Vellichor Ink

The first lines I penned for The Bone Cottage were a poem, of sorts.

The, bones, if you will, of a story that was set into motion the first time I set foot in the cottage that we’d call home for a short while in the UK.

It was a place that begged to be immortalized into a story. A fairytale locale that couldn’t possibly be held together with mere Cobb walls and normal bricks.

In the spring, the thatch grew mushrooms. Little sentinels who stood proud on the ever-damp roof, watching and guarding us.

Late at night the trees that surrounded the cottage would rub against each other like the legs of a grasshopper, screaming and calling out into the darkness– a warning? A celebration? A song? We never knew but the moment I would try to record, the air would still and silence would throb around me. Certainly a warning there.

Roses and peonies grew with abandon, their heady fragrance casting a bubble of perfume around us. The lavender by the door reached out and snagged our fingers, stealing our stress and whispering peace in its place as we walked through the door.

In a time fraught with uncertainty, alone on an island with no family and no friends yet, we somehow thrived. Joy rang out within the walls. The old green aga baked things to perfection. Dreams were realized. Hope flitted about unfettered. Life well-lived when the world came to a screeching halt. Yes, the Cobb walls and thatched roof were made of more magic than I could have possibly dreamt up, of that I’m sure.

So, without further ado, here’s a sneak peek. The first lines I wrote that morphed into a story that will soon be out into the world…

Brambles reach their fingers to snag your muddied skirts along the fox-gloved path.

With its mortar made of marrow and bricks made of dreams, the cottage of bones beckons.

It whispers in the light of day and screams in the night…calling promises to broken dreamers.

The witch that tends the woods watches and waits.

Should the day come when you must call on her, guard your heart and hair lest she weave them into the thatch. 

For wishes and dreams carry a cost, and the witch demands her payment. 

But, beware the auld gods with gnashing teeth and bloody lips who also watch and wait, trapped in the wood beyond the witch. 

The taste of your longing whets their appetite, and your fear is a perfume they dab on their hungry throats.