OLD MAN OF STORR 57°30’26.8”N 6°11’05.3”W
JACQUELINE CARINA WERRMANN
“If you hike the mountains by yourself, you could find his cottage hidden in the earth.”
he tells stories of the past . He knows about myths the land holds and tales the rivers sing in silence. He spoke of kelpies that roamed the lochs, giants who slept beneath the mountains, and fairies who hid in the folds of the mist. Each tale was a journey through time, a glimpse into the soul of the Highlands. In the middle of the Highlands stood his house. Wildflowers sprouted around his doorstep, and to those who don’t know what to look for, it was almost invisible, covered in moss, an organic part of the landscape. It was as if Mother Earth herself created it and knowingly kept it secret from unwanted eyes. A melody of birds living in the stonewall and tree branches around the house faded away into the air that smelled like firewood. The weather had changed; the sunny day from this morning turned into a war of elements where the wind pushed me downhill and the slippery stones almost made me lose my balance with every step. A creeping wave of fog rolled over the mountains, making me lose my orientation. My heart raced as I stumbled down the path, searching for much-needed shelter. The thought that I must have been out of my mind when I decided to hike the Highlands all by myself flashed like lightning through my brain. Soaked and cold, I came across the house. This place somehow seemed to have a protective shield that the elements couldn’t touch. As I knocked on the wooden door, uncertainty overcame me. Was I not supposed to be here? But I had no choice; I needed to warm my bones and dry my clothes. A feeling deep inside my guts pushed me forward. Before I could change my mind, an old man opened the heavy door. His long, flowing beard, white as snow, and his intricately wrinkled face filled my vision. His weathered hands on the old wooden door seemed able to hold the world. And his moss-green eyes, which had the wisdom of ages, were mesmerizing. His voice was vibrating and deep, yet trustworthy, as he offered me to sit by his fireplace and warm up. My clothes were soaked, and my body was shaking, so the old man offered me a bowl of potato soup and pointed out a cozy, big wing chair. His voice was gracious, capturing my attention in a way I had never experienced before. He sat beside the fire in his wooden chair, crafted from solid oak, its warm, honey-hued grain danceing in the ambient light. Over the fireplace, the light reflected on a metal statue, a unicorn. Before I could grasp a thought or say something, the old man slowly followed my eyes while rocking in his chair. A subtle smile appeared on his face. With a slight nod, he said, “Sometimes, to become conscious of the hidden truths, we must first believe. By unlocking the vision that lies beyond the visible, we find the clarity to truly see.”
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MOTHER VOLUME THREE
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