Bored
with her reading and drawn by a fluttering of wings and a cooing from beyond,
the poet rose and stepped over to a corner where he drew apart the curtains.
A powerful wind swept through the room, picking up the tarot cards and
scattering them about. He plucked a card out of the air and glanced
at it 
before
the wind snatched it back; it was the high priestess. It and all
the other cards turned to falling red and yellow brown dried leaves, rustling
on the floor and crunching under his feet as he returned to the table.
The irate fortuneteller loomed over a crystal ball, forcing him to look
within where he could see himself captured by an angry mob and hung from
the limb of a lone oak tree.
“Ah, but this has already been.” He drew down his collar to show her the rope marks.
“Then you are dead?” The crone had lost her confidence.
“No,
the man hung from the tree is dead, but I am quite alive.” 
Before
she could question him further, he directed her gaze back into the crystal
ball. It held her image, dressed in rags and begging for alms.
“Noooo!”
The
crystal ball grew brighter and brighter, accompanied by a drumming which
grew louder and louder until it shook the floor. Dust rose to cloud
the room as the crystal ball burst open, 
releasing
a stampede of horses. The poet stood on his chair, grabbed the lead
horse by the mane, and swung himself onto its back, carried away at the
head of the torrent.
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
He
taught sixth grade at a small school in Kentucky. One spring day,
near the end of the school year, he took his class hiking through the hills
out beyond the edge of town. He showed them a few different edible
plants, some animal tracks, and led a discussion of sinkholes, caverns
and karst topography. The kids shared with him little scraps of folklore
learned from their parents or grandparents. When not engaged in teaching
or
fatherly
duties, he collected and chronicled the lore of the Kentucky backwoods.
In a clearing they espied a beautiful young lady--out on a foraging expedition of her own--as she busied herself gathering plants nearby the dilapidated stone and cement foundation where at some dim point in the past a house once stood. As she picked and plucked, she seemed to be carrying on a conversation with the herbs for which she foraged. One of the children told him that a witch lived in this place and was burned in her own home by the townspeople over a century ago. This bit of history distracted the teacher’s attention from the young woman for the merest fraction of a second, and when he looked back she was gone.
Investigation
of the ruins showed that she had been harvesting a number of different--and
dangerous--herbs: henbane, foxglove, nightshade, none of them native plants
to the country 
here
abouts. Finding various other native and nonnative herbs noted for
their medicinal properties, he realized this was once an herb garden where
were cultivated the most potent and powerful of plants. Other than
a few fresh cut stems and a couple spots where roots had been dug, there
was no sign that the young woman had ever been present.
On
the weekend, he and his daughter visited the elderly woman from whom he
had learned most of his lore. The old woman was like a grandmother
to his daughter, she always had some treat waiting. Today the treat
was for both father and daughter. Here
they
met the mysterious woman, and they both fell under the spell of her beauty,
her quiet humor, her gentle touch and loving kindness. The three
of them quite naturally made a family, and in no time he and his daughter
had moved into her house.
She
lived in an old farmhouse a little outside of town. There she kept
a cow, two goats, chickens, a dog and a house full of cats. The river
ran right behind her house, carrying its waters out to the big muddy and
thence to the gulf. Their home together was
one
of happiness and contentment. His daughter received all the love
and nurturing for which a child could ask. To him, she laid open
the depths of existence and the heights of passion. And she was herself
strengthened by their presence, fulfilled in the wholeness of their life
together.
One
day the old woman called her in to heal a child beyond any other help.
Through inner, unseen avenues she sought the child out and brought her
back to life. At first the people spoke of a miracle but, noting
her odd ways and hidden manners, the talk
soon
turned to witchcraft. They were avoided in the town; shopkeepers
refused to do business with them. His daughter was taunted by other
children, and a parents’ group petitioned to have him removed from the
school faculty. She was wrongfully blamed for the mysterious death
of the sheriff and the drowning of a little boy.
The townspeople, beside themselves with unreasonable fears, formed an angry mob and marched to the farmhouse. The three of them prepared a boat in which to escape. he returned to the house for his notes on folklore and, as he was digging them out of a closet, the mob stormed into the house. Unable to reason with them, he retreated up the stairwell to a bedroom where his only way of escape was through a second-story window. He looked out at she and his daughter in the boat below, on the river. She urged him to jump. The mob surged into the bedroom intent on his death. He jumped.
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
