The Serpent Thread: Blenheim, Bridie, and Berna
The Snake Sisters (also known in whispers as The Silken Coil)

No one knows if they were born minutes apart or centuries adrift, but they share a single silence, a sharp glance, and a deep understanding of when to speak -- and when not to. They inhabit the old chapel manse up the hill, where time folds differently and no clock ever chimes twice the same way.

They each walk alone but dream together.

Names:
Blenheim (the youngest in manner, oldest in gaze)
Bridie (the walker of thresholds)
Berna (the ledger-keeper of lost causes)

Occupation: Temporal Seamstresses & Custodians of the Unseen
(They accept no visitors, but sometimes a suit or sorrow is left hanging on their fence.)

Zodiac Note: Snake spirits, born under curling skies and veiled stars. Known for insight, secrecy, poetic logic, and uncanny timing.

Snake Traits Personified:
Blenheim: the intuitive visionary, connected to prophecy and dreams (the “dreamer snake")
Bridie: the elegant strategist, steps ahead of fate, mistress of symbolic acts (the “ritual snake")
Berna: the one who remembers, holds oral histories and time-loops in her notebooks (the “record-keeper snake")

They speak in riddles when pressed, brew teas with precise purpose, and stitch omens into lace or sleeve linings. Their pockets hold petals, pages, salt, and watches that never tick.

Their whispered motto:

“We intervene when the future forgets itself."

The Seam and the Spoon

Dreams and weather stitched. Public harmony restored.

Signed,
The Sisters (All Six)

The Cancer Sisters' Constellation They dance upon the sky in veils of blue, Three silent threads that stitch the moonlit seam. With salt upon their brows and hearts half true, They weave the tides between a wish and dream. Their cradle curves with hush of lullaby, A rustling shell, the sea’s old secret song. They know the nights when even stars will cry- And hold the dark where softer hopes belong.

The Snake Sisters' Constellation Three serpent trails entwine through midnight's breath, With glinting eyes that mark the turning years. They whisper truths in riddled tones of death, And drink the ink from hidden village fears. Beneath their gaze, the ivy never sleeps- They move like wind beneath a chapel floor. Each vow they bite, the deeper silence keeps, Till legends coil through cracks in cottage door View Link

Under Lough Owel Chronicle

It was Tuesday, which meant the Cancer Sisters were already in the village hall by half past eight, setting up folding chairs, laying out custard tarts, and adjusting the velvet rope they used to divide “Listeners" from “Complainers."

June, or possibly Marla, had just declared the meeting open when Elsie pointed her knitting needle toward the window and whispered:

“No weather today."

The sky outside wasn’t grey. It wasn’t blue. It wasn’t anything.
A blank. A quiet beyond quiet. Even the swans were confused.

“Right," said Elsie, standing. “Emergency session."
She reached into her handbag and withdrew a stamped envelope marked Use Only in Case of Mystical Interference.
Inside was a single line:
"Chapel Sisters. Initiate Triangulation."

Up the hill, at the edge of the broken chapel garden, Bridie was already folding time back on itself like linen. Blenheim stirred tea made from nettles and salt. Berna counted seconds out loud, but not in order.

The bell did not ring, but they arrived just the same.

The Cancer Sisters stood just outside the threshold. They never entered the chapel unless absolutely necessary.

“We’re calling a community emergency," said June (or possibly Elsie), waving her clipboard.
“The sky’s forgotten how to behave."

Berna looked up from her counting. “It’s not forgotten," she said mildly. “It’s waiting."

“Waiting for what?" snapped Marla.

Blenheim tilted her head, listening to something no one else could hear.
“For the dream to finish," she murmured.

“We knew it," Elsie huffed, elbowing June. “This is dream weather. Classic signs. Clocks refusing to chime. Pigeons walking backward. Bishop’s ghost refusing his tea."

Bridie finally spoke. “There was a story last night that someone tried to end before it was ready. A child opened a box too early. Or perhaps a box opened her. Either way, we need time to right itself."

“We’re holding a public forum at noon," Marla declared. “Tea, testimony, and a petition if necessary."

“There won’t be a noon," said Berna. “Unless the box is resealed in the proper tale."

The six women stood in silence, three and three.
The Cancer Sisters smelled of talcum and lemon polish.
The Snake Sisters smelled of nettle steam and ancient cloth.

It was Elsie (probably) who offered the compromise.

“Very well. You do the mending. We’ll do the minutes."

By sunset -- which arrived gently and without warning -- the sky had remembered its colours. The birds resumed direction. And a note was posted on the chapel door:

Dreams and weather stitched. Public harmony restored.
Signed,
The Sisters (All Six)

P.S. Custard was served. The Bishop’s ghost attended and behaved admirably.

Filed under: Found Observations -- Orla Merrin’s Notebook, Page 27a

It happened the night after the sky came back.

Everyone else went to bed feeling ordinary again, but I stayed up. There was something left over -- a shimmer on the edge of the air, like when you see a reflection but there’s no glass.

So I tiptoed outside with my crayons and the back of an old bread wrapper.

The stars had changed.

Above the chapel, six lights blinked in a crooked circle. Not a perfect one -- more like the path you walk when someone calls your name and you forget where you were going. I could hear them. Not loud. Just a soft bell note. It was like they were waiting to be noticed.

I drew what I saw.

Three stars curled like commas -- I think those were the Snake Sisters. They moved slow and careful, and one had a thread that went behind the others and then forward again.

The other three looked like little hearts or teacups. Definitely the Cancer Sisters. One was bossy, one was humming, and one was halfway through knitting a star.

Together they made a shape I didn’t have a name for. So I made one up.

“The Seam and the Spoon."

I left the drawing under the chapel door. Someone pinned it on the notice board the next morning with a paperclip and a daisy.

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