D: Oh please, A, not a post about your obsession with that girl and her sparkly red shoes.
A: They’re really silver, but Ms. Garland did make the red ones iconic. I have a few pairs myself. Did you know, when I was little, I thought I was Dorothy?
D: I wondered why there was a little dog up here.
A: And I made my mother glitter a pair of my mary-janes.
D: That does not surprise me at all.
A: It really shouldn’t. There’s a reason I found a home at Kalmbach.
D: I thought it was because it was a publishing house.
A: Well, yeah, that’s what I tell people. But really, it’s the sparkle. It reaches down to us in customer service – they can hear it in our voices. (Unless you’re a train enthusiast, and then it’s the steam engines/diesels/something or another/insert your favorite here.)
D: So the show is going well, then.
D: I have no purpose here.
A: What, you don’t like a little razzle-dazzle? What do you call all those facial and arm adornments, the clasp on your cloak and the embroidery on that flashy tunic you wear while you tell the tale? Hm?
D: They don’t sparkle, A.
A: Same idea, D. If I recall, you seemed to like Niamh’s sparkle.
D: That’s magic, and it’s different. Are you insinuating–
A: It is not different: sparkle is the mortal way of having magic, D. You should know that. You need to go back to Druid School.
D: Druid School?
A: Druid School. Cheer up, D. Have a cookie.
The Druid Tells the Tale:
Razzle-Dazzle indeed. I pretend not to understand the crazy world A inhabits, but Amazon would really like to downgrade both your intelligence and your common sense. Read Green Embers’ opinion piece and visit the Legends of Windemere for a real-life example of this ridiculous practice.
A: And for a little more sparkle in your world, read Being the Memoirs of Helena Hann-Basquait, Dilettante. Her unique take on nursery rhymes were a particular delight!
(And, to tease D about Niamh’s sparkle, read on! A!! It wasn’t like that! Muah-hahahaha, payback is mine!)
. . . Colorful hangings, woven by Niamh’s mother, graced the walls. A few, Dubh noted, were newer. These were Niamh’s own, then.
“You’ve gotten better,” he remarked, pointing at one, its tones of rose, yellow and blue twisting a pattern that shifted as he watched. It trapped him in its weave, telling a story. Dubh tore his eyes from it. He didn’t have time for the tales it could tell.
“Sit, Dubh, please. Glowering at the tapestry will not help you find Sean and Maureen any faster.”
“So you know?”
“I know, and I’m not the only one. We felt it, your waking. It has been so long. We thought them all gone from your world, thought you were the last one. It was powerful, Dubh.”
He turned and regarded Niamh closely. Her golden hair was twisted in tight braids and within the intricate weave were glimmering stones. Bits of magic that looked like flowers, but sparkled as she moved, crowned the head that barely came to his chest. She was a woman grown, and she knew power.
“Then you know what happened? You know what I did . . .”