Short Story: "Enchantment in the Woods"
An experience I had three years ago still haunts my dreams. I can’t convince you to believe it really happened. But, when you feel the chills climb your arms and tickle the back of your neck, you will know that I am telling the truth.
I was with a merry group of women in the countryside of Cornwall, England, enjoying the late summer sun. We were on our way to Boscastle on a footpath through the woods that began behind Minster Church.
As we approached the diminutive church, gravestones growing out of the deep grass whispered softly, in sad tones of grey and brown. Colorful ribbons waved in the breeze from ancient yew trees surrounding the churchyard, weaving all the colors of the rainbow into the luscious green tapestry.
Once inside, gravestones embedded the walls like shiny diamonds in a crown.
As a quiet emptiness enveloped me, I felt invisible eyes following my every move. I shuddered from the dampness, as we walked outside to begin the hour trek.
Just beyond the churchyard gate, we came upon a small gravestone that read: “Joan Wytte. Born 1775, Died 1813. Buried 1998. No longer abused.”
“Joan was a midwife, condemned as a witch, who was tortured and left to die in prison,” my friend Liz informed us.
A beautiful stream flowed gently next to the footpath. Each of us walked at our own pace and I found myself on the path alone. The sound of the rushing stream transformed into the most peaceful music that seemed to be coming from very far away.
Suddenly, I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Looking down and I saw a moss-covered tree stump. Ribbons and pieces of cloth were tied to the branchlettes and its crevices held more pricey offerings: gold and silver rings, watches even.
Realizing that this stump must be sacred, I took off one of my friendship bracelets and tied it to a tiny branch. I smiled and thanked the spirits of the forest for offering such a luminous day.
As I arose and started to walk along the path, I had an inkling to look over my shoulder. Hovering over the stump, I saw an iridescent light, like sprinkly fireflies dancing. I could barely make out the shape of a human body before it disappeared with a white flash.
Disbelieving what I had seen, I caught up with my friends. I described the stump, and asked if any of them had noticed it. They all said no. So, we all walked back towards the stump. We walked and walked, but couldn’t find it! It was as if for a moment, a veil had been lifted just for me. But, why?
Giving up, we found a lovely stone grotto and sat down on the soft grass to eat our packed lunches. An old woman, dressed in long, brown robes sat down and pulled out a small loaf of bread and cheese from a paper bag, smiled at us and quietly ate her lunch.
One of my friends asked her if she had ever seen a sacred tree stump decorated with ribbons and jewelry on this path. The old woman stopped chewing abruptly and eyed my friend thoughtfully.
“When did you see it?” she asked, her sparkling blue eyes growing large.
“Today. But, I didn’t see it, my friend over there did.”
She pointed at me and the old woman gazed into my eyes for what seemed like an eternity.
“Come with me, I have something to show you,” she said.
She took me to the other side of the grotto wall where she pointed out a carving of a labyrinth on the wall.
“Do you know what this is?”
“It’s a labyrinth,” I said.
“It is a passage into the Otherworld, like the sacred stump you came upon. Did you see anything else?”
“Well, I saw something. It seemed to be made out of light. What was it?”
“A faery, the most powerful faery in the forest! She allowed you to pass into her veiled world. Did you also hear the unearthly music?”
“Yes, just before I saw the stump.”
The old woman fell to her knees, pulled me down next to her, and began to tell a story.
“There was a great hero named Cuchulain, who while traveling through these parts many years ago, fell asleep against the tree in the forest–the same tree that is only now a stump. Here he passed into the Otherworld where Fand, the beautiful queen of the faeries lived.
Fand and Cuchulain fell deeply in love, and vowed to meet under the yew trees that grow by the old church. She would leave her husband, Mananan, and he would leave his wife, Emer.
However, when Emer came upon them with fifty of her handmaidens intending to slay Fand, Fand gave up Cuchulain and returned to her husband Mananan.
Overcome with grief, Cuchulain pushed aside food, water and sleep for many weeks and sat waiting under the magical tree that marked the door to Fand’s world. Sadly, Fand never returned for him.
Finally, the druids brought him a potion to make him forget shimmering Fand for all eternity.
Fand did not forget Cuchulain and waits forever to reunite with him in spirit near the stump. But, she will never reach him, even beyond death. Her husband, Mananan, shook his cloak between them, to keep them apart for all of eternity.”
I sat quietly, taking in this tragic love story.
The old woman stood up slowly, walked over to the wall and began to trace her finger over the labyrinthine pattern. She turned and smiled at me, as if to bid me farewell as I stood up.
“Thank you for telling me that wonderful story. It was nice meeting you–who are you?”
“My name is Joan.”
She smiled one last time and disappeared into the misty air.
I was with a merry group of women in the countryside of Cornwall, England, enjoying the late summer sun. We were on our way to Boscastle on a footpath through the woods that began behind Minster Church.
As we approached the diminutive church, gravestones growing out of the deep grass whispered softly, in sad tones of grey and brown. Colorful ribbons waved in the breeze from ancient yew trees surrounding the churchyard, weaving all the colors of the rainbow into the luscious green tapestry.
Once inside, gravestones embedded the walls like shiny diamonds in a crown.
As a quiet emptiness enveloped me, I felt invisible eyes following my every move. I shuddered from the dampness, as we walked outside to begin the hour trek.
Just beyond the churchyard gate, we came upon a small gravestone that read: “Joan Wytte. Born 1775, Died 1813. Buried 1998. No longer abused.”
“Joan was a midwife, condemned as a witch, who was tortured and left to die in prison,” my friend Liz informed us.
A beautiful stream flowed gently next to the footpath. Each of us walked at our own pace and I found myself on the path alone. The sound of the rushing stream transformed into the most peaceful music that seemed to be coming from very far away.
Suddenly, I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Looking down and I saw a moss-covered tree stump. Ribbons and pieces of cloth were tied to the branchlettes and its crevices held more pricey offerings: gold and silver rings, watches even.
Realizing that this stump must be sacred, I took off one of my friendship bracelets and tied it to a tiny branch. I smiled and thanked the spirits of the forest for offering such a luminous day.
As I arose and started to walk along the path, I had an inkling to look over my shoulder. Hovering over the stump, I saw an iridescent light, like sprinkly fireflies dancing. I could barely make out the shape of a human body before it disappeared with a white flash.
Disbelieving what I had seen, I caught up with my friends. I described the stump, and asked if any of them had noticed it. They all said no. So, we all walked back towards the stump. We walked and walked, but couldn’t find it! It was as if for a moment, a veil had been lifted just for me. But, why?
Giving up, we found a lovely stone grotto and sat down on the soft grass to eat our packed lunches. An old woman, dressed in long, brown robes sat down and pulled out a small loaf of bread and cheese from a paper bag, smiled at us and quietly ate her lunch.
One of my friends asked her if she had ever seen a sacred tree stump decorated with ribbons and jewelry on this path. The old woman stopped chewing abruptly and eyed my friend thoughtfully.
“When did you see it?” she asked, her sparkling blue eyes growing large.
“Today. But, I didn’t see it, my friend over there did.”
She pointed at me and the old woman gazed into my eyes for what seemed like an eternity.
“Come with me, I have something to show you,” she said.
She took me to the other side of the grotto wall where she pointed out a carving of a labyrinth on the wall.
“Do you know what this is?”
“It’s a labyrinth,” I said.
“It is a passage into the Otherworld, like the sacred stump you came upon. Did you see anything else?”
“Well, I saw something. It seemed to be made out of light. What was it?”
“A faery, the most powerful faery in the forest! She allowed you to pass into her veiled world. Did you also hear the unearthly music?”
“Yes, just before I saw the stump.”
The old woman fell to her knees, pulled me down next to her, and began to tell a story.
“There was a great hero named Cuchulain, who while traveling through these parts many years ago, fell asleep against the tree in the forest–the same tree that is only now a stump. Here he passed into the Otherworld where Fand, the beautiful queen of the faeries lived.
Fand and Cuchulain fell deeply in love, and vowed to meet under the yew trees that grow by the old church. She would leave her husband, Mananan, and he would leave his wife, Emer.
However, when Emer came upon them with fifty of her handmaidens intending to slay Fand, Fand gave up Cuchulain and returned to her husband Mananan.
Overcome with grief, Cuchulain pushed aside food, water and sleep for many weeks and sat waiting under the magical tree that marked the door to Fand’s world. Sadly, Fand never returned for him.
Finally, the druids brought him a potion to make him forget shimmering Fand for all eternity.
Fand did not forget Cuchulain and waits forever to reunite with him in spirit near the stump. But, she will never reach him, even beyond death. Her husband, Mananan, shook his cloak between them, to keep them apart for all of eternity.”
I sat quietly, taking in this tragic love story.
The old woman stood up slowly, walked over to the wall and began to trace her finger over the labyrinthine pattern. She turned and smiled at me, as if to bid me farewell as I stood up.
“Thank you for telling me that wonderful story. It was nice meeting you–who are you?”
“My name is Joan.”
She smiled one last time and disappeared into the misty air.
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