Gray Sage
Beware the JubJub Bird
You never imagined in the events leading up to being a stow-away on a Norse pirate ship, that you would have landed on the coast of Nova Scotia, but here you are. In winter, no less. You can’t believe how bad the blanket smells that’s wrapped around you, and it’s gaping moth-eaten holes are doing little to prevent the hateful ocean chill from ripping through your skin.
The wet sand rubs between the toes, stuffed in a wilted pair of shoes. It chaffs the skin and robs the vessels of anything resembling warmth. It’s hard to know if your numbing feet are so painful from the cold or from their long trek.
At least the view is respectable. The ocean waves at you, bored in its low tide. Seagulls are singing their mirthless lullabies, trying to taunt you with the rather pleasant day they’ve been having. It won’t work though. Nothing can bring your determination down. Not now that you’ve spotted your refuge. Your sanctuary.
Situated like a beauty mark adorning the face of a breathtaking country-side, it beckons any onlooker with warm light, a piping chimney, and the cozy colors of slate and winter flowers.
Even within a few yards, the smells of home welcome you through the door, and the heat of the hearth greets your cheeks like a kiss. You drop the heinous wrap from around your shoulders, and rush to the fire where a kettle sits, patiently awaiting use.
Now alone, the layers of your pitiful ensemble peel off your skin one at a time, until your stockings and chemise hang contentedly by the heat. The wood must be oak, as its aroma fills the little cottage with a warm and decidedly brown musk. Happily, you feed it a few more logs.
A fresh quilt now wrapped around your arms, you watch the water as it rises from the kettle, twisting in delighted little rivers, the promise of tea hanging in the air. Dinner too has been warmed up. A savory porridge and toasted cheese bread await you on the banquet table.
It feels as if your soul has taken a long breath out. Your belly is full for the first time in months. Maybe years. The ache plaguing your rusty joints has finally subsided. And there, waiting in the corner, the bed calls you like a lighthouse, guiding its wanderer from sea.
Dazed, and complete, you trudge across the room, barely able to keep the lids from sliding down your eyes. The feathered down cuddles you like a baby. The only thing to bother you are the two bloodied bodies, prostrate on the floor, staring at you from across the room. You’d worry about them tomorrow. For now, you sleep.
The wet sand rubs between the toes, stuffed in a wilted pair of shoes. It chaffs the skin and robs the vessels of anything resembling warmth. It’s hard to know if your numbing feet are so painful from the cold or from their long trek.
At least the view is respectable. The ocean waves at you, bored in its low tide. Seagulls are singing their mirthless lullabies, trying to taunt you with the rather pleasant day they’ve been having. It won’t work though. Nothing can bring your determination down. Not now that you’ve spotted your refuge. Your sanctuary.
Situated like a beauty mark adorning the face of a breathtaking country-side, it beckons any onlooker with warm light, a piping chimney, and the cozy colors of slate and winter flowers.
Even within a few yards, the smells of home welcome you through the door, and the heat of the hearth greets your cheeks like a kiss. You drop the heinous wrap from around your shoulders, and rush to the fire where a kettle sits, patiently awaiting use.
Now alone, the layers of your pitiful ensemble peel off your skin one at a time, until your stockings and chemise hang contentedly by the heat. The wood must be oak, as its aroma fills the little cottage with a warm and decidedly brown musk. Happily, you feed it a few more logs.
A fresh quilt now wrapped around your arms, you watch the water as it rises from the kettle, twisting in delighted little rivers, the promise of tea hanging in the air. Dinner too has been warmed up. A savory porridge and toasted cheese bread await you on the banquet table.
It feels as if your soul has taken a long breath out. Your belly is full for the first time in months. Maybe years. The ache plaguing your rusty joints has finally subsided. And there, waiting in the corner, the bed calls you like a lighthouse, guiding its wanderer from sea.
Dazed, and complete, you trudge across the room, barely able to keep the lids from sliding down your eyes. The feathered down cuddles you like a baby. The only thing to bother you are the two bloodied bodies, prostrate on the floor, staring at you from across the room. You’d worry about them tomorrow. For now, you sleep.
