Droplets from the Inkwell

The sun was just peeking over the horizon when Erica crept out of the small shack her family lived in. The seven year old shivered slightly as her bear feet stepped into the dew-covered grass, instantly making them damp and chilly. She silently slipped around behind the house, through the hedgerow that marked the family's back yard, then began to run across the meadow. She slowed her pace as she approached the old oak tree. She knelt in front of it and placed her hands on the rough bark. "Grandmother Tree," she said, "Thank you for your shade and your acorns. Thank you for letting me play in your branches. May your life be long and may all who benefit from you appreciate you."

A grizzled old voice came from behind her. "There are not many adults who still practice the old devotions. It's surprising to hear them from a child."

Erica spun around, startled. A burly man with greying beard and a squint in his left eye stood there. Erica thought he was smiling, but it was hard to tell with all the lines and scars on his face. "Oh hello," she said.

"Hello, young lady. So tell me, who taught you to bless the tree like that?"

"My great aunt, sir. Her name was Mathilda. She went to be with the ancestors three years ago."

The man nodded. "I see. I knew a woman named Mathilda who lived around here once. A short, pudgy woman who made the most delightful meat pies. She said the secret to her pies' great taste was that she still honored the old ways when she made them."

"That definitely sounds like my great aunt, sir. And to my knowledge, she was the only Mathilda this side of the Shelti River."

"Then it could be, Erica. It's sweet that you still give thanks to the trees. Do you follow any of the other old practices?"

"Yes sir. As many as I remember from what Aunt Mathilda showed me." Erica frowned. "Except it upsets my parents, so I sometimes have to be careful to make sure they're not looking."

The man nodded. "Yes, many of the adults frown on the old ways. They think they are foolish. Or even dangerous."

"But you don't think that, sir?"

The man laughed. It was a loud, grating laugh. Yet Erica found it comforting. He said, "No, dear girl. I think the old ways are important and that the people are hurting themselves by forgetting them. Indeed, it gives me great hope to see one such as yourself keeping those ways alive."

"Hope, sir? What for?"

He smiled. "That doesn't matter right now. You don't need to concern yourselves with the ramblings of an old man like me. But I wonder if you would accept a small gift."

"I have nothing to offer in return, sir."

He laughed. "Ah yes! Your aunt taught you well, to know that it is bad form to accept a gift without having one to give in return." He lowered his voice and spoke as if sharing a conspiracy. "But you have already given me a gift with your blessing to our friend the tree here. Hearing that has brightened my day immensely. So you see, it is I who owe you a gift in return anyway."

Erica pondered this, then nodded tentatively. The man reached into a pouch that hung from his belt. When he removed it, he held it out to Erica so she could see the small copper coin in his hand. She reached out her own hand and stopped when her fingers were just inches from the token. She glanced at him and he nodded before she picked up the coin. Pulling it to her face, she studied it. On one side was a strange symbol. On the other were the figures fo a man and woman dancing together. "It's not like any money I have ever seen, sir," she said.

He laughed. "Indeed not. It's a good luck charm of sorts. Many people who followed the old ways in the past would carry such tokens with them. I would like you to have it."

"Thank you, sir. If you're sure?"

"I am." A woman's voice echoed from the direction of Erica's home. "Sounds like your mother is looking for you."

"Yeah, I need to get on with my chores. If you will excuse me."

"Goodbye, sweet Erica. Perhaps we will meet again."

She began to walk away, but stopped after a few paces. A thought had occurred to her. She turned back to him as she asked, "What is your name, sir?" But the old man was gone. She looked in every direction but could not see him. She wondered how he could have gotten out of site so soon. She wished she had gotten his name, as maybe her father could tell her more about him, as Mathilda was his father's sister.

Then another thought occurred to her. She had never told him her name. Yet he had known it.