Shapes of Love

It was a modest thing. A black thing. Cloaked in moleskine. Tobacco and vanilla perfumed its parchment. I hadn't a clue then, the role this book would play. But I could feel it's importance. Its enigmatic significance. They called me demented. Madwoman.

But oh how wrong they were.

His shaggy mane was frosting. His eyes rain grey. His leather hands enveloped mine and he cast it there. Left it in my palm. Altered a life so small and unimportant.

"It's the little things," he said.

And I never saw him again. Not one glimpse. The things I yearned to say. What's your name? Please accept my endless gratitude. Why me?

Though he must know.

No one else could read it.

"Just scribbles," Tidi claimed, "You well dearie?"

But it was there. Plain as day. A riddle and map in the old man's chicken scrawl. A book brimful of notes. Remembrance.

Tidi could never call me mad. But he worried. Paced while I packed my rucksack.

"I'm curious," I told him.

"I know. Just come back in one piece luv."

I watched him wither as the train chugged away. Waving. His dark mop of curls dancing with the wind. Oh how I love him. I arrived in Edinburgh four hours later and stayed in a hostel just off the Royal Mile. I lay in my bunk trying to mold the pillow into a sleep-able shape and quickly gave up drifting into slumber.

I awoke to downpour. Water drizzling from roofing, puddling on cobblestone. I finished my toast and Lady Grey while reading over the silver fox notes.

I bestow this to you as if sharing honeydew. The way I paved is in the cave. Follow the waves of the singing wellspring. So heavenly and legendary. And it’s yours. Oh it’s yours I vow. Be wise but claim your prize. And remember love comes in many a size.

I believed he spoke of Fingal's Cave, the walls of which, built from hexagonally jointed basalt, were said to sing when the wind billows through. It would be a days journey by train and ferry, but I was keen, curious to see where the little black book would take me.

When I arrived at the port I was soaked to the bone. With my bangs clinging to my brow and condensation dripping from my lashes, I felt as though I resembled a waterlogged newspaper. But worse, I had missed the ferry. I tossed my rucksack to the ground and collapsed beside it. The rain had ceased and sun rays prodded through clouds.

"Where ye destined lass?" came a voice from above.

It was a young Scottish lad clad in a green knitted cap and a big black raincoat.

"I’m headed for Fingal's Cave."

"Well it's settled then I'll take ye," he said.

"I wasn’t asking."

"Come on, I've got a boat. We'll get ye there in one piece. I promise."

Thrown somewhat by his brash matter of fact zeal in coming to my aid I took his extended hand. Soon I found myself warm in a wool jumper, cocooned and sitting on the deck of his boat, my belongings drying in the sun.Waves playfully splattered the hull and he chattered away while expertly handing the helm. He'd been sailing since he was a child and had named his craft after his mother Aileen. He was a tender soul.

The island was truly astonishing. I had heard the tales but seeing it in flesh was something else. It erupted from the sea demanding presence. The rocky pillars were tall and towering like a cathedral ceiling. It was robed in green that perfectly contrasted the oceans blue, and the cavern entrance was wider than I ever imagined. I clasped my companions hand.

"I know, she's a beauty," he said, "Not unlike you miss."

"Thank you! Your mother would be filled with pride in raising such a son," I replied squeezing his palm, "I never did get your name?"

"Comrade," he said with a wink, "My name is Comrade."

He told me ferries came and went from the island every day, so I'd be sure to catch a ride back to the mainland. I watched as he sailed away, waving, thinking of Tidi back home, and opened the book once more to read the riddle in its place of origin, or what I hoped was.

I bestow this to you as if sharing honeydew. The way I paved is in the cave. Follow the waves of the singing wellspring. So heavenly and legendary. And it’s yours. Oh it’s yours I vow. Be wise but claim your prize. And remember love comes in many a size.

Everything felt right and so began my trek to the entrance. Heart pounding. Fingers itching on my rucksack straps. Moments later I stood there like an ant on a hill, peering up at the stony gateway of my curiosities. Seaspray moistening my face. The rock was slippery and I gripped the walls furthering into the black, following the waves as the cave sang out to me. From the dark there was a glow that got brighter with each step. It was warm and mystical. I soon came upon the source. And it was beautiful. A mighty golden bush with branches wrapping, and winding, and glowing as if holding in a sunset. Delicate shimmering leaves blanketed the brush, and the radiance was overwhelming. I reached out and broke off a branch. An ethereal white light began to fill the cave. It was warm and so bright I closed my eyes.

When they opened. I was home. In Tidi's arms before I made the landing. I could never recall the journey back though Tidi always jested transportation. He was the only soul I ever told of the bush. The only one who shared in the love and quandary of the old man. His compassion. Good fortune. A gift I vowed to bestow to another worthy heart. We chose to hang the branch above the hearth so mysterious golden and too precious to melt down. Soon we remarkably found ourselves with a unnatural amount of wealth. Able to do anything. Help anyone.

No one ever did know where our fortune had come. To them I was just the “mad woman”. The raving lunatic who showed them maps, riddles, and scribbles. The birdie who disappeared for weeks. But none of it mattered. For the first time. I knew. I understood. Love has not but one form.

A stranger’s act, a cup of ginger tea, a warm jumper, even a little black book. There are many shapes of love.