The Visions

The Vision of Dusk in Autumn

'Tis dusk in late Autumn and you're walking along a country road, weary from the day's toil and eager to settle somewhere and relax. Rounding a bend you come upon a clearing to the side. Parked therein is a gaily painted wagon, the brightness of its colours and the sharpness of its silhouette softened by approaching night. In front of the caravan is a magnificent bonfire, cauldron of boiling water suspended in the flames, the smell of cooking food enticing to you, inviting you closer.

Sprawled around the bonfire, perched on logs or just casually squatting, is a small gathering. A buxom wench, young, pretty, colourful shawl draped round shoulders is laughingly playing a fiddle, the light of mischief in her soft grey eyes. Another character, full-bearded, earring glinting from one ear, clad in what seem to be furs and leather, with tiny copper bells sewn to soft suede boots, that tinkle as he moves, strumming gently his guitar. A third, a man garbed in close-fitting black, sinister perhaps in any other setting, grasps steaming tankard in one hand, cigarette in other, singing snatches of some old folk-song.

Curious, you draw closer, and spy a fourth, lying full-length beside the fire, chewing meditatively on a twig. Obviously the bard, with his studious air and firelight glinting from narrow-rimmed glasses, held together with tape and wire. As you approach, a fifth member of this strange party appears; a raven-haired lass with flashing black eyes, full of mystery and enchantment, looking for all the world like the archetypal gypsy, with knotted headscarf, large hoop earrings, and flaring calf-length skirt. Offering a mug of tea and share of humble fare, you accept the wooden bowl with its hunk of bread, lump of cheese and sizzling sausages, seating yourself on a nearby tree-stump, relaxing in the warmth of the fire.

Enfolded in the closeness, conviviality, and simple joy of living that seems to surround these strange out-of-time people like a bubble, you feel the cares of the day ease away as some burden lifted from you, and it seems almost that you are with life-long friends. The foursome round the fire, accepting without comment or nod your presence, but with occasional smile or friendly glance cast in your direction (as though you too have always been a part of this) play themselves into a peaceful silence as darkness descends ever more.

Then, as you finish your food, replete, and take your first sips of the still-warm and smoke-infused brew, oblivious to floating charcoal specks, a tambourine jangles prelude to a lively air that springs from the nimble fingers of the maiden with the fiddle. The gypsy woman once again, dancing round the fire, weaving patterns in the air with flowing movement, graceful, light, speaking some language of the body whose soundless words cast a spell too mesmerising to be broken, seeming to dance and leap even as the flames. The bard, rousing himself from his faraway thoughts, takes up the beat with some primitive skin-covered drum, vying with the fiddler toward a frenzy that twitches the dancer as a puppet on a string who, finally exhausted, collapses in a laughing heap, all display not for others but for delight in her own being.

So the evening passes, with song, with dance, with companionable silences not broken by needless word or trite remark, you drawing ever closer to the crackling flames as the chill of darkness encroaches, but is held at bay by the magical circle.

More tea, more food, the fire restocked with branches midst showering sparks, all gathered gleefully moving and swaying to avoid billowing wood-smoke, like pungent incense clinging to hair and clothes. Such carefreeness, such casual happiness you cannot remember having known for such a long time; such peace and security, and well-being. Were you a child again, when the world sparkled and you knew Promise, Wonder, and Mystery, you would have felt just as this, before all the pettiness and greyness of day-to-day living bludgeoned you into submission. Before all the abuses of your spirit and body betrayed your trust and grasped your heart in cancerous grip.

As a full harvest moon looms ever larger in the night sky, seeming to stroke the very tops of quietly watching trees, the gypsy woman curls contentedly on the ground, stretching with feline grace. The leather-man gently lays aside guitar and stokes a battered pipe, mingling his smoke with that of the fire. The fiddler, seen now as child in woman's body, innocence untouched by any hurt, lovingly lays aside the source of her elfin tunes and, cross-legged, grasps mug in both hands offered her by man in black, who seems not sinister at all, but gentle, caring, yet ever-watchful and somehow distant, as might be a loving guardian warding off the world's cares.

So the music and the singing has drawn to close, allowing our bard to come now into his own, spinning tales of olden times and far-off places, of heroes and strange quests, of fairies and dragons, of dolmen, standing stones, and Druid circles, that it seems great mysteries are being spoken if you could but focus on the words, drifting to you through layers of drowsiness, warmth, and comfort. Were you wrapped in softest wool, gently rocked in the arms of an ever-loving mother, you could not feel more cherished, more safe.

The bard's words, soft as sweetest lullaby, lyrical as finest poem, become as gently sighing wind, as lapping ocean wave, the voice of Nature herself.

You stir, and find yourself alone beside the still-smouldering embers of a bonfire, wisps of smoke trailing blue into the new day. It might all have been a dream, but for the curious piece of crystal looped round your wrist by leather thong, a gift from your companions of the night; and but for the half-remembered kiss gently laid on your brow as you drifted into slumber. Of your strange new friends, wanderers from another place, another time, no sign. Yet somewhere out there, they too remember you, a weary stranger who shared their fire, who shared their food, who shared their joy and love, and brought no harm.

And for weeks to come, caught up once more in the noisy routine of life, paying bills, shopping, worrying and striving, in brief moments does the scene of that mysterious and timeless night return to you, in nostalgic hints of a way of living far better than that which most have found; far richer, far kinder.

Who can say what magic charm that dream-like night may cast o'er your soul, what tranquility and inner joy its haunting memory may bestow in future times of trouble, to draw you back once more.