An autumn tale - © 2009 Maarten Elout

The earth at summer's end smells of yellow and brown and bathes in rusty droplets of the setting sun. Autumn has come with Mr. Spider's silvery shiny webs and the crunchy gravel underneath my boots whispers a crisp tale of damp and dusky demeanor. It was ages ago but I remember where he's taking me. I let the kingly little wren lead the way through thicket and brush. Trusting. Breathing. Shivering. Its song is muffled by decaying ochre leaves, yet its guiding voice as clear as the icy tears drooping from my windowsill. It is spiky cold and like a frightened tortoise I retreat my head and hands deeper into my woolen shell and venture on, farther and farther into the woods.

On the trail

Clouds of my moist breath trail behind me like the steam from an old locomotive, disolving before I can follow them back home. Not that I would want to turn around. I can't. My ancestors are awaiting me. The circle is opening, the veil is being pulled back, the space is being prepared. They are calling me. My heart dictates that I follow the call, my ego has no say in this. My personal, petty needs and thoughts are irrelevant and even dangerous. Surviving the rapture depends on my ability to leave myself behind. Life has been preparing me but I am scared. Scared is good, I think to myself, it will keep me humble. A chuckle passes my lips and bounces off a fat oak along the trail. I pet it in passing, my big green friend - here before I was, here long after I'm gone. I'm irrelevant and yet I matter and play a part in this existence. Fallen nuts and congers crack underneath my heavy leather boots as a squirrel objects to my presence with loud chirps from a tall fir ahead. "I hear you little fellow, better pay attention and not let my mind wander as much as my feet aye!" It won't be much longer for the sun to disappear behind the weathered mountains to the East. As granite giants they tower above the golden valley, some eternally adorned with white wintery hats. I have been on the trail since first light, painstakingly making my way to the higher, more remote country. Step by step, mile by mile, heading north to the land of my forefathers.

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