The Bottle Wall
Aug. 20th, 2025 05:22 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
smokingbootA story that came to me before dawn today.
Once upon a time, there was a woman left a farm by her flinty husband. He had died of the drink and this was part of the reason why the farm had no success; the other was that all the land about was bone dry, every seed shrivelled in the cracked earth, and neither tree nor crop could grow. Nonetheless she set to making it work for she had nothing else and hard enough her life was, though free of beatings and curses at last. But when she learned that a cloud-herder was passing through the village she took every last coin she had and went to market, for even one rain-heavy cloud could make a difference to the benighted soil she tilled.
Alas! When she got there, she found he would take no money, not a single coin, for any of his herd. She shrugged in disappointment.
'Whether I have some money or all the money, it is never enough,' she told him.
Then he looked at her out of his bright eyes.
'You have enough,' he said. And he walked with her back to the farm and embraced her there. She was delighted at his gentleness and passion, and they stayed together for a very long time, his clouds raining down every day until the surrounding streams were bursting, and all the land was lush with promise. He stayed until the Great Herdsman wondered where he was, and sent a message to remind him that the rest of the world needed his flocks and he had to take his leave of the widow woman.
'Come with me,' he urged her. And though her heart pulled his way, yet she could not leave all the effort she had made, especially now when it finally seemed able to flourish and grow.
'I cannot leave before harvest,' she said.
'I must be gone long before then,' he replied.
And for the first time between them, there was sorrow. But the cloud-herder had an idea.
'As I go into the sky and far from you, I will become impossible to see. But the children of air we have made together, the wind sylphs who are too little yet to have shapes, these can talk to you. Take all those bottles your husband once had, and clean them free of the touch of his mouth. Then build a wall of them, and you will understand.'
And with that, he had to go whirling upwards with his herd. She watched him leave until she could make out his shape no more, and then set to work washing old glass and building the wall. Almost instantly, her mischievous children of air started to blow across the bottles making music, and as the little ones realised with delight that they could be heard, they started to talk and sing to their mother. She was never lonely.
The day came when she found herself squinting at the bottle wall. Near them were shapes graceful and lithe with eyes she recognised.
'Children,' she said, 'though you seem faint to me, yet you become clearer every day! What is this?'
'Oh mother, mother,' they replied, 'it means you are dying, and soon must leave the wall behind.'
She bowed her head and made her will, leaving the farm as common land for the villagers provided they never disturbed the wall. And the day came when she could see all her children clearly, solid and real, with their arms around her.
'Ah, children,' she cried out, 'I am so happy to see you. But does this mean...?' In response her eldest pointed to a crumpled heap lying next to the wall.
'Moments ago, mother,' he said, 'it is all done. And look!'
Above them the clouds opened and she recognised her love sitting there. Now indeed she moved upwards light and merry, and kissed him again.
'Oh my love,' he said,smiling at once young and old together, 'How I have missed you! I come now with choices, sweetest of souls. You may enter the gates of Heaven and rest there in perfection or you may go to purgatory and rescue your husband, or you may join us now and wander the Earth and Sky and Sea until time is done and you are weary. What say you?'
To this day the gates of heaven wait serenely for the widow woman. When her children are not travelling with their parents, they play on the bottle wall whistling merriment to any who come by. The woods grow tall, the fields golden, and purgatory has nothing to say on the matter.
Once upon a time, there was a woman left a farm by her flinty husband. He had died of the drink and this was part of the reason why the farm had no success; the other was that all the land about was bone dry, every seed shrivelled in the cracked earth, and neither tree nor crop could grow. Nonetheless she set to making it work for she had nothing else and hard enough her life was, though free of beatings and curses at last. But when she learned that a cloud-herder was passing through the village she took every last coin she had and went to market, for even one rain-heavy cloud could make a difference to the benighted soil she tilled.
Alas! When she got there, she found he would take no money, not a single coin, for any of his herd. She shrugged in disappointment.
'Whether I have some money or all the money, it is never enough,' she told him.
Then he looked at her out of his bright eyes.
'You have enough,' he said. And he walked with her back to the farm and embraced her there. She was delighted at his gentleness and passion, and they stayed together for a very long time, his clouds raining down every day until the surrounding streams were bursting, and all the land was lush with promise. He stayed until the Great Herdsman wondered where he was, and sent a message to remind him that the rest of the world needed his flocks and he had to take his leave of the widow woman.
'Come with me,' he urged her. And though her heart pulled his way, yet she could not leave all the effort she had made, especially now when it finally seemed able to flourish and grow.
'I cannot leave before harvest,' she said.
'I must be gone long before then,' he replied.
And for the first time between them, there was sorrow. But the cloud-herder had an idea.
'As I go into the sky and far from you, I will become impossible to see. But the children of air we have made together, the wind sylphs who are too little yet to have shapes, these can talk to you. Take all those bottles your husband once had, and clean them free of the touch of his mouth. Then build a wall of them, and you will understand.'
And with that, he had to go whirling upwards with his herd. She watched him leave until she could make out his shape no more, and then set to work washing old glass and building the wall. Almost instantly, her mischievous children of air started to blow across the bottles making music, and as the little ones realised with delight that they could be heard, they started to talk and sing to their mother. She was never lonely.
The day came when she found herself squinting at the bottle wall. Near them were shapes graceful and lithe with eyes she recognised.
'Children,' she said, 'though you seem faint to me, yet you become clearer every day! What is this?'
'Oh mother, mother,' they replied, 'it means you are dying, and soon must leave the wall behind.'
She bowed her head and made her will, leaving the farm as common land for the villagers provided they never disturbed the wall. And the day came when she could see all her children clearly, solid and real, with their arms around her.
'Ah, children,' she cried out, 'I am so happy to see you. But does this mean...?' In response her eldest pointed to a crumpled heap lying next to the wall.
'Moments ago, mother,' he said, 'it is all done. And look!'
Above them the clouds opened and she recognised her love sitting there. Now indeed she moved upwards light and merry, and kissed him again.
'Oh my love,' he said,smiling at once young and old together, 'How I have missed you! I come now with choices, sweetest of souls. You may enter the gates of Heaven and rest there in perfection or you may go to purgatory and rescue your husband, or you may join us now and wander the Earth and Sky and Sea until time is done and you are weary. What say you?'
To this day the gates of heaven wait serenely for the widow woman. When her children are not travelling with their parents, they play on the bottle wall whistling merriment to any who come by. The woods grow tall, the fields golden, and purgatory has nothing to say on the matter.
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