They danced around the old stone, young and old, to the sound of pipes and drums, evoking ancient spirits, and secret deities. Then the elders had let the villagers hang the colours of their wishes, and he had waited a little while.
He wanted the spirits to grant him one favour. As he carefully bound the piece of red and white ribbon to the branch, he thought of Her, of the calm dark eyes that had held him in awe, of the unreal grace of Her face: he was only asking to see Her again, to speak to Her, to beg Her to accept him in Her kingdom.
Inspired by the Secret Keeper’s Weekly Writing Challenge #124
He felt her insistent stare on him, as he held the precious tablet, still covered by a thin film of blond sand. The text looked like a list, but he guessed that it might also be a poem, perhaps both. Was there a rhyme? His knowledge of the language was not advanced enough for him to know. He turned to the goddess, and met the emerald eyes, still fixed on him.
A long time passed, he knew she would speak, and so waited, in the silence of the sacred valley. At long last, he heard her voice, melodious, as if coming through a long tunnel: “It’s no poem, it is an ancient spell, and who casts his sight on it, shall be turned into stone.”
Image: A Roman-era version of the Knot of Isis worn by the Goddess or Her priestess, via https://isiopolis.com