At one time or another, we have all wished and sometimes those wishes have turned into dreams and there we have found ourselves lost in their midst for a day or three. Allowing oneself these wish-dreams can be a most exhilarating experience, but, perhaps somewhat reluctantly, we make our way back to our cups of tea or windy hilltops. Then, one fine and promising day, we endeavor to find the courage to take a first wobbly step onto a rickety-rackety path, not having the foggiest as to where it may lead.
There are others, who find the cutting of paths through thickets and the stumbling over boulders rather wearisome and so prefer to wish-dream over and over, from sunrise to sunset, barely walking on this Earth at all. One of these such wish-dreamers was known as Soetkin and so adept was she in taking flights of fancy, that the world around her faded and swirled around her ankles like a mist. There were times, of course, that it became as a curling cat tail, but, no more than that. Lunch would be forgotten and dinner and supper too. Which, was just as well or else unwashed pots and pans would have reached the roof! Spoils of her absent-minded visits to the grocer’s shop laid silvered chocolate wrappers at her feet that peeked through the mists like bright, twinkling stars on a cloudy night.
Many years had passed since the dreaming began, though Soetkin could not quite recall how many. In fact, these days she could barely recall anything at all. She did recollect hair that was once as soft as spun silk and as gold as the falling sun, but the growing winter had covered the gold in frost and left twigs in place of the silk. No matter, for Soetkin’s dreams were as bright as ever, even if she had to stitch more often. In time, as her fingers grew to aching and the needle danced more hesitantly, Soetkin wondered how many more wish-dreams she would have left.
One soft autumn afternoon, as the light faded from the sky and woodsmoke curled out from the chimney, Soetkin dreamt once more of walks as yet untaken, of forests rich and dark. Through the verdant gloom of fern and mossy branches, a shadow as silent as the darkest of nights emerged and at first Soetkin was mystified. ” Was it really that time already?” She pondered.
Softly and quietly The Governessa slipped her cold, bony fingers into Soetkin’s papery hand and led her down to the roots of the Old Willow Tree.