"MAKE A WISH,
I DARE YOU"
~ Epic*sode 6 through time . . . ~
THE VILLAGE SMITHY
As told by ~ Absolutely*Kate
Click here for Epic*sode 2 ~ "Need A Hoof Nipper?"
Click here for Epic*sode 3 ~ "Time Travel Is A Healer, Right?"
Click here for Epic*sode 4 ~ "Rogues All!"
Click here for Epic*sode 5 ~ "What If and The Tan Valise"
Smiling through years of fears and sorrows conjured more cascading colours in yesterday's tomorrows for Liza than most folks contemplated kalideoscopes for. She had burst on scenes with a sizzle of raging reds, been bigger than the blues, and in several segments of time travels, she'd strutted her stuff as the real deal ~ in teal heels nonetheless! 1982 and 2049 were particularly portentious years for teal heels. Retro is what retro is after all . . . why sometimes, even what it was.
Yet Liza suffered no fools. Never did. Never would. Her valiant nature pulled nary a punch or left jab at yellow bellied, green-with-envy ghouls. They had not a ghost of a chance, and her spirit held steadfast, rarely lowering to murky levels. She'd innately sensed the incarnation flickering from one of the three rowdy rogues roaming the village green of Essex, her new town for settling down. Would it put a damper on her indomitable spirit? Liza thought not, not in the overall . . . but with precaution in her pocket, proceeded with senses at their keenest as she strolled her first serious carouse around what the streets of Essex had to offer.
The church bell at the top of the touch-the-sky white spire pealed at the quarter-hour. Liza liked that. Order in time, time after time. Took the edge off studying the sheaf of parchment notes concealed beneath the maroon satin lining of the tan valise her funny mother had cautioned to keep e'er near her.
At times clarity, akin to charm, such as the white-spired church bell's peal, resonated within her as the mind's sky, which is precisely and presciently where she presently fashioned her beloved funny mother to be. (The laws of nature intuited she'd be blue skies, nuttin' but blue skies. How could it be otherwise?)
At other times -- well, the chronos principles involving warping time's complexity caused chaos with her tentative theories. By impassioned profession, a lyricist acquainted with regular rhythms, verse and attunement, it made her sensitivities hurt to be saddled with such responsibility to carry on until . . . until she knew her What-If. Then, and only then could she pass it on. Twas necessary though, in mere here and now to reflect, to perfect, to affect the time travels which more than just the puff of steam trains took her. Nourishing the spirit the better to handle all the clatter about matter though . . . that was essential. Tending to one's true spirit, always is.
Yet Liza suffered no fools. Never did. Never would. Her valiant nature pulled nary a punch or left jab at yellow bellied, green-with-envy ghouls. They had not a ghost of a chance, and her spirit held steadfast, rarely lowering to murky levels. She'd innately sensed the incarnation flickering from one of the three rowdy rogues roaming the village green of Essex, her new town for settling down. Would it put a damper on her indomitable spirit? Liza thought not, not in the overall . . . but with precaution in her pocket, proceeded with senses at their keenest as she strolled her first serious carouse around what the streets of Essex had to offer.
~ ~ ~
The church bell at the top of the touch-the-sky white spire pealed at the quarter-hour. Liza liked that. Order in time, time after time. Took the edge off studying the sheaf of parchment notes concealed beneath the maroon satin lining of the tan valise her funny mother had cautioned to keep e'er near her.
Your What-If will be known
when you face it, daughter.
Then and only then
will you make all the right moves.
Face adversity as adventure
to advantage.
Foes will fear you.
The true . . . you'll know them too --
Tis all in fathoming depth of eyes to soul.
Mother's admonishments were scrawled in her flourished but hurried handwriting in fountain pen blotches upon torn pieces of the cream linen stationery which had sat atop her splendid dressing table. Bits of notes were scattered or neatly pinned with intricate brooches throughout all she was to study and commit to working memory past mere here and now. Relativity was to be visualized, matter to be made myth. The edge of infinity itself seemed caressed by the knowledge her heritage bequeathed her to study, learn and keep safe until she recognized the solemn point of passing wisdom on.
At times clarity, akin to charm, such as the white-spired church bell's peal, resonated within her as the mind's sky, which is precisely and presciently where she presently fashioned her beloved funny mother to be. (The laws of nature intuited she'd be blue skies, nuttin' but blue skies. How could it be otherwise?)
At other times -- well, the chronos principles involving warping time's complexity caused chaos with her tentative theories. By impassioned profession, a lyricist acquainted with regular rhythms, verse and attunement, it made her sensitivities hurt to be saddled with such responsibility to carry on until . . . until she knew her What-If. Then, and only then could she pass it on. Twas necessary though, in mere here and now to reflect, to perfect, to affect the time travels which more than just the puff of steam trains took her. Nourishing the spirit the better to handle all the clatter about matter though . . . that was essential. Tending to one's true spirit, always is.
Last night, across the dinner tables set near the fieldstone fireplace in the main salon of Effie & Marguerite's Rooming House had been nourishing on many fronts ~ delectable beef stew, robust red wine, gregarious townsfolk making her feel one of them in regaled laughter ever after, and . . . yes, dark deep eyes across the village smithy's family's table telegraphing stronger secrets than how best to pound the pressure-points of anvils. Yes indeed, the village smithy was a percussive conundrum who could not be beat. Liza'd bet the bottom dollar she kept tucked in her left shoe that his horseshoes hung so their luck never ran out.
As for a few other bon vivants
who stood out around town ~
who stood out around town ~
The baker had a rye sense of humour. Liza bantered back and forth and forth and back with that jolly gent and he puffed up right plump.
Despite incessant flirtations aimed at the village smithy's younger pretty sister Marguerite, Liza learned the butcher had a wife who craved his tenderloins. The ladies in the butcher's neighborhood who lined up behind the fancy glass case in twos and threes and on Fridays, four abreast -- they craved his meat too. Well, that's what he claimed and cleaved to. Liza felt he had enough attention than to serve up hers.
Chaz Chadwick, the cunning candlestick maker though, was an enigma quick to flare. Town-talk told her more. Bastard son of the sweet Belle Fairlight, deserted by a disgruntled cleric, Padre Chadwick who traveled now to undisclosed monastic locations, the misanthropic craftsman of Essex had a chip on his shoulder inflammatory enough to ignite several small villages. "It takes a village . . . " he was oft fond of quoting, "to raise fired up crowds." Many in the town kept a safe distance from how his tempers burned, except on birthdays and special occasions. For Chadwick's offered a particular candle showcased in the front window just under the forest green awning which was claimed could make wishes come true . . . when one just blew.
Who's to dispute a wish waited upon? Be that good marketing or providential? Liza realized her steps around the cobbled roads of Essex, over the well-manicured lawn that kept the village green, had led her directly in front of the very window folks had described to her at the dinner in hushed excited tones. They turned their heads left and flounced their attentions right to check no one was listening in. Time after time the twinkling townsfolk regaled and retorted, "It works! It works!" This she had to see.
Layers, it was comprised of layers and drippings and colours and waxy ooze and there, in the very epicenter, on a raised pewter platter was a magnificent flame . . . now moving . . . moving off the raised pewter platter . . . moving out of the epicenter of the curious window display . . . moving out the door . . . moving as if floating . . . floating beneath the upraised hands of the cunning candlestick maker himself . . . approaching closer, closer, closer still to Liza's widened eyes.
The cunning candlestick maker narrowed the glints in his fierce peepers, raised it higher still. "Go ahead," he hissed. His breath was in her face, hot, insistent.
"Make a wish. I dare you."
© 2011 ~ Author Absolutely*Kate
in a small-town large state of mind
Village Smithy photo ala Wolfrage
Cryptic CandleFlame ala JoshWept
Mother's memento brooch ala GGHillerud
A FLAME FLICKERS QUICKER
THAN A WISH TAKES FLIGHT,
RIGHT?
TIL NEXT WEEKEND'S
RETURN TO THE VILLAGE GREEN
WHERE THE CUNNING
CANDLESTICK MAKER
MAY FORCE THE LIGHT.
But . . . will he see an old flame?
