The Chronicles of Infel

What Brings You Here?

Once upon a tranquil scene, ‘oer mountain top and evergreen

Amidst a sunlit clearing next to river flowing from the peaks

Long golden hair, eyes like a cat, a witch’s gown and witch’s hat

Upon a rounded boulder sat a girl with legs in water placed

A smile drawn across her face.

 

“What brings you here?” the river asks as little witch pulls out a flask

And fills it to the brim with crystal water from the river’s edge

“Well that’s,” witch says. “A silly question from the river whose direction

Flows so freely in perfection down unhindered without tire,

That same freedom I desire.”

 

“Little witch, might I attest,” the river pauses to suggest,

“If freedom is what suits you best, then might the mountains you explore?

Though they make no move or motion, from their peaks they see the ocean,

With their spines they span the coast and travel far and endlessly.

Might they suit your reverie?”

 

“Might they indeed!” the small witch cries, a spark lit in her emerald eyes

And with the flask in satchel placed she turns and stands from waters blue.

Her hand upon a whittled broom, she sweeps the rock with thin straw plume

And off she soars into the gloom of misty mountains cold and high

Speeding through the azure sky.

 

“What brings you here?” the mountains groan, their voice a deep and endless moan

As little witch soars up and through the snow-filled peaks and chilly skies.

“Often we have seen you flying, over all the wilds spying,

Hunting, searching, seeking, trying for some piece of lore unknown,

Far you search away from home.”

 

“Mighty mountains, tall and grand,” the little witch extends a hand,

“I wonder, might you understand the secrets that elude me still?

Though your body, ever resting, sits immobile, still, and nesting,

The truth I see manifesting is that freedom you know well.

Won’t you teach me such a spell?”

 

“Little witch, I must remark,” the mountains grumble, low and stark,

“If freedom is why you embark, then should not forest you survey?

High into sky do those trees grow, far over land do their seeds sow,

Deep into earth do their roots grow, out far beyond the reach of mine,

Why not delve through oak and pine?”

 

“Now there’s a thought,” the witch responds, her mind on leaves and roots and fronds.

And without further word absconds from frozen mountains white with snow.

Speeding low, she ducks and turns down towards the branches, bark, and ferns

And all throughout her small heart yearns to quell the question on her mind.

Answers she has yet to find.

 

“What brings you here?” the forest sways, as on the dirt the small witch lays,

And seems not bothered by the dark, or bugs, or spiders crawling there.

“Oh forest, with your roots so deep, your trees across the landscape sweep,

I wonder, how is it you creep to ever corner of this land?

Was such freedom ever planned?”

 

“Little witch, if you’d allow,” the forest rustles, branch and bough.

“If freedom is still what you vow, then why to us for answers come?

Of your quest we are approving, yet do you see our trees moving?

How can you lay thus, accusing us of something you possess?

Is it not you who is blessed?”

 

“What do you mean?” witch heaves a sigh, her voice in small but clear outcry.

“It seems no matter what I try, its freedom that I never have.

The river runs just as it please, the mountain over all land sees,

The forest travels with its trees, and each so lovely in its role.

Is such a thing within my soul?”

 

“It is indeed,” the forest smiles, compassionate of the young girl’s trials.

“For just today you’ve traveled miles all around this world of ours.

Far further than the river flows, much higher than the mountain goes,

Much wider than the forest knows, you have the power to venture there.

In all earth’s wonders, you can share.”

 

Such thoughtful words give the girl pause. She now can see her journey’s flaws,

And with her hands in small applause she leaps from dirt and leaf and twig.

“Forest, you are truly wise! A fog you’ve lifted from my eyes.

It seems, though much to my surprise, that freedom I’ve had all the while!

My own self I’d long beguiled!”

 

She thanks the forest for its time, and on her broom speeds through the pine

With fervor now, she feels inclined to share the knowledge that she’s gained.

Deep into wood she ventures home, to cottage strewn with book and tome,

And through the darkened catacomb of sickly trees and bogs she flies.

The light of candles meets her eyes.

 

“I’m home!” the small witch says aloud, her voice and eyes and purpose proud.

And through the door she saunters, spying then her master in a chair.

“And child, just where have you been?” the master calls, stilling her pen.

“If I recall, ‘twas morning when I sent you out to do your chore.

It’s night behind that open door!”

 

The little witch wrinkles her brow, and turns to darkened window now

To watch the last of orange light fade into blue of starry sky.

Her lips then purse to either side, until she turns with smile wide

And bonks her head as if to chide herself for such an oversight

Her shoulders slouch in mock contrite.

 

“Oops, I spent the whole day pretending the landscape could talk again.”