Isobel's journey

You are standing at the start of a storytelling journey. Your responses will contribute to a story that will tell itself. The story will be made by many minds...woven into a pattern that no-one can foresee...the unthought tale…

There will be questions and challenges.

Let them echo in your memory. Use that memory as your starting point.

Please answer the following questions:

Day-time or Night-time? < Isobel chose Day-Time

Ice or Fire? <Isobel chose Ice

Gifts or Party? <Isobel chose Gift

The snow is falling all around and the temperature has dropped suddenly. Icicles are hanging and your breath is misting. But someone gave you something just for this moment. Where are you, what did they give you and why?

Isobel wrote

I was walking. I could feel it getting colder – must get home. Then suddenly snow is falling, heavily. It should feel warmer, but it’s getting colder. The cold sears through me. I can’t see. I stumble towards a cluster of trees for shelter, struggling to breathe, and lean against a tree trunk. My hands, even in gloves, are frozen, no feeling.

Then I hear laughter, more of a giggle. I turn and catch sight of a figure. I sense it is a young girl, draped in a dark hooded cloak, patterned with wisps of her long auburn hair. My glasses are covered in snowflakes. I’m trying to see her face as she comes nearer but all I see is a mellow light glowing beneath the hood – such a welcome and warming glow. “Cold hands, warm heart.” I hear those words distinctly and then another giggle. I feel a strong touch on my shoulder. “Here,” the girl says gently, “take this, it will help you and guide you to where you need to go.” She places a white and gold bag in my stiff frozen hands. As I look down at it I feel a warmth spreading through my hands, then up my arms and then enveloping my whole body. I look up and say thank you, but she has gone.

The bag is moving, something inside it. I’m not afraid. I’m warm, breathing calmly, glasses no longer misted. I gently ease the bag open a little and peer inside. A small wood pigeon looks back at me, it softly coos, gently flutters and immediately I am reminded of my childhood.

The pigeon settles down again in the bag, cooing contentedly and folding its wings. I remember the early mornings lying in bed listening to the pigeons sheltering in the eaves of my house. I remember so clearly the comfort and warmth that I felt. I recall how young I was at the time. I can see the book I was reading…..The book! Suddenly it returns to my imagination with such clarity. And at that moment, the pigeon flutters again, and turns its head on one side to gaze at me with its curious bright bird eye.

The snow is falling in thick downy flakes. The silence among the trees is so pure and peaceful. I put the bag down and the pigeon pokes its head out, takes a few steps, gathers itself, and flies up into the snow filled sky. I pick up the bag and follow it.

I stumble through the wood, eyes fixed on the pigeon as it flies from branch to branch. I clutch the bag knowing that it will keep me warm. Suddenly the pigeon glides down to the snowy ground and stands, cocking its head and cooing. Something is dimly visible between the trees. I know I must go towards it. I feel that this place is familiar. That it is waiting for me.

What place do you find in the woods?

Isobel chose A Cabin

I see a narrow winding path that leads to a cabin. I walk up to it and stand for a moment kicking the snow off my shoes. Then I push the door open. What is inside?

Isobel wrote:

I peer into a darkness. Afraid of what I might see, I can feel and hear my heart pounding, but I am meant to be here and I must go in. The snow all around outside helps to light up the interior. No sign of anyone. There’s little furniture – a large uneven wooden table and two wooden chairs, ashes in a grate, a basket of logs beside it and, rather ominously, a big axe. I shudder a little. I’m feeling weary though ... and hungry. The gold and white bag I am carrying suddenly feels heavier. I open it up expecting to see the pigeon, but instead there is some bread and cheese.

I sit on one of the chairs, not very comfortably, and as I eat I think again about the warmth and comfort of my childhood bedroom where, through illness, I spent so much time. The book I can see myself reading is a book of fairy tales – I read so many and I enjoyed them again and again. Intriguing as the stories were though, there was often a darkness lurking there. And now I feel as if I’m in my own fairy tale – am I Goldilocks trespassing in the home of the three bears?

Then I spot a door into another room. I enter in to such a different world. Richly patterned materials hang down from the walls and across a small bed. A beautifully decorated jug and large bowl are on an ornate stand. And then I notice the hooded cloak.

The silence is suddenly broken by the sound of weeping coming from the other room. I dash back, the weeping stops, no one there. But my eyes fall on a piece of paper by my bag. It says in uneven and faint script, “Please help me. To help me you must continue your journey. Please don’t give up.” A tapping on the window makes me jump. It’s the wood pigeon tapping his beak. I rush outside. The urgency of this appeal makes me determined to go on. It is now much lighter and sun shines in a blue sky. The pigeon swoops down towards me.

Who left that mysterious note? Who was weeping? I must help. I stand for a moment in the snow as the pigeon sits on a branch coo-ing with encouragement. The axe! The cloak! I run back into the cabin, into the secret room, grab the cloak from the back of the door and tie it round my neck with fumbling fingers. It fits perfectly. Now I run back and stop in the next room. Should I take the axe as well? Of course! I look through the open door and see the pigeon is already swooping ahead. I run outside and stumble through the thick snow, chasing after the bird.

I run past an ice lake, and reach the last few trees in the forest. From here the snowy expanse stretches upwards towards a hill. I remember how much I wished to run in the snow when I was a child, but I was always too sick, too delicate they said...but now, I am alive and racing across a white expanse, seeking...what?

I stop in amazement. A great pall of mist is spilling over the top of the hill and rolling towards me. It surrounds me. I breathe in its dank taste. I can see nothing, lost in this dark, damp, greyness. The mist is full of sounds...echoes...whispers...suddenly out of the murk a voice speaks to me...

What is this voice and what does it say?

• • I am the dragon of winter…feed me…

  • I ask a riddle of all who enter my domain, answer it and you will proceed

  • A door is ahead, open it, open it, open it….

The voice says "A door is ahead, open it, open it, open it…"

I move forward in the mist, with one hand reaching ahead. I touch something wooden, solid, it must be the door! I push it, it does not open. I feel all around, looking for a handle or a lever or something. I remember the fairy tales I used to read all those years ago. Surely there was one with a door that would not open….

What did the fairy tale have to say about impassable doors? What is the way to open it and what happens next?

For the first time since I started this strange journey I feel a sense of panic and uncertainty. My hand tightens around the axe I had grabbed from the cabin - should I break the door down with the axe, would I have enough strength? My mind is like the swirling mist. All sorts of images spin round in a kaleidoscope of fairy tales – castles, witches, mysterious animals, evil kings, handsome princes, imprisoned princesses ..... Yes that’s it. I see clearly now, I must find the magic key. The mist begins to clear a little and again I hear a voice, “You have chosen well,” it whispers. And then starts to sing softly

“Find, find the magic key

Hiding in a nearby tree

Open then the door to see

What it is that’s meant to be.”

I repeat the words to myself “find,find the magic key, hiding in a nearby tree.” But where could the tree be. I’ve long since left the forest, do I have to retrace my steps? I look behind me at the vast stretch of snow. I can’t even see the edge of the forest. But suddenly I notice a circle of trees. I leave the heavy axe by the door and turn and run towards the circle. I seem to fly across the snow. It’s almost as if the cloak is a pair of wings. I reach the circle and standing in its middle, I look frantically around at each of the trees. How am I going to find the key?

The mist continues to clear and blue sky emerges again. My neck aches with looking upwards desperately scanning each branch for the key. Then suddenly something shines, catching the sunlight. A large silver key hangs from a high up branch, but how can I reach it? Even my cloak wings can’t take me that high. I shiver as a chill breeze blows and rustles through the trees. The key sparkles and sways tantalisingly but remains firmly in place. I clutch at the white and golden bag which has kept me warm throughout my journey. But of course, the pigeon! Where is he now? “Pigeon, pigeon please come and help me,” I cry out, words echoing across the snowy expanse, “help me to complete my journey!” I’ve hardly finished uttering these words when I hear familiar cooing and wings are flapping in the branches above me. As I look up the key descends and lands at my feet. “Thank you, pigeon, thank you.” I put the key safely in the bag and ‘fly’ back across the snow to the door.

I can see clearly now the wooden door in the middle of a high stone wall, much of it covered in ivy. The wall seems to stretch back a long way, towards the distant hill. My hands shake as I put the key in the keyhole but it turns easily. I pick up the axe and push the door open, gradually. It’s heavy and strong, almost resisting my push. As I step through, I gasp. From the whiteness of the snow I walk into a lush garden full of flowers and shrubs, full of colours and different shapes, and wonderful perfumes – a walled garden. It’s the garden of my childhood dreams, the secret garden that I read about in the comfort of my bedroom but longed to see for real. And then I see her....

A child, thin and delicate, eyes filled with wonder, gazes at me, absentmindedly eating a piece of fruit. The garden is full of vivid colour and the fruit she eats drips down her chin. I don’t know what to say to her, but finally I ask

-it’s you….or….me….is it?

She nods. She says

-I’ve been waiting for you…

Then tears come into her eyes. She drops the fruit. She says

-I don't want to be here forever, but how will I ever leave….?

I feel a flood of compassion for her. I recall exactly what I felt, lying in bed, so comfortable and so absorbed in my imaginary world. This was exactly the garden I imagined. How long it took me to learn how to make my way in the outside world! How many struggles!

I say to the child

-do you eat this fruit all the time?

She nods, and points to the trees all around, laden with their bright coloured sweet tasting bounty.

I say to her

- do you want to come with me?

She nods with a sudden enthusiasm but she does not move. I ask

-do you want to stay?

Now she whispers something. For a moment I don’t know what she is saying. Then I pick out words, it’s a sort of recipe, or a spell…

What do you see in the potion?

I look in amazement at the potion. The girl is fascinated and dips her finger into it for a taste. It’s powerful - she looks up with the light of courage in her eyes.

I must take some of this with me! I rummage hopefully inside the bag and find there is a stoppered bottle already waiting for me inside. I dip the bottle into the green potion and fill it while the child watches me.

I hold out my hand to her

-let’s go

We walk towards the open door. We stand on the threshold and for a moment neither of us moves. Then I say

-1,2,3…....

And we step through the doorway together.

There is a rushing sound...the mist billows and surrounds me….there is a mass of shapes...dancing shadows dappling me...a tumult of sensations and sounds….and….

I open my eyes.

Where am I? What….??? It takes me some time to collect my thoughts, I am still half asleep, half awake. And someone is calling to me

-mummy, mummy, wake up

I look through half closed lids at my own daughter who has come to shake me awake. She is looking at me closely with that solemn expression of hers.

-mummy, where did you go last night?

I lie there trying to remember. She doesn’t wait for my answer

-mummy, what’s that?

She is pointing to the chair. I sit up in bed. There’s nothing remarkable about my clothes tossed over the back of the chair is there?

Then I see what she is pointing to. It’s a golden bag.

-mummy, what’s inside?

WHAT DO YOU SHOW HER, AND WHAT HAPPENS NEXT?

Isobel wrote

I am shocked to see the white and gold bag that accompanied me through my ‘journey’. Surely then it wasn’t all a dream – I did go somewhere last night. Hannah is staring so intently at the bag. I reach for it and open it hesitantly not sure what to expect. I pull out each item from deep down in the bag – a smooth stone, like the one I had put into the cauldron; a miniature carving of a wood pigeon, delicately painted; a small doll with auburn hair, like Hannah’s, and wearing a patterned satin dress covered by a velvet hooded cloak. Hannah is entranced and lets out an excited cry. “Mummy, mummy, pretty dolly, is this for me?” she says grabbing hold of the doll. “Yes, yes of course, darling,” I reply trying desperately to process what is happening.

There is something else. Right at the bottom of the bag is the bottle containing the green potion from the cauldron. I hold it up to the light before placing it on a table well away from Hannah who is dancing with the doll. I hear the cooing of a pigeon – could that be the pigeon? I head for the window but there’s no sign of any pigeon. Silly me, there are lots of pigeons out there, why should it be that pigeon? As I turn back I am horrified to see Hannah raising the potion bottle to her lips. “No, Hannah, no!” I cry out and dash over to grab the bottle, now half empty, and as I do so Hannah’s hand disappears, then her arm, her face, her upper body, then there’s no Hannah at all.

The power of the potion - I know with certainty what I must do and swallow the remainder of the potion.

I am back in a beautiful garden, but different – no walls, no heavy door but still the lush colours and so much fruit. I feel a lightness and a happiness. This time there’s no child crying, no sadness. Instead I see Hannah and such a happy Hannah. It is so lovely to see Hannah’s normally serious face beaming with smiles as she skips round the garden showing her new doll the different flowers and fruit.

It is then that I am overwhelmed with emotion and a realisation that a part of me has always remained cocooned and alone in my childhood bedroom, in the horror and struggles of my illness. I have carried this with me always and have allowed it to taint my child and her own experience of childhood. Even worse, my one escape – the books I read then, and especially the fairy tales, I have deliberately never shared with Hannah, have gone out of my way to avoid them. How shameful when we could have shared so many magical experiences. Now is our chance.

Hannah sees me and rushes over, giggling as she brushes her hands through branches of tiny green leaves. “Mummy, isn’t this fun. Can we play here?” I catch her hand and together we skip past the many beds of flowers and shrubs. In one corner I see a wooden notice. ‘Follow the 37 steps’ it says pointing to a series of stone steps. I know that we must take this route and complete the journey together.

We go towards the stone steps. I take Hannah’s hand and feel a surge of pride in her and in me. My illness was a weight that I carried and she too has carried it, only now have I understood that. But look where we are - together in a magical garden!

We begin to walk up the steps and I notice that each one has a small tile set into it. The tiles have pictures and the pictures make me want to tell a story. Hannah is looking at me with shining eyes and so I begin

-Once there was a little girl who was so ill, she lay in bed all day and couldn’t go out. She was unhappy and sad. But she had a book of stories….

Hannah hops up to the next step. I look for a tile, another picture, prompting me to continue the story

Those stories were the most wonderful magical tales that little girl had ever read…’

Hannah is so delighted to hear a story. I have never told her stories before like this. I am just as excited as her to see what I say next! And so from step to step we take the journey of storytelling, both of us together.

Something strange is happening as we go up the steps. We are getting lighter. We don’t need to hop any more, we can float. From step to step, from story to story….

And by the time we have reached the top of the steps, I have told her about myself, and I have told her all the stories that I read in those far off days. And now the weight has lifted.

There is a stone grotto at the top and we sit down inside on a seat carved with many shapes. Hannah looks around happily, making up her own stories and jumping up to explore

Then she turns to me suddenly and says

-you know mummy, I think we can always come here, can’t we...because this garden is...in us….isn’t it?

She is wise beyond her years.

I say to her

-yes, whenever we tell stories together, we can go wherever we want...this garden is just the beginning...we’re going to travel...and our imagination will take us there….

I stand up and Hannah skips to stand alongside me. She is holding the bag and she rummages inside to pull out the bottle of potion.

I say to her

-let’s leave it here for the next person who comes to find it. This is the place where people come to find out who they are...it’s different for each person….

She understands. I take her hand. We count 1, 2, 3

Then we fly…...