Strangeness on the Moors
I don’t know what I intended from my walk up the steep ridge behind the house. It was so foggy when I set out that I almost turned around right away for fear of quickly becoming lost.
But something drew me higher, farther and farther from any familiar landmark in these woods I thought I knew well, the more strange and disorienting for the thick whiteness in every direction. Up was, at least, still up. I would eventually reach the crest.
Eventually, after hours and I don’t know how many miles later and hundreds feet higher than the house, the forest gave way to an open glade. Â The sun by then had burned away most of the mist and shredded the wet haze to occasional gossamer wisps.
I found myself walkingÂ cautiouslyÂ into an opening where it was clear I was not the first to go. I had the notion that there must have been moonlit evenings when many gathered in that place–for what unimaginable revelry or devilry? I am at a loss to explain the wizened totem-trunks and roots, many of them dragon or gargoyle-shaped, tentacled and clawed, leering- menacing or playful- whimsical, their shapes shifting with the light as I walked past.
But there’s more. Tomorrow.