V
Halfway down the mountain, the path entered a woodland meadow, nodding with buttercups, which the cows won’t eat, and bluebells, which they will. There was the roan cow, quite contentedly and daintily plucking and chewing her way through them, one by one. Nora placed her hands on her hips and with a quick exhalation,”Ha!”, caught the attention of the capricious cow. Nora bemusedly shook her head as the cow obediently came to her and rubbed her poll against Nora’s outstretched hand. There was the kerchief, neatly tied about her horn, and there was no mistake, it most certainly was Nora’s.
Nora untied the kerchief, folded it neatly, and placed it in her pocket where her hand encountered the breathing stones. But what was this! Two, not three! Falling to her knees, she hurriedly emptied her pocket onto the meadow grass and found leaf green and moon white, but no roan red. She rested back upon her heels and closed her eyes, retracing her steps down the mountainside – the boy and the wolf-slain kid, the cow, the mossy gnomes and tangled roots – but nowhere with her mind’s eye could she find the missing stone. The roan cow’s sweet breath played with the wisps of hair beside her ear, and Nora absent-mindedly brushed her away. With a jolt, her eyes flew open. Turning on her heels, Nora looked up into the liquid eyes of the breathing roan red stone.
more to follow …
© Magdalen Jago 2008
Well-written.
Dear “leafless”,
Thank you. I hope you have had the opportunity to read the previous sections of “Nora of the Mountain” and will enjoy those to come.
Being “leafless”, might I ask: ancient oak standing regally alone in a field of winter wheat or a dogwood in a beech forest about to burst into blossom?
Best regards, and thank you for your own work as well.
Magdalen