There is magic in the air.
Our naked feet dance, carrying us round and round in a circle, our steps deliberate, their pattern pre-meditated, their motion meaningful.
The music we make is an echo of a time long gone by, the song the gods of olden days breathed into this world when it was naught but an infant, the lullaby a mother would sing when putting her child to sleep, the verses a shepherd would hum under his breath to ward his flock. Healing. Protective. It is unending. It dwells under the surface, deep within. One can still hear it when shutting off the noise and opening the senses to the unexplainable.
There it is, hidden in the deepest nooks of the forest. Accessed only by the Initiated. Patient, waiting for those who want to be initiated. It is a gentle susurration on the breeze weaving its way between the trees. They sway in concert too, the tune passed from the tip of one leaf to another. The joyous cackle of the stream snaking through the heart of the forest mirrors it. The drum and beat of rain on leaf and stone amplify it.
Our naked feet skip across the dewy grass, tracing lines in the ground, runes that mean things in tongues now forgotten.
We caper to the song the old gods taught us. The runes underneath our feet hum and crackle. The air is electric. It is magnetic, the dance attracting the attention of beast and man alike. We have a small crowd watching us now, circling the clearing, where our circle ebbs and flows, unbroken, welcoming. Some keep on watching, mesmerized. Others join us, strengthening the circle. There is no losing oneself in the woods, there is only finding that which you didn’t realize you have lost.
Our naked feet twist and turn, gliding across the grey-green moss. The runes glow now, imbued with a will of their own. This is a rite as old as the world. A rite of celebration. We give thanks. We sing so we can remember.
They say we are heathens, but only because the world has moved on and because people forgot that, underneath it all, there is music.
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