April 3, 2005

He glances across the glossy waters of the lake, and the mists fade for a short moment.  He catches a glimpse of the island in the center of the cool, lapping water and a tear forms in his eye.

For he remembers his days there.  Others, too, came sometimes to that fair place, just as he had.  Some were to learn, others merely to view the great orchards and groves where it was said the Lady herself had walked.

He had found his voice there, and still sang occasionally, just to reach, trying again to feel the essence of that place.  But he had wandered from there, long ago, wishing to see his old world again.

The only loss he could find in years of remembering was that there was loneliness.  None had come back with him, and he was lost in the land he called home, with no one to help him remember the final verse of the song that, complete, would bring the barge to him at the lake’s shore.

The verse, the cantrip, to spell him back to the Lady.


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