In a cluttered mess of a room, I was looking for a place to plug in a computer. Mind you I already knew it was not going to work. I tend to hold on to things that just might have a use at some point, for something that never occurs. Sorting through the papers piled all over every surface including the floor, I find old writings and journal entries. Magical Sigils and runes scratched into a stacks of papers on the floor. I find boxed with tins of tobacco, and assorted offerings for the gods. Bottles of wine, rum, bourbon, ale, mead, vodka, and some filled with blood. I stop trying to make sense of the space and clutter, and instead grab a bottle of wine, an empty journal, a pipe and tobacco, and a pen. I go outside to a large courtyard with a table and chairs made of iron and wood. It’s a dark autumn night that’s a bit damp with a light mist in the air distorting things in the distance. The dogs are running around waiting for me to open the large iron gate so they can run around the clearing and the trees.
There are several dogs on the property. Some are small and a little more skittish. Others are big and fearless. Some are old while others are yet pups. Wee whelps finding their place in the pack. There’s one that is not a dog at all, but a god of death. Sitting tall and ominous in a clearing in the trees. Anubis sits patiently with no human features at all here. A dog sitting still as a statue. A giant who sitting there is at least eight feet tall. All black with eyes reflecting the light of the moon. The rest off the dogs run as soon as the gate opens. Some sit nervously looking out into the distance. The night is spent watching the dogs chasing each other while I sit writing endlessly. The night grows to morning. The dogs are resting at my feet. Around the corner of the large stone home I start to hear voices. In the daylight, the home appears to be an old castle where a small town has sprung up before it. There’s an elderly woman with her a small dog in her lap. She is drinking tea in front of a cafe. Beside the cafe is some stairs leading up into a dining room. There are men bickering over some small trivial matter. A young boy walks down the stairs to bring a plate of scones to the elderly woman who spots me coming around the corner. She tells me her granddaughter is sorry she was so cruel. That she never meant to play games with my heart and that I should at least forgive her. She hands me a cigar and a small flask. I thank her for the gifts and turn back to the castle.
The day grows cold and the sun fades early. Snow starts to fall on the grounds. With no time to waste I pour a glass of bourbon and start a fire. The fireplace is a large stone opening with a large wood beam mantle and a large stone hearth. I sit into a large cashier and light a cigar and sip my bourbon. in walks the young boy who I saw bringing the scones to the elderly woman. He hands me a pouch of tobacco and a leather bound book. He tells me that I need to try to tell the story. People need to hear these words. He walks away and I open the book to find blank pages. On a small table beside the chair is a pen. It’s dark blue with gold inlay. I start writing and the words glow as I put pen to paper. The dogs are at my feet sleeping as I write. I hear a woman’s voice singing melodically. I wake up hearing a song in my head. Outside it’s freezing cold.
In this there is the constant reminder that our work is never done. Sometimes it’s rewarded, and sometimes it’s thankless. Days and nights will pass. Seasons change. People will always bicker, and death is always looming in the distance. It does not take away from the reminder that we are always needing to move forward and not look for anything more than the small things that make it work a little more bearable.
S.O.
Snowy Owls House 