Wes Thomas 2012 copyright

Chapter Two



sos 4



Mother’s presence has grown so faint that you can hear the whisper of her soul. The depth and breadth of her spirit knows no boundaries. Her compassion as deep as a chasm and wide. Gentleness is her essence, a whisper, a wisp, a phantom, a woman.

Existing in her senses, she delights in everything and her Goddess is there to share. Her best friends are angels. Fairies dance for her and goblins play pranks for the pleasure of her smile.

In another era, she would be the Maiden in the wood who, when startled, turns into a gentle breeze so as not to frighten or tempt the intruder who happened upon her nakedness.

Her whispers thunder through the heart. Mighty egos bow to her in humble respect, and her smile banishes all malice. Wisdom seeks her audience and love stands always by her side.


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Mist of Time

Mother belongs to an ancient clan, a clan united not by place or by race, but through their shared visions. They are the healers, visionaries, and seekers, the eyes and the voice for those who yearn to know. Probing the deeper mysteries of life, honoring the magic of creation, they have carried their wisdom down through the ages, filling the ether with their voices and the world with their visions.

I never tired of hearing Mother tell the stories about our tribe and their migration from the Underlands back to the surface. As foretold in the prophesy, the deserts of the High Plateau have turned green and the air, once again, safe to breathe. After months of searching for a new homeland, our tribe settled in the foothills of the Barrier Mountains. This was three years before my birth.

While gathering herbs and berries, Mother carried me on her back until I was old enough to carry my own tiny basket. My favorite memories are of those early days we spent together in the forest and in the meadows that surrounded our village. When I first started exploring by myself, mother always seemed to know exactly where I was and eventually she allowed me to wander, but never too far.

Descending through the mist of time, I hear the laughter of a little girl and the gurgle of the mountain stream in the forest outside the village gates. I loved the shelter of the proud trees lining the path near the cooling waters. A thick layer of emerald moss covered the banks, a living carpet that soothed my bare feet and tickled my toes. Here I discovered the kind Ferrin Folk of the forest. They resemble humans but small enough to hide among the ferns, and they could fly when they wished.

For a while, the children of our village enjoyed sharing time with my small friends, but they only pretended to see them and soon tired of the game. In truth, I preferred sharing my time alone with the Ferrins, who became my closest friends. Our conversations were often filled with merriment and laughter and they told me stories about days long ago when Ferrins and Humans lived together on the land as friends. I didn’t grasp all they had to share but in time I learned to listen well, understanding in my heart more than I knew.

Clinging to these memories, I often return to this special time. I watch a precious child standing on the hilltop above our small village, a silhouette against a summer sky. I feel her pleasure as the sun and breeze dance upon her cheeks. She raises her eyes and delights in watching the wind play with her friends, the clouds.

As I grew in height, I wandered further up the mountainside and down into the emerald green valley below our village. I spent many precious hours exploring field and forest, watching plants grow, the flowers blossom and go to seed. Then each spring it magically started all over again.

I remember well when I stood the same height as the tall grasses in the meadow. I loved the way they moved in waves with the wind, and I wished my hair was the same color as late summer so I would blend in with the ocean of golden grasses, making me both visible and invisible at the same time, like my friends, the Ferrin Folk.

Those grasses are not as tall as my memory of them, yet they still hold the same magic and mystery. And I’m still curious about the way and why of the winds, the visible and invisible being equally important to me.

I now see clearly that Mother encouraged me to explore this world of wonder and magic. For her, everything is alive.

She reminded me of this often, “Every flower is a miracle and every breath is a secret prayer.”

Mother also taught lessons through her stories and these were her greatest gift to me. In the evening, when she told a story, I always begged for another. Her answer was always the same, “If I tell you another story you will forget the first one. Now close your eyes and follow your story into your dream world.”

The kiss of her lips on my cheek was as soft as a cloud.

She told stories about beings of light who lived forever, and about trees with magical powers. My favorite stories were about the stars; star wizards, silly stars, and a special story about Little Twinkle, a tiny star that sneezed. I especially loved her stories about the stars who wander the heavens, scattering the sacred seeds of life throughout the Galaxy. She also told stories about the ancient ones, our ancestors who traveled on rivers of light and who could see into the future.

After hearing her stories many times, I began retelling the stories, sharing them with my Ferrin friends who listened intently, then they would share stories about their world and about times long ago. Some of their stories were scary, with monsters and demons who fought great battles using swords that flashed with blinding light. They told me about dragons who hovered in the clouds and lit the night sky with flashes of their fiery breath. The Ferrins whispered their stories in my ear and at times, in the quiet of the night, I can still hear those whispers.

Knowing we had only a few short years together, Mother treated me as a woman, even in these early days. She taught me the special ways that animals speak, and how to watch for messages in the clouds and to listen for answers in the wind.

She taught me the power of the seven virtues and the joy of the seven beauties. She forewarned of the seven sins and cautioned me of the seven pleasures. She counseled me to see with two eyes and to speak a single truth. Mother was preparing me to carry forward the lineage of our clan and to spread the teachings of Jahalla, a heavy burden for a child.

When the time came for me to enter the Inner Sanctum, I cried for days, “It’s not right. I belong here, in the mountains, with my friends. I don’t want to be buried underground.”

“It is your privilege and your birthright to serve the Divine Mother and you are double blessed with the inner light of our ancestors. Know that you are truly blessed.”

Her tears told a different story.

“Step gently every step, my sweet child and life will not be so hard.” When Mother spoke, her word penetrated deeply and the words linger, planted permanently in my heart.

But we learn our lessons from life not from words.



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