The Seventh Star Inn

[Bêthberry]

A myriad of twinkling prisms seem to hover in the trees outside the Seventh Star; it was an early winter hoarfrost settling onto the branches, the poles, the wires, the eves of the buildings. And in the sharp edges of the night sky there rose star after star and, finally, the sliver of silver moon. The cloudless sky meant a cold night, but the conviviality continued inside the Star.

A woman in travelling clothes, heavy lined cloak, high boots, even a muff for her hands, although she held several large boxes in her arms, walked into the Star and watched the assembled guests. Some were celebrating the end of a long web of story; some were commending the successful entry of a newly loomed narrative; others were watching a flying shuttle cock, hoping it would begin to show the warp and weeve of a new pattern. She felt she would intrude upon their conversations if she spoke to them, so she silently passed on to the table.

Bethberry noticed the absence of the Innkeeper and a well-known companion but she spoke not of it. Rather, she quietly laid on the shining surface of the table two gifts for her friends assembled and friends absent, one a tin of rumballs glazed with powdered sugar, the other, a small wooden crate of oranges, swaddled in tissue paper. She left both on the table and then sought out a chair by the fire to warm herself, marvelling at the crisp, pristine walls. The texture of white leaped out at her as if rebuking layer after layer of daily habit and inertial activity, until, finally, her mind arrived at the small inner luminescence of idea and thought. Words darted on her tongue, soundlessly, and then settled into a ferment. Eyes closed, she sat deeper into the chair.

[ December 13, 2002: Message edited by: Bethberry ]