I was watching from the bank where the reeds hide you if you stoop low. The wagon had stars painted on it, faded ones, but they still shone if you looked long enough. The man’s music made the fire look as if it wanted to dance into the sky. I think the horses heard it too, for they kept still, ears turned. He said the lake listens, and I believe him, for I could feel the ripples carry the song away, all the way round to the coves where no one goes. Maybe the fish will hum it to themselves tonight.
Orla
The Wagon at Dusk
The wagon stood at the edge of the woods, its painted sides, dulled by the road, still carried a shimmer of colour, reds, greens, blues that caught the last flare of evening. Horses cropped the grass nearby, their breath soft in the cooling air. A fire coaxed to life cackled just beyond the wheels, sending sparks upward where they hung and blazed like stars not yet claimed by the night.
Seated close to the heat, a middle-aged man drew his accordion to his chest. The bellows breathed in and out like a second heart, releasing a tune half-remembered from some roadside gathering years ago. His eyes were fixed on the fire, but his words seemed aimed at the water beyond.
“The road’s been my neighbour longer than most men," he murmured between strains, “she tells me when to move, when to rest, how long a wheel’ll last before it cracks. But this lake, ah, she’s different. She listens. Spill a tune into her waters and she’ll keep it safe, echo it back when you’re gone. They say we were smiths once, silver-turners, fortune-bearers. Truth is simpler: we are keepers of sparks. A tune here, a tale there, set it down, let it flare, let it warm whoever’s passing. That’s all the magic there is. The rest is just walking on."
The music swelled again, easy and unhurried, until it seemed the fire, the wagon, and the lake itself were all breathing in time with him.
FLM 02/09/2025
