Sign, age-darkened, clearly old beckoned. Been along this quaint street many times, yet I never saw this sign before. Long, black finger pointed to wisteria shaded alleyway. I had to go in. Brass ship's bell above creaky wooden door tolls. Reverberation more knell than time-telling or announcing curious guests. Long-haired calico cat peered at me, determined stare, not purring. I wander past dusty, tarnished silver samovars, calf-high boots requiring button hooks, nimble fingers. Meander deeper perusing shelves crammed with leather-bound books: piled, balanced, one lay open to silkscreened castle shimmering above aqua-silvered lake. Arrogant cat, tail high, sashays, slithers between my legs, nudging me further in. She hisses as I attempt to run my hand along tawny spine. Whiskers twitch. I pick through sterling silver and marcasite jewelry, rub my thumb across finger-worried, worn smooth pocket watch, owner long-forgotten, engraved name long worn away. All while being watched: amber-eyed intensity. Pearl and gold bead encrusted gown, white muslin; heavy to wear, I imagine. Wish for a suitable occasion whatever that occasion might be. Hollowed-out gourd, painted blood-red, berry-blue, holds vintage cloisonné birds. Along shadowed back wall, wide rack holding walking sticks, staves, carven staffs shillelaghs -- both blackthorn and oak. One, carved willowood - not weeping willow wood, but willowood featuring flared flanges pulls me in. Dragon heads dance along staff spine, intricate castles cavort, mystical fae flit along mid-forte; strongest part unlike narrowed rooted-tip, foible; fragile there. Smooth, glossy, dust-free in musty shop where dust motes dance, inviting sneezes. Perfect height, leather-wrapped for grasping, conjuring images along tree shadowed trails. Cool breeze wafts. What had been layered rack becomes woodland birches. Trail littered with bony fallen branches half obscuring sun-dappled path. Look behind; no store, just that calico cat licking lifted paw. Walking stick urges exploration. Yet now is not appropriate time. Willowood vibrates. Once again I am surrounded by antiquities. Puzzled, yet intrigued, I approach the wizened woman behind mahogany counter, request pricing, doubting ability to afford. Cackled laughter erupts. 'Money is unnecessary here. Willow-wanderer chose you. Priceless treasure at any rate.' Deep purr startles. Three foot leap to countertop, head batting my hand, purring rumbles. Back arches against caressing, I am blessed by rough-tongued lick. 'Calliope likes you,' says toothless crone. Back to cobble-stoned street, willowood staff vibrates. Looking back, no sign points towards antique store, indeed, no wisteria lined alleyway. Just Calliope, curled, sleeping, taking sunbath. |