Then I dreamt a waking dream, as I am apt to do. I imagined the last stage of a journey and our arrival at a house with a stable, walking inside and finding a box prepared, being welcomed and bringing my welcome also to good people. In this there is unconscious hope and perhaps a little allegory.
Thoughtful, I rode across a wild and unpopulated landscape of low hills, tracts of grass and scrub bounded by pine woods. The grass was yellowing with autumn and leaves were falling from the few stunted deciduous trees. Isolated puddles and a little mud showed that rain had fallen, however again the going was firm beneath bare hooves. Another dry day and we might leave a little dust hanging in our wake.
I knew this trail from a succession of journeys, recognising a conical hill here and a twist of a stream there. A peculiarly stunted tree, a boulder and a pool, each proved that we took the right path through this quiet land. Above, a vee of geese headed south. By Brena's feet dry colourful leaves swirled and fell again to earth. And all was still, for the wind had dropped to nothing beneath a clear sky. Just two men did I meet, one old and the other young, and they were shepherds. Flocks grazed purposefully at the thin dry grass, and it was clear that soon man and beast would return to lower pastures. A visitor releases the tongues of those whose lives are so lonely, and they told me of the grazing and the milking, of storms and blessings, and of the few that had passed this way. Then as I left the older added, "the ones called Jana and Willow passed this way three days ago". I feigned surprise for we wanderers like to appear disinterested in the journeyings of our fellows. Free spirits command a more attentive audience than members of a group. I had not seen those two for a season, however a hint of lowland autumn would send them on annual errand across the high mountains before bad weather made travel uncomfortable and early snow risked peril. Now I would keep my eyes open, for a meeting would be welcome.
As the afternoon grew old I left a broad valley and dropped downhill, the trail zig-zagging down a short steep slope and into shadow to reach an old trackway now grass-grown. As my mare stepped carefully I wondered which trail Jana and Willow would take. Perhaps this valley? Turning left at the valley floor we followed a curve beneath beech trees to reach an old stone bridge that bore right to cross a clear swirling river, narrow and deep. Over the bridge led the little-used track, then again off to the left following the river. But we took a path to the right, doubling back, and there were other hoof prints on the damp ground along that way. They led back down the hill and away to who knew where?
Up through bright beeches we climbed, weaving between great boles and stepping over roots like limbs. How long would Jana and Willow be travelling, I wondered. Perhaps two days each way? Now the path was dry and dusty, our footing crisp atop a carpet of dry fallen leaves. A last stretch northward, gently climbing alongside a stream, brought us to a level clearing. There ahead was a house, low, stone-walled and old as if it had grown organically from the hill. The stout end wall faced me with its weathered stones that had withstood many a storm and sheltered me from a few, and there an open wooden balcony stretched from corner to corner. That balcony continued to the right, turning to head down the length of the house past a door and windows. At the corner of the house three stone steps led up to the balcony and a carved door of dark wood, whilst two windows in the end admitted light through many square panes set in a green-painted frame.
To the rear of the house a further door, wider and rougher, led to stable. I rode up the final stretch of the ride and onto the level ground alongside the middle of the house. To my right the stream had been dammed to form a long pond, yet narrow so that a lithe person might leap across, as once I had been. Slowly I dismounted onto firm well-cropped turf thinking of all the times that I had jumped down here. All was silent, and none came forth to greet me. Shadows reached out to meet me as the sun slipped behind the wooded westward slope.
I unlatched the stable door and led my mare within, eyes adjusting to the gloom. Soon a lamp would need to be lit. Into a box I led my companion, noticing that the space had been made ready with hay and a pail of water. Soon my saddle was resting on an old wooden rack, the blanket spread out to dry. Then I looked for my host, but still not a soul came. Then in a window sill I spotted welcone things: a wooden plate covered with a cloth, and a sheet of paper. How had I missed them, save that always I try to care for my beast before my needs. On that sheet were written carefully these words: "Make yourself comfortable, guest, and be refreshed. We shall return soon". The writing was slender and precise with full loops, a work of care and artistry too.
Below the cloth lay two thick slices of bread, a slab of soft sheep-milk cheese, and a pewter mug filled with a deep red wine. I took a sip: it was rich and strong. Sitting on the stone step at the doorway I ate and drank, gazing at the dark pool, watching the last sunlight fleeing up the slope of the smooth grassy hill to the east. Fatigue rested in my limbs and my head became a little light as tiredness wasjoined by drink. A rocky outcrop at the very crest caught the final golden rays, and then all lay in shadow. At that moment a horse neighed down in the woods to the right, and then another shriller. Brena responded from within the stable behind. Then a voice laughed, deep and melodious. Another higher voice called brightly, "Ho, we're home again", as if that were something to celebrate. For me it was. The silhouettes of two cloaked riders appeared from the forest margin, grey and indistinct in the twilight. One was taller and stouter, the other slighter, and each horse matched its rider.
I stood to greet my friends.
