Merliz Tales - A Journey to the Inn

 

The Seeker was holed up in a small bare room  - all he could afford in the run-down Tavern.  He too stared out at the snow behind the small, drafty, window.

Closing their eyes they reach each other’s senses.  Through the cold air, their hands connected and they pulled each other up through the chasm.

They walked through the doors of the Inn hand in hand.  Past the stone greyhound and into the safety of the reception area where a wood fire welcomed them.

Keys were handed to them and up they went to freshen.  The magical rooms that greeted them filled them with mirth.  Magic was indeed all around.

Within an hour they reappeared having now dressed into their true identities.

He, in a billowing cream cotton shirt with a leather waistcoat studded with iron, the cross-cross of the swede ties left loose, comfortably holding together this gentle man.

She, in a full-length skirt over which hung an intricately embroidered white sleeveless overdress.  She rustled as she walked.

He smelt of fragrant woodsmoke

She smelt of sweet wood-ferns

He was The Seeker

She was The Merliz

Small glasses of Port were bought for them as they sat comfortably within the fire nook.  Chestnuts roasted happily within the smoldering heat and cheese and fruit were offered to complete the whole experience.

On the table sat the journal, a fine quill pen, a small bottle of jet-black ink, and a canister of fine sand.

He was the first to let the words flow onto the page, as she stared into the flames.  No words were spoken.  Just the exquisite silence of understanding, love, beauty, and magic.  He concluded his writings and dusted the pages with sand. 

It was now her turn to allow the dreaming to come through the nib.

Once complete the book was closed without disclosure to either writer.

Raising the small glasses up they toasted the air.  Smiling at each other with the deepest sense of satisfaction.  They rose and walked out into the twilight grounds.

Past a small pond and under a candle chandelier that hung from the branches of an old tree.  On, past the babbling stone fountain towards the Writer’s Haven.  Through the door and into the musty atmosphere of a thousand books, three overstuffed floral couches, and a small iron fireplace.

They were surrounded by words and yet silent.  And they were both so very happy.  They knew then that this moment in time would prove to be one of those memories that would surface when it was needed.  Not a dramatic event, not a remembrance of hysteria.  No.  This was one that emulated true peace and happiness.  They had taken themselves into a haven of quiet and restful solitude.  Simple tones where their childhood memories were free to tumble into each other.

After a few hours, they made their way back past the stone greyhound, past the stuffed peacocks, and the badger and the fox.  Back into the fire nook.

And then the words began to ripple into beautiful language.  And with each story, their eyes wrote out their underlying confidence in each other.  They would never be parted by time, distance, people, or circumstances.  They would end as they had begun.  Born from a unique love.  Born out of the same womb, at the same time.

Mist surrounded them now and they looked down at their clasped hands.  They were slipping away again into the cloud of sleep.