The Light of Souls

Few ever saw her, this forest Sorceress, whose magic was in comforting those fallen amongst the leafy ground cover, fragrant herbs, flower spikes, thistle, thorns, and tree branches. Her voice, if someone chose to listen, could be heard, faintly audible, lilting slightly with the wind as she counted souls:

"Twenty-three have fallen and found me this night. Welcome to my garden light. You may stay; rest from your plight. There is no need yet to take flight..."

Then she whispered their names into the breeze, giving each the eternal breath of remembrance:

"Jacqueline, Andres, Christa, Hina, Giles, Paolo..."

Every name she spoke with breathy awareness of the life lived but now in transition.

Some names took on a magic of their own as the syllables wafted on heights, lingering for longer than expected:

"Phil-o-men-aah, Elssss-bethhhh, Flo-ri-annn..."

While others arrived staccato and abrupt, like a chance clap of unexpected lightning waking our awareness for a broken fragment of a second:

"Mikel, Suz, Brock, Jack, Petra..."

Many more names had arrived from far off times and places:

"Sigrid, Volf, Romy, Gorm, Jalf, Thyra..."

And some souls even ventured into her forest enclave with no name at all, having left it behind or never been given one, until now by the Sorceress:

"Oiseau-bleu, Fleur, Estimada..."

She welcomed them all. "You have seen my Light of Souls glowing green. Please enter my tree cave for a respite where you may choose, if you like, to be seen."

The green light was magical, ethereal, and glowed with a radiating and pulsating light, like the faintest of heartbeats from far-away, transparent, bi-winged dragonflies. Day or night, the green glow of the light signaled the arrival of a soul, or many, who were simply not ready to travel elsewhere or onward, just yet.

An angry soul produced a white-hot glow, completely eclipsing the veined, crackled appearance of the green glass globe. A dim, wavering light that lingered signaled a sad loss, unnecessary, and there was a lot of that dimness lately. Of these still in need of comfort and care, the Sorceress was particularly fond. The Sorceress could even become attached to them.

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The first to show himself tonight was Volf. He arrived angry and bloodied, rabid and furred, snarling at the injustice of having been pierced by an arrow simply because he held wolf-form and had wandered too close beside grazing sheep. Gnawing at the shaft continuously, he had trailed his blood across six centuries. Volf usually snapped viciously at any helpful spirit's hand, but, somehow, he trusted the talisman of the Sorceress's light.

"Let me use my magic of the hooked thistle thorn to remove what has pierced you for this too-long time, Volf."

"You will feel pain no longer." She comforted Volf and he breathed his first peaceful sigh of relief in his long-overwrought memory. As his soul's appearance faded, the green light glowed, so he chose to keep his soul with the Sorceress in her forest garden.

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Next to show herself was Estimada, who had left her name with her sister Beatrice in Brazil. She was cherished, Estimada knew, so she did not want to carry the weight of her name with her soul.

"My sister still needs to speak my name," Estimada stated, matter-of-factly, boldly, but lovingly. Then she explained she was not supposed to travel in her soul now but had become lost due to a unseen invader who took away her very breath. What she craved now was softness, for the hospital's treatments were lonely, dry, and harsh.

The Sorceress replied with compassion and care. She had seen far too many without breath. With her magic, the Sorceress found ways to keep her flowers growing in order to offer their scented powers to those souls needing to recover pleasant memories of what it was like to breathe deeply.

"Please let me bring to you the softness of these rose petals, whose gentle perfume has been awakened by the sun, while their magical oils have been emulsified by the dew." The lilting voice of the Sorceress called to Estimada's heart as she accepted her personal relief.

"Thank you! I can smell them!" Estimada's enthusiasm scattered the rose petals as if on a soft, gentle breeze. Where they landed gave balm to her parched soul. The Sorceress promised to send flower scents to her sister Beatrice upon the prevailing wind so these would comfort her as well.

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As the evening ascended into the deepest blue-black of night, the Sorceress continued her empathetic address of all souls willing to continue to seek respite here. Some, she knew, were becoming ready to take their final journey away from their earthly confines, while others would leave to wander elsewhere and later return.

One such itinerate traveler was Andres. His wanderlust was so strong that the Sorceress was not prepared for the next day's surprise. Many times, Andres, who described himself as a lover of women and never settling down in one place, thrived on adventure. "After all," he was fond of narrating, "I have run with the Bulls of Pamplona. Let me tell you that story." He would take form and show himself every time he visited the Sorceress and tell wonderful stories.

However, this time, he made the unusual statement that, "Sometimes we don't get to write our own ending." This pronouncement concerned the Sorceress because she had often been visited by Andres, with his soul igniting the green light so many times. He thrived on seeing her fortitude and compassion, while she always felt his presence through adventurous energies and the visions he sent to her. He seemed as if not yet really gone from human form. In truth it had been only three years, but in the world of souls, time is meaningless.

The cycles of the earth do continue, though, and now it was daybreak in the Sorceress's tree cave.

As sunlight reflected amongst the canopy leaves, creating speckled light dancing upon the bark, the Sorceress became aware of a feeling of emptiness. She exclaimed, "Andres, I do not know where you are!"

Indeed, she did not know. Perhaps he had gone off to write his own ending, but there were other possibilities the light could show. For when a soul takes flight, only the sunlight shines.

The Sorceress preferred the green light, her Light of Souls.

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My stories have interconnections. Please enjoy my recent fiction story about Andres here:

Also, please read about my photography techniques in my second Vocal story here:

When I describe one of my photos as "In-situ," this means I did not manipulate the image after taking the photo, but did so before I tapped the photo screen. All images in my story "The Light of Souls" are my photos.

I also introduce my friend Isabel in Brazil through the following story, and this bee photo is one I took as well:

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Cheers, to the green light,

Cynthia