Murmuring Woods

Dusk had already cast its cloak over the day, as I reached the Murmuring Woods, and I, too, passed like a shadow from twilight to darkness between the trees.

I am not afraid of the forest by night. Folklore may have spun a web of fear and superstition around the Murmuring Woods, but the truth of such tales is not as it is told to the young or believed by the dim and foolish:

Spirits inhabit
The darkness that lightens, the darkness that darkens,
The quivering tree, the murmuring wood,
The water that runs and the water that sleeps:
Spirits much stronger than we,
The breathing of the dead who are not really dead,
Of the dead who are not really gone,
Of the dead now no more in the earth…

The truth of these tales is layered into the words, buried inside them, folded between the lines. Yes, it is true that Murmuring Wood is filled with spirits, and it is true that the trees have voices, and that we may encounter strange souls beneath their canopies, but we have less to fear from them than from the quick and cunning afield by day.

The spirits of Murmuring Wood are called by a person’s heart and drawn by true purpose and intention: fear calls to the spirits of fear, darkness to the dark ones, and honesty to the Beings of Light. The knowing understand how to pass safely through any landscape: by asking permission, by walking consciously, and by heeding the spirit signs.

I rested a while beneath the boughs of an ancient oak, for I was weary. As well as that, it was time to find the words to make my intention and goal clear to the guide spirits, which meant I had to state my need clearly to myself, first. Paths through Murmuring Wood are not fixed; they reflect the determination with which a traveller seeks a destination and the strength of her vision of the place she wishes to find. Two persons with the same goal might travel very different ways to reach the place and outcome they seek, along paths of different kinds. What I knew was that I had to find a portal that would take me to a new dimension of Lemuria. Before that, though, I desired to pay my respects at the Temple of the Muses.

These thought were no sooner formulated, than a moment later, an acorn landed on the ground beside me, and a squirrel darted from the bushes to sweep it up into his paws. He squatted on his haunches, eying me, then dropped the nut and scurried several yards along the pathway, only to turn and retrace his steps. Again, he hopped along the path, stopped, looked back in my direction, as if beckoning me to follow.

I rose from my resting place and shouldered my pack again. The squirrel moved ahead, never more than a few steps in front of me, and thus we passed through the wood, changing direction many times, along paths that twisted and branched into the gathering darkness.

Poem excerpt from: Birago Diop, “Spirits”
http://www.hu.mtu.edu/~dshoos/HU3262/Negritudepoems.htm

Prelude

I heard, or rather I overheard the news, as so often, in passing. I am one of those people whom others do not readily see. It is a skill I was born with and have cultivated for its usefulness. I am now, as it is said, “a woman of a certain age”, and dress darkly, discretely. It is safer that way. Early in this life, I learned that humans are prone to fear half-borns like me, but the story of the half-borns is a tale for another day. You might say I am as invisible as any incarnate being might safely be, and that it suits everyone’s best interest that way. When I go to market, I do not visit and gossip; I watch and I listen, and sooner or later, I am sure to learn what is of consequence to me.

And so it was that I learned of the journey into Lemurian lands: a pilgrimage to the Sanctuary of Mnemosyn. The Inner Voice told me it was the call I had been awaiting. A snippet of gossip gleaned here, followed by discreet inquiries and seeded questions in other exchanges, revealed what little information was to be learned, and it was enough for me to know where travellers were to be and when.

I learned that the main party had departed on Twelfth Night, but also that the Portal would remain open until the next full moon, so that straggling pilgrims might pass through and join the expedition. It would be time enough, if I set off immediately and made good use of the moonlight.

As a seasoned journeywoman, accustomed to travelling fast and light, my preparations were quickly made. My journeying clothes are always ready. It took less than an hour to fill my backpack with the necessities — a change of clothes, my journal, healing herbs, and the odds and ends I knew I’d need underway — and ready the house for my absence. After that, all I had to do was put on my travelling shoes, strap on my pack, don cloak and staff, and seal the house with a spell of protection.

The sun was already setting I laboured up a steep pathway behind the house that led into the Holborn Hills, but, for me, the twilight would be sufficient to make a head start until the moon rose to light my pathway through the night. The Holborn Trail is narrow and demanding, but not treacherous, and I had walked it, by day and by night, many times. By moonlight, I reckoned, it would take me until morning to reach to summit. Come morning, I would traverse the hills, and descend through the summer pastures into the Wigh Valley. I could then follow the Wigh river through the wetlands and, with luck, would reach the Murmuring Woods by nightfall. So it was.

The Journey Begins

I learned of this journey only a few days ago, and am starting out later than others on this path. I know, though, that I have a good, practised pace, and that I shall be able to make my way easily, once I know the direction I must take.