Cross the fields at midnight, when the stars are out and twinkling in a moonless sky, and when you can feel the pull of those ancient stones. They’ll draw you forth like siren song. Be sure you wish to go before you open your door. Once you’ve started walking the ancient path, you’ll find it hard to turn back.
Along the way to the those old stones, if the hour is right, there’ll be many things by the side of your path. Three sisters – terrible mistresses of fate – watch from the hills. A man with stag’s horns waits amidst the tree. In every shadow the faerie folk dwell – not the winged creatures of children’s books, but the faerie who once held the land in their thrall – tracking your every move.
You won’t see them, these things of myth and legend, but you’ll feel them. The closest to those stones you come, the more you’ll feel it.
And when you’re standing before them, perhaps you’ll find your way There, to the place where fantasy is fact and story is truth, where all those ancient things yet dwell. Perhaps. Only perhaps. Those paths are not for all.
Those are the directions.
Word Count: 199
This is my entry for Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner Week #16. Thanks to rogershipp for running the challenge! Photo is from pixabay.com.