Merlin was sitting on his porch, rocking on his stone glider. His long beard hairs had been yellowed with the smoke from the Meerschaum pipe he was constantly smoking. The forest had come alive with the voices...from the trees, from the birds hallowing another day. The sun was setting and there was exitement in the air. Gweldor was on his way, he had been informed. Gweldor was Merlin’s only true confidante...the only one he could trust, but he never came until nightfall. He came with incredible stories of power and intrigue, and remisincence, told as only one as wise as an owl could tell. The Datura blossoms wafted a fragrance toward his old nose that reminded him something he knew not to be true...all is well, dear Merlin, all is well.
From within the cobble stoned house, the salty aroma of his magical stew emerged. Vegetables from his extensive garden populated the immediate surroundings, as well as the stew. There were many one-of-a-kind species. One of his most prized was the pure blue potato, who’s species most were still convinced was poison. That never stopped Merlin, however. He was so in-touch with each of the plant’s majestic spirits that none could harm him. Believe it or not, Merlin was known to toss back the fruits of the Nightshade plant, chewing and swallowing them as if they were blueberries. In his stew were also some of the magic flying herbs that allowed Merlin his extreme clairvoyance. He knew every inhabitant of these woods, plant, animal, and otherwise, for a radius of at least fifty miles.
In those days, that was an essential knowing. The People were being executed by the hundreds, day in and day out. The Mohammedeans had been hired by the filthy English crown to aid in the cause. This was most unnerving, as they brought with them the desert magic of the Hebrews, the Ark, and Al Moshe. This was difficult to rectify...as this power was devised to expand empires. All this and more he knew, from the plants, from the ethers, and from his most trusted confidante, for whom he now waited.
The light from the stained glass oil lamps stylishly placed on and around his magnificently understated abode now became more apparent. His toad, still wet from his lotus pond out back jumped up and sat on his lap. Is he here yet?, he asked Merlin.
No, my dear friend, still waiting...The nameless toad contentedly looked back to the forest through his dime-sized eyes, waiting with his beautiful bright blue-eyed friend, the law of the land, Merlin.
To the south, near the border, there were fires burning. The village of Forsymouth had been sacked and burned to the ground. The Mohammedeans took no prisoners, save the women, who either became slaves for sale in distant lands, or occassionally “wives.” Merlin found this practice to be most distasteful. Even in war, he had never heard of such ruthless debauchery. If he had his way, they would all be dystroyed, and the balance of nature restored. But, in the grand Scheme, there was a place and purpose for everything. Merlin had to think in terms of limitless eternal time, just to keep from growing truly mad. Without Gweldor, his Twin Flame, he would have given up the ghost long ago.
He could feel him now, flying in from the east. The toad wordlessly looked up at him with his yellow eyes, much the same way a three year old might. He nodded his head, Yes our good friend Gweldor was on his way. He took a long draw off his stone pipe and placed it into it’s marble stand next to him. His electric blue eyes closed, and there he was. The deep vibrant forest was all around him. he was gliding up, down, and through the leaves and branches. There was no feeling like the freedom of Gweldor’s flight. There was no vision so keen, nor acuteness of hearing. Their history was long, painful, and triumphant. Merlin’s mind travelled with him, soaring above all the troubles of his fading magistrate. Finally, through Gweldor’s eyes, he felt the bird’s melting relief. He was home again. He slowly descended for a landing, through the magestic oak forest and down to the stone porch. Gweldor the owl landed on Merlin’s left shoulder at the precise moment his blue eyes opened. He brought him close to his cheek, kissing him and petting him like some do their pet cats. Merlin was always so glad to see him that tears welled up in his eyes, and this was no exception.
“Hellllloooo Goldach,” Gweldor cooed at him. He was a large Great Horned Owl, older than the oldest of the forest. And in him lived the spirit of a master from the east, Merlin’s twin flame. He flew to the large quartz cluster that had long been designated as his perch.
“You trying to kill yourself, Old Man?!!,” Gweldor sent a picture of the datura in his pipe and the scotch in his flask.
“You old scoundrel, where have you been?!!!!,” replied Merlin, known to the owl as Goldach...his given name.
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