Falling snow heaps at the crone’s door, and she opens it and sweeps the stoop. For she remains ready to welcome any who may knock even this late at night—with food. The crone took up this earnest routine once upon a tale, one she will tell you now, if you’re weary and wish to live. Come, listen.

It’s up to you to find what meaning the story to you can give. 

 

 

There was an ancient woman who dearly feared making a wrong decision.    

Her mind conjured a legion of choices to be made each day in her forgotten seaside village. She turned over every possible option and its consequence, fretting over anything from the threat of hoarfrost to the existence (or not) of The Storyteller.

Villagers knew the entirety of her complicated mental deliberations, for she spoke them out loud without ceasing as she hobbled about the village or sat lonesome on her porch. Most called her bonkers. Her incessant talk with spittle spraying from her lips didn’t help matters.

You might think she was unpredictable indeed, given her ability to imagine so many different paths to take. Yet the exact opposite was true. She never surprised anyone. At all.

Least of all herself. Which happens when your small self is trying to make up things for itself. But what’s important to know for our story on this cold, wind-bitten night is this:

Drops and bits of the ancient woman’s soul were falling away, for she kept her mind grinding at the stone. This did not escape the attention of The Storyteller. For no drop or bit of soul falls to the ground without it being known. 

And so, The Storyteller poured up some drops of the ancient woman’s soul into a little bottle, and baked some bits of her soul into a small loaf of bread. Into a basket the bottle and bread went. This was when The Storyteller paid a visit to the ancient woman on a seaside’s brisk day.    

 

 

The Storyteller knocked upon the old woman’s wooden door beneath a thatched roof. Three raps, to be exact. Our ancient woman turned over in her bed and did not answer as she was ill with overwhelming frets of what she might do wrong next.

The following day brought three raps upon her door once again. Our ancient woman turned over in her bed and did not answer as she was weak with anguish over what she could now see were very hurtful things she had done on a great many past occasions.

A third day brought three raps upon her door yet again. Our ancient woman turned over in her bed and did not answer as she was sheer exhausted with who she believed she was and what she had done, to the point of death.

This went on until, as it gracefully happened, our ancient woman had a friend over. This friend opened the door when the knocking came. “Oh my!” the friend called out, shielding her eyes. “It is The Storyteller, come to visit you!”

Our ancient woman had beliefs about The Storyteller and pulled the bedcovers over her head in shame. The Storyteller nevertheless left the bottle and bread with the friend. Upon the first was written ‘Drink Me,’ and upon the second it was written ‘Eat Me.’

The friend gave the ancient woman a little to drink and a bit to eat.

Our ancient woman felt better, a little bit.

It was not her last supper. Day after day The Storyteller poured up a measure more of the ancient woman’s soul into a little bottle, and gathered up a bit more of her soul to bake into a small loaf of bread.

Once the ancient woman had a good portion of her soul returned to her, she began to laugh. She became like a little child and leapt from her bed at the sound of The Storyteller’s love-knocking.

She threw open the door, which was the only decision she had ever needed to make. From then on, she had no delusions of being in control. Instead she let go. For all she knew now was to flow and overflow.

All she knew now was to flow and overflow,

For she had decided above all to keep hold of her soul.

Villagers took notice that our ancient woman spoke much less often. This allowed her to do so much more. And everywhere she went, rose petals sprayed from her lips, and the most beautifully clothed lilies trailed behind her feet—without her even having to think about it.

What came about was a better, wholly unpredictable story than any she could have told on her own.

 

If you found your own meaning in this Last Supper-Wonderland-Lilies of the Field story, I hope you subscribe to Crone Tales HERE 🙂

 

*featured photo of old cottage by Mary Bettini Blank

*photo of bread by Helena Yankovska