio, or, when the weather was cold, sitting at the windowseat looking out.  The view always took her breath away though she had seen it hundreds of times.

She opened the French doors - both at the same time, because it felt more majestic that way - and walked outside.  A four-foot parapet stopped her from tumbling down the cliffside; against this wall she leaned and looked out at the ocean.

It was a beautiful day.  There was a light breeze that stirred the loose strands of hair around her face but did not send her ponytail whipping out like a banner.  The breeze carried the saltwater smell up to her and she breathed in deep.  Sorceresses are not as connected to place as witches, but the closer she was to the sea the calmer this sorceress felt.

She could never properly express how much she loved it - how much she needed it.  Every day she had to fight the urge to run down the stairs and fall to her knees in front of the gray crashing waves.

Some days, the urge won.

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I don't know where I'm going with this. Thoughts?

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