She Who Walks Softly

A short story.

I consider this to be my first real short story. I found it an exciting process to see words and ideas flow onto the screen. Although not what I was expecting, the story was set up to grow into a novel—a dream I didn’t know if I still wanted. I believe the Universe wants it to happen. I have pages of notes and ideas that came to me while writing and continue to flow — ideas to make this into a novel. Thank you for reading.

Photo by Jaime Spaniol on Unsplash

She Who Walks Softly

After all she had been through, sitting in silence was just what her body needed. The huge boulder felt cool underneath her; the deep woods allowed only limited light and warmth to filter through the full trees. Lush green moss covered most of the rocks. Blanketed in healing greens. Mesmerized by the soothing babbling and shimmers of light reflected on the gently flowing stream, Samantha imagined the water washing over her. She let the sparkles of light spread through all her cells. Her body slowly started to release its long-held constriction. Sam felt a spark of lightness and hope she hadn’t felt in years.

She knew it wasn’t the time to think, not yet, everything was too raw. Immersed deeply in Nature felt safe, and comforting. To just be. To sense a connection. A remembrance stirred in her soul—too buried for Samantha to recognize it.

A crow cawed from a branch across the stream. Watching. The sudden loud call woke Samantha from her trance-like state. Realizing it was getting late, she stood and stretched. An odd urge came over her and she bent down at the water’s edge, scooped up a handful, and drank from the pristine, mountain stream. She didn’t hear the whisper, “Wild water”.

Sam loves her little cabin on the edge of the woods. A sleeping loft. Wood stove for the chilly evenings. Numerous bookshelves filled with both books and collected found objects. A phonograph with a classical album collection. A most comfortable overstuffed reading chair. A simple kitchen, just big enough. Well water supplied from a natural underground stream—Wild water. Natural wood walls, ceiling, and floors adorned with multiple braided rugs. Hung watercolor paintings. A heavy oak table, smooth from use, a vase of fresh wildflowers, an antique tarot deck, an oil lamp, shells, feathers, and stones, all placed in front of the double window. Overlooking a small clearing, complete with a small fire pit, a few logs for seats, and the woods beyond. Home. Charles’ place.

With a mug of morning herbal tea and her German Shepherd Raven at her feet, Samantha sits at the table with a fresh piece of paper inserted. A gift from Charles on her 40th birthday, a vintage Olivetti Lettera 32. She begins. With each keypress, words start materializing on the paper. Her life appears before her eyes.

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Prologue

Something shifted on that day in June, my life took on a surrealistic feel and nothing was the same. The book you are holding is a recounting of my life since then.

Chapter 1

As I found my way out of the woods, all I could think about was: Why did I drink from a stream? What if I got infected with a parasite or some bacteria? Everyone knows water needs to be filtered and purified to be safe. I felt those thoughts starting to sink into my body; tension returning. Being stuck in my head and not so present, I hadn’t realized I had followed the path into a beautiful field until I was startled by a man’s “Hello!”.

“What? Oh, hi.” He seemed safe enough, odd maybe, but appeared to be a gentle man. Clean-shaven and dressed in a vintage-looking suit complete with fedora and tie, totally overdressed for wandering the countryside but not intimidating. As he walked towards me, I noticed the wicker gathering basket he carried was filled with cuttings of plants and wildflowers, a carved walking stick in the other hand.

With a smile and a curious tone, “What are you doing way out this way?”

“I appear to have taken the wrong way out of the forest and gotten lost.”

“Everyone is always where they are supposed to be. Care to gather some mushrooms with me and after I’ll walk you out to the road?”

While I contemplated my answer, I glanced up and noticed his deep stare and our gazes met. His were an amazing steel-blue, almost luminous. “Yeah, I can do that.” Besides, the unexpected company kept my mind off my possible intestinal distress brewing.

Still staring, he said “Your eyes, they are beautiful. You are an old soul.”

I’m thinking, Yeah, whatever. Crazy to hear a pickup line from an old man.

Setting his basket down and offering his hand, “Charles”.

“Samantha or Sam, whichever.”

“Well, Samantha, great to meet you. A very fitting name for you. Do you know it means ‘The Listener’? Or the older translation, ‘hearing flower’?”

“I was named after Samantha in the TV show Bewitched.”

“I see. That’s interesting too.”

Stepping off the path and back into the meadow, Charles told me more than I cared to know about mushrooms, including how to identify the edible ones. I joked about whether he could find me some magic mushrooms.

His reply, “to quote from Yeats, ‘The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.’ You don’t need hallucinogenics, enlightenment is not to be forced. It happens with divine timing—Nature teaches us that.”

Charles wasn’t the joking kind.

He was collecting to add to his evening meal. They taste good if cooked properly but who was the first to decide that eating fungus was a good idea? His knowledge about mycelium was kind of cool though—a giant underground communication network, like the internet for plants and trees.

As promised, Charles walked me back to where I had parked my car. It was a much shorter walk than what it took to get to my boulder sitting spot earlier. Interesting how lost we can get. The walk was just long enough to share good conversation.

“Something seems to be on your mind.”

“Yeah, I’m afraid I’m going to get sick. For some reason, I drank from the stream earlier.”

Smiling, “So, the wild water called to you; I thought it might have. It won’t harm you, unless you fear it. Fear shifts everything in life. This area is very pure, Nature takes care of itself.”

“Wild water?” Maybe he is a little crazy.

“Wild water is moving water found in untouched natural places. It carries all the energy, ancient knowledge, and magic of the land. Water is Earth’s blood. Those who are called to drink from it become one with it and all of Nature.”

“Huh.”

“If there is magic on this planet, it is contained in water.”
~Loren Eiseley

As we approached my car, Charles pointed towards a dirt road, “I live up there a bit, at the end. Why don’t you come visit next Tuesday, I’ll put together a lunch. I’ve got a book I think you would enjoy.” He shook my hand, pulled one of the wildflowers out of his basket, and handed it to me.

I wasn’t sure what to expect and Charles wasn’t the type of person I would normally hang out with but I was curious, intrigued, and felt almost connected with him. Not wanting to show up empty-handed, I brought a watercolor painting of the meadow with the wildflowers and mushrooms I had painted for him. I’m sure I saw his eyes water some, the painting seemed to hold some special meaning to him. He found its perfect spot on the wall and hung it right then.

I carefully unwrapped a copy of The Art of Seeing by John Burroughs with an inscription of ‘Dearest Samantha, may you find some clues to what you are seeking in these words. -Charles’

Chapter 2

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Samantha pushes her chair from the table, stands, and stretches.

“I go to nature to be soothed and healed, and to have my senses put in order.”
~John Burroughs

Many writers say that writing is hard work. It’s not the writing that is hard, but the processing of emotions that writing brings up.

“Alright Raven, let’s go out and play. I need a break.”

Another morning Sam sits back down in front of the window, starting fresh with Chapter 12. The wood stove makes the cabin cozy on these brisk fall days. Leaves are beginning to pile up in the yard, flowers are long gone as are many of the birds with their songs.

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Chapter 12

Charles and I spent many days together sharing deep conversation, friendship, and exploring Nature. It felt as though he was guiding me back to life. My spirit felt stronger as I started to understand and practice the importance of reconnecting with Nature. I realized that connection with others and my self is also important—no, vital.

The long walks with Charles down various paths pointing out different plants and sharing their healing properties; magic and folklore passed down from his mother, are some of my best memories with him. At one point, early on, he hand-carved for me my own walking stick out of a straight piece of maple branch. Occasionally he would reach over and hold my hand for a bit as we walked.

The magic that took place sitting around the fire pit while Charles drummed would take me to some far away time and place. I would catch glimpses of memories, maybe even past lives, but they were never strong enough to quite remember the details. Pieces of me waiting to return.

Charles’ death was not only a shock but very hard on me. Although he was up there in age, an elder, he was still spry and appeared healthy. Dehydration from the flu put him in the hospital, a place he always said he would die in. I never knew if that was fear speaking or a “knowing”. Perhaps it was because he didn’t want to feel trapped. He was there only for a very brief stay. Shortly before he passed, he took my hand in his and squeezed hard enough for me to wince. I knew that was his goodbye, he was ready to move on. So hard to believe that was 10 years ago.

One of the most important things he taught me was, to always be open and receptive. To move through life slowly and with reverence. To see with “Sharp Eyes” as coined by John Burroughs. Signs and messages are constant reminders that he is still around.

“What we once enjoyed and deeply loved we can never lose,
For all that we love deeply becomes a part of us.”
~Helen Keller

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“Let’s go for a walk Raven, I finished!”

When she came back inside, Sam noticed a book on the floor. A book of Rumi had fallen off the shelf and opened to reveal an underlined quote: "The wound is the place where the Light enters you."

Samantha noticed another book that must have been hidden behind Rumi and pulled it out. She was surprised to see an old journal, passed on to her with all of Charles’ other books and belongings.

Opening to the first page of the worn leather-bound journal, neatly written in fountain pen, “I met a young woman today while in the field gathering mushrooms and wild plants for dinner. I recognized her eyes immediately—She Who Walks Softly.”

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🌿I’d love to hear your thoughts on this short story (constructive critiquing would be helpful and appreciated). Do you see its potential for a novel? Let’s connect in the comments. Or, feel free to DM.

Peace & Blessings,

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