The Sunday Whirl

Dragging the axe as he walked among the shadows, mangled roots of bare limbed trees rimmed the secretive path. It was an ordinary task performed as a habit by the old man.

The brim of the simmering kettle was almost too full and he opened a tiny valve that sent a trickle of the salty brew into the urn. A vast collection of herbs accompanied the basic tree root mixture and all the oval stones in the bottom of the pot were essential for success.

The old man’s mind drifted to his younger days watching over this ancient concoction as it came to a boil. His mother was never outright called a witch but the village was reliant on her cures. This batch was for an old lady up the hill, suffering from some malady that this recipe would end.

He wondered who he would pass this important ritual on to since his children had moved away.

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