An Autumn Night Journey
I once knew a woman with the eyes of a cat and hair the color of a raven. This woman would roam the cobblestone alleys of London at a most peculiar hour.
One brisk autumn evening, I set it in my mind to follow her through her nightly journey. She walked the streets in the very same manner as I had seen her do always and with the same air of nonchalance. I followed her through the rivers of cobblestone, sheer curiosity motivating me, the crescent moon’s light illuminating the puddles that resided along the streets, lighting up the alleys for me, and the sound of her leather-soled boots tipping and tapping, guiding me. Not once did she look back at me as I followed her through shadows. Not once did she stop. We walked for miles.
Just as I was beginning to feel the soles of my feet weather away, she stopped. We had left London, or any civilization, and we were now at the mouth of a grand wooded area. I hid behind a large tree that seemed to have toppled over many decades ago. The woman tapped the tip of her boot three times, ever so gently. As the last tap came down, the thick trees in front of her opened up gracefully. She stepped into this opening, and I followed her. I stopped dead in my tracks when I entered.
The woman with the cat’s eyes sat there on a log with three other figures. One of them, a young man, with skin that shone brightly, as brightly as the sun. One, a beautiful young woman, with bright eyes and a colorful flower in her hair. Finally, an old man who was grey in color and seemed to emit coldness at a glare. All of them looked at me. I thought I would be frightened, but I wasn’t. I felt I had met each of them already. They smiled, and the door opened again.
Every spring, summer, winter, and especially fall, I speak into the woods. Passersby laugh, but I know the seasons hear me.