At the edge of the ancient, dark forest stood a little hamlet of simple
people.  They went about their lives in a quiet way, with little
excitement and much boredom.  Although they lived along side of the
massive forest they rarely ventured in.  They had no bravery in them,
and they whispered many rumors about the darkness within.
 
The forest was a perfect refuge for the old crone.  She was left alone
and it provided most of what she needed.  She had a small one room
cottage that sat in the middle of a wide clearing centered within the
forest.  There she grew many things in her garden, things to eat, to look
at and to heal sickness.  But the old crone was slightly stooped from age
and walked with tall staff.  Her hair was long and grey, although mostly
windblown since she did not care about appearances as much as she cared
about what was within a person.  Her clothes were often old and easy.
 
She did not go into the town much, but at times she would have to
replenish items she could not produce herself.  When she traveled she
went with her small, quick and smart companion George.  George only
weighed 4 pounds but had beautiful silver fur and observant eyes.  He
would ride on her shoulder, or peer out of the special bad that was
his.  Being a ferret he both fascinated and frightened the townsfolk.
 
The crone would go about her business in town, ignoring the stares of the
bored townsfolk.  Since they lived so quietly, they often loved to gossip
about others to brighten their days.  This visit of the old crone gave
them exactly what they needed, an appearance for them to start the rumors
again.
 
"You know she is crazy!"
"I heard she beat a boy over the head with her stick."
"Look at that weird animal she has with her, surely it is evil just
like her."
 
For some reason, perhaps just getting older, maybe just getting more
tired, George decided to put a stop to this once and for all.  Now mind
you, the old crone never hurt anyone in her life.  She worked hard at
helping the sick and injured, both human and animal.  And though she
didn't care much what they said about her, George was finally pushed too
much.  He knew her heart was good and she had helped many of his kin.
 
She went about her business, and then went home.  Once there George
wondered off into his secret hidey hole, and fell into a deep meditation.
In this altered state of mind, he communed with his kindred at the
Rainbow Bridge.
 
That night the nightmares the townsfolk had were horrid.  The spirit
ferrets danced upon the villagers heads, holding their mouths shut,
licking their eyelids, scratching at their hair.  The people tossed and
turned trying to fight the spirit ferrets off.  But the ferrets just
danced some more, dooking and chuckling away.  When the dream was almost
over, the spirit ferrets pooped on the heads of the rumormongers.
 
And that just goes to show that you should never talk poop lest the poop
is ,ahem, flung back at you.
 
Blessings,
 
Margie
In honor of the TPO club
[Posted in FML issue 5235]