This is my response to this week’s Thursday Photo Prompt, Fog – #writephoto. I offer you a brief look at the lives of ordinary inhabitants of the Greenwood. They, like us ‘hoomans’ lead quite mundane lives. Shopping, paying bills, crying at ‘romcoms’, attending festivals and getting inebriated. On this occasion there’s an important gathering in progress, the Faerie folk are attending a ritual blessing of an ancient oak tree. Our new Festivals Editor is on the scene. Not a popular Shape Changer. Her battle hardened film crew dislike her intensely. They keep disappearing to talk to the locals, the aim being to film an alternative version of the event.
It’s twilight and a most beautiful example I have to say. The spirits of the dead are slowly gathering, as are folk from the Greenwood. It’s a proud moment for our little community; we’ve waited a few hundred years for their visit. Such a blessing, especially for the Oak dryad. I was hoping to see bunting and posters but the Mayoress, sorry, High Priestess, wants none of ‘that modern rubbish’. Says my suggestions have brought unwelcome and fearful responses from hoomans. It’s attitudes like this that keep us in the dark ages. Modernisation is no bad thing, why don’t they accept it and move on? Viewers, I know my remarks can sometimes be controversial but the truth must out. We need to show the hoomans a more positive picture of ourselves.
Our Editor slopes off down the valley in a despondent mood.
Meanwhile, several shades of the dead are lurking in the undergrowth watching the journalist. They aren’t impressed it has to be said. Much sniggering can be heard and a few pungent comments. The Green Man is nowhere to be seen, which is causing the organising committee heartburn. The creatures of the forest are merrily drinking themselves into a stupor. A combination of raucous music and 70% proof mead has seen to that.
The Oak Dryad is suffering stage fright, he’s seen it all before but this occasion is different. His ancestors, surviving ancestors, have travelled down from the great Caledonian forests. There are remnants of the primeval world left in the far north. Voices of the ancient ones can still be heard in its landscapes of unsurpassed skies and silver gilded lochs and rivers.
The twilight brings with it energies that are not of this plane. There’s a hint of madness and glamour riding on the approaching fog. A collective breath is exhaled. Their hopes and expectations rise on the wind brushing through the valley.
A faint scream can be heard in the distance. It appears that our Editor has suffered a serious accident and is waiting on rescue. She seems to have got wedged in a rabbit hole (!). Several hares and rabbits are trying to pull her out; at least that’s what it looks like. I don’t think kicking is a legitimate rescue method, could be wrong.
The musicians have worked themselves into a trance and are now playing rather powerful melodies. The Faerie Queen and her retinue are making their way under the cover of fog, or so the mist seems. It’s only glamour that’s obscuring their true forms. A sense of the numinous descends upon the gathering. Dazzling forms and divinely beautiful faces reveal themselves. The silence is deafening. The veils between the worlds dissolve in a show of spectacle and light. Power pours through, intense and dizzying.
The Oak Dryad descends and bows on bended knee. A token is bestowed upon him, sacred in its symbolism. A protection against the ravages of a modern world that seems to care not for its past and connection with the natural world.
She looks better in the flesh then on TV, mutters a voice from behind a rock.
Taller than expected, what do you think, 6’ 2” at least? is the response of their companion.
The field mice shrug their shoulders and scurry off for a better view.
As for the Editor, she’s been dragged out of the hole and being given mouth to mouth by the Green Man. He has a particularly wicked gleam in his eyes…She responds accordingly. This does not bode well for the organising committee.