The telling of a dream.
[I know, that’s not where a dream normally begins. Go with it.]
Memory rolled in like the tide. Of the Lord and his riches. Of robes and jewels. And of one day hearing the faintest note. A vibration that trembled in her breast bone. Calling her.
She remembered removing the necklace that had become a noose. Slipping out of heavy gowns. Wrapping herself in a red hooded cloak. And walking.
Walking bare footed. Guided only by that single note, so quiet no one else seemed to hear, yet for her it shook the church spire. Calling her onward. But without urgency. There was all the time in the world for this journey.
She’d followed the path. Sometimes resting against a rock, sometimes howling at the moon, sometimes bathing her feet in tumbling streams. The birds circling above her echoed that singular pure note.
She’d left the city behind. Then the farms. She’d walked through the forest and into the mountains. She recalled standing on a snowy peak, seeing everything spread out before her, so clearly.
She awoke in a beautiful garden. Through an open archway she sees the mountains. The path led here. Her bleeding and battered feet tell that story.
There is a raven, who can only speak the truth. An owl, who hoots with laughter, because truth once spoken becomes a lie. A peacock, holding his silence, because truth needs no defence. Each offers a single feather.
Raising her head, she sees the stag. Watching her. Looking straight into her eyes, as she looks into his. And still that one note. Dancing. Settling deep in her heart.
The garden has everything she ever needed. Everything anyone ever needed. Soft, fruitful earth. A gentle breeze in the air. The hot sun. And flowing water.
Here there is peace, there is freedom, there is creation. This is home.
She opens her heart and sings. Her voice blends into that one perfect note. Down in the city the cherry trees quiver and whisper a reply.
A woman carrying laundry to the washhouse pauses. She sets down her burden. Turns, and follows the call.
The call home.