Our Liminal Inheritance, part I

A Tale of Wild Roots and Belonging

Brighde Johannsen

Jul 21, 2024

This Tale had its own mind about how it wanted to be told; more than once, it wrestled with my mind and pen, surprising me with curious shifts in narrative voice and strange pathways it lead me down… I did my best to surrender, to let it have its way with me. And now, it is done. The Tale is ready to be told, ready to go out beyond my hearth and cozy corner, and do what tales are meant to do. That part, I know, is not for me to meddle in.

If you feel drawn to the magic and warmth of this little Story Hearth in The Mystic Corner, you may, in time, encounter more secret tales and glimpses, backstories and myths from that Greater Story, which has yet to tell me its True Name. At least, that is my hope. Though I am merely the messenger, and alas, can make no promises…

Until then, I hope you will enjoy this little tale and its telling…you’ll find the audio version below.

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Noleen had always been an odd girl, everyone in the village agreed on this. “The child takes after her grandmother Nola, so she does,” the old ones said, nodding sagely with the glow and glee of those ‘in the know’. Although truth be told, nobody really did know anything at all, which was what made the story of Nola forever intriguing and worth remembering in their minds. No-one, however, ever really did talk about it, other than in hushed allusions inevitably followed by a sombre, nodding silence descending over everyone.

Nola, so they said, was ‘touched by the Faeries’, with a fey look in her eyes and a wildness about her that drove her away from the villagers, spending most of her time out in the dales and woodlands far off from human dwellings. At times, an unusually early riser out to milk the cows or help deliver a lamb might spot her coming down from the hills, returning to the village like a shadow before the dawn. Even the village dogs did not bother to rise and bark anymore when Nola crept by in the hooded skies of dusk or dawn, so used were they to her nocturnal comings and goings.

Even so, Nola, with her tresses of dark hair trailing almost to her knees and that strange, otherworldly glitter in her dark cobalt eyes, enchanted not a few of the village lads, the boldest of which might find the courage to try and woo her, though always to no avail. Every young or not so young man found his offer of marriage or dalliance rebuked and spurned, turning a fair number of them to a moroseness that did not lift easily with time; such was the allure of this creature who kept mostly to her family plot during the godly hours and left for the hills as soon as night chased away the decent light of day.

And so, Nola remained a mystery to all, and none dared to try and coax her secrets from the grandmother who had raised her since she was a wee girl toddling about her granny’s knees as the older woman tended to her land and livestock. Cowed by the grief and fierce protectiveness of the woman who had lost her only child to drowning, the villagers left Nola’s grandmother to raise her daughter’s daughter by herself and did not interfere with her unconventional life and choices. The woman was formidable in her stoicism; the mere weight of her presence smothered any words of gossip or objection before they had barely the time to form into thought. Nola and her grandmother minded their own business, and that was the way of it; in time, the villagers grew used to this family of single-minded women and kept their curiosity in check and veiled behind clandestine whispers and watchful eyes.

Time passed, while Nola’s beauty ripened and deepened and a maturing came over her that was not lost on the villagers, scarce as the glimpses they got of the girl during the daytime were. It was undeniable even to the most sober-minded among them - the young woman was luminous as a full moon in a clear night sky, even under the glaring eye of the noon-time sun! Her lithe and willowy figure shaped itself and found a pleasing roundness that echoed the gentle slopes of the land around them and made them think of ripened fields of barley and rye, or of sleek, round udders ready and full with milk and cream.

Before long, the shushed tongues were busy tripping over themselves once more; surely, the girl had got herself with child?! But who was the father? Every man in the village of suitable age, boy or grandfather, married or not, found himself now at the other end of the scrutiny regarding the mystery of Nola and had to endure the humiliation of open stares and wild speculations; suspicious wives left no doubt as to what they would do to a husband found to be a cheat, and the whole town was abuzz with the murmur of stories born of minds gifted with the fertile power of creative imagination.

Amongst the quiver of unease paired with a sharp and glinting glee that shook and delighted the village, Nola remained aloof and unruffled in her private realm of radiance. Her belly kept ripening with the implacable magic of the natural world, and time unfolded one day, one season to the next, until, under the fullness of a Harvest moon, she bore this world a girl-child and held it close to her heart, wide and aching with wonder.

And still, in the natural way of things, time kept on passing and Nola and her baby girl kept mostly to themselves, allowing the town-folk to blithely carry on with their speculations and nurture their burning curiosity without finding the answers that would have put an end to the flow of entertaining rumors.

This went on for several years, and the villagers had found a sort of peace and easy rhythm with the mystery alive and unsolved within their midst; until the day when Nola up and left in the middle of the night and failed to return to her grandmother and child at dawn. Sun and moon cycled around each other for weeks and months, then years, and still, there was no sign or sighting of Nola. Unlike with her mother, who had been assumed drowned, nobody suspected such natural, straight forward cause for Nola’s disappearance; the girl had always had the touch of the Fey about her, and a feeling of unnaturalness hung heavy around the village for months before the people finally fell back under the spell of their daily routines and forgot to bother themselves over things they could do nothing about.

Meanwhile, Nola’s daughter, left in the care of her great-grandmother, grew to be a beauty herself, her flaxen hair and easy smile brightening the hearts of even the most suspicious and hardened among the villagers. The girl, Neela, was well liked, almost as though a spell of magic hung about her that made it impossible to close your heart in her presence. As she was easy on the eye, peaceful, quiet and hard working, people found it effortless to forget and forgive the mystery of her past and indulge themselves in brightening at the mere sight of her.

Whether it was because of her easy charm or because the village had long since gotten used to the women of this family not seeing the need to take a man, let alone a husband, to ease their lives, nobody seemed inclined to judge her when Neela, in turn, ripened with child without any mention or clue as to who the father might be.

It was just the way of things, they reckoned, and went on with their lives.

Neela’s daughter, Noleen, however, was a different matter. Even as a wee thing, she made people feel uneasy, with her dark looks, her shy ways and deeply cobalt eyes, always hiding behind her mother or great-great-grandmother, or up in some tree as soon as she was able to climb. As she grew, her likeness to her grandmother, Nola, re-awakened the old tales, which, in the way of all great stories, circled and thrived and gained nuance, weight and meaning around the hearth-fires of the village, told and retold over a few pints of ale and endless mugs of steaming tea on cold and dreary winter nights.

Unlike Neela, Noleen had no friends and was often teased and bullied, tales of her grandmother whispered loudly behind her back for the benefit of her hearing. Soon, like Nola, Noleen found her peace and respite among the trees and the brooks of the hills and dales rather than amongst her peers. She was a shadow, flitting and merging with the shapes of things barely felt and noticed. To those preferring the straight-forwardness of that which can be measured and seen, her ways were straying unforgivably beyond any acceptable norm.

It was soon firmly anchored into village consciousness that this child was not human alone; the strangeness of her bore the scent of dark clouds and the inaudible sigh of bad luck and otherworldly things not to be meddled with.

Heedless of the villagers’ notions, Noleen found a welcome sanctuary within the liminal realms of forest and glade, burbling brook and solid rock, rays of sun and moon playing with shade and shadow. To her, it was easy to follow the invisible trails left by Nola and those that came before her; their kind had always known the ways of the wild and knew how to tread without causing insult or harm. She, like the women before her, knew the intimate pull of longing and desire, the map edged deeply into the very marrow of her soul, the voice that called her Home;

and, like her forebears before her, she never thought to question the call…

Join us here around the Story Hearth for part two, and let Noleen lead you deeper into her Green World…

[Excerpt from part II:

If you know the way of the woods, the woodlands know you also. The recognition of like amongst like creates its own kind of ripple; it opens cracks that barely exist and whispers in a language almost forgotten in a world that turned its back to that which cannot be explained, never realizing the size and weight of its loss.

Noleen feels it, the loss.

It’s in the way that good women hang their clothes out to dry without ever thinking to give thanks to the spirits of the sun and the winds;

it’s in the cloying heat and stink of an alehouse, where loneliness is chased to the corners and hangs, like old sweat, unbidden and shameful;

it’s in the forgetfulness of hearts that speak and hear out of accord and have lost the memory of keys.

It is in the twisting of stories that should have been bright guiding stars, but became like bog lights instead, wily Will-O’-The-Wisps leading travelers astray to drown in murk and decay.

… ]

If you liked this tale and its telling, please do let me know - comment, share, re-stack…your encouragement and feedback is so much more delightful and needed even than a hot mug of my favorite tea to keep me inspired and writing…

Thank you for reading & listening - I appreciate every one of you <3

Thank you for joining me in my wee Story Hearth in the Mystic Corner. This post is public so feel free to share it with other lovers of tall tales and fantasy.