Stones In The Bonfire

The Writers Island prompt this week is superstition.

Hope you enjoy this little tale.

{ Image: Superstition by Samsaralark at Deviant Art }

We watch those living in doubt, in fear, stumbling in the darkness. Good luck, they say when embarking on a new venture. Best of luck. What a stroke of luck. I’m on a lucky streak. As if luck ever had anything to do with the way things turn out.

They are a trusting lot, these humans. Easily led, easily beguiled. Carrying rabbits feet, four leaf clovers, lucky charms, throwing salt over their shoulders, not stepping on cracks in the road or walking under ladders. Avoiding black cats, avoiding the thirteenth floor. Believing all that effort makes a difference.

The evening light is red in the mirror in the hall. I see a reflection of flesh and bone, wavering, yet real enough for an instant to instill in me a strange sense of joy. The sky is carnadine like the velvet cloak I used to wear when I still walked freely in the world.

We do not walk now, my sisters and I. We watch. Some call us guardians, some call us the keepers, some call us witches. Once, long ago, a human man thought he knew us for who we really are, and he guessed at our name, lightly, as if it was written on water – seraphim. Angels in human form who walk this earth. It was what he wanted to believe. So we let him.

We are all those things and so much more. We listen to all that’s said, all that’s thought, all that’s felt. We see all that’s done. We save those we can and turn in sorrow from those we cannot. We are murky from lack of sunlight, tattered, nostalgic for rain on our faces, searching for the sound of glory in the wind.

The fire burns, the flames a sword blade thrusting at the sky. The stones smoulder within it, turning from black to red to grey, catching a glimpse of destiny. We read the stones and we act as we must, waiting, ever waiting, like a gardener longing for recalcitrant roses to bloom.

The cats stroll, petulant on city streets. Their other-worldliness renders them fearless. The homeless men hear voices, see shadows of things they used to know flashing in and out of sight. They are close, attuned to what humans refer to as God.

The humans hang their pendants, their amulets; their crystals split the light. They mix their balms, their potions, their tinctures. Keep me safe from harm. Guide me to the light. They cry, they moan, they pray. They don’t know what they are trying to guard themselves against with their voiceless superstition. They cannot fathom it. The terror lies in freedom, not in restraint. There is no need for them to fear what they can imagine. They only need to fear what they cannot.