Omega

All is dark and grey, and it feels like the underworld.

In the secret v-shaped valleys, where rivers trickle and birds soar over people-barren lands, there is a pathway. A cobbled road with sticks and stones and old animal bones.

We see a pair of feet pattering on the stone path. They are of an old woman, with a long black skirt. She is bending down, choosing bones among the stones. Insects and small animals scutter out from their bone homes and run across the road and into the fields for safety.

The woman’s back is hunched over and she wears a scarf over her head and a shawl over her shoulders. On the inside of her right elbow is a wicker basket and this is where she collects the bones.

The cobbled road leads to a big mansion, black and pointy, with white window ledges and a white door. There are a hundred steps leading up a veranda and the front door. It is a dwelling of which no one is aware. Wild vines swirl around the veranda and the black walls.

The mansion is on a sloping hill, under some walnut trees.

The old woman walks towards the mansion. She takes her time. Eternity is a long time. There is no rush.

Once she gets to the door, she hesitates and gazes over her shoulder. At first, you fear she saw you, but then she turns around, puts her hand on the door knob and enters.

She crosses the entire residence in ten minutes and she exits to the back yard. This garden is filled with herbs, plants and vegetables. Leafy greens and big, red, juicy, sharp-smelling tomatoes grow in coherent lines.

The old woman places the wicker basket on the earth and begins to dig in the soil. She weeds out the plants and vegetables. She pokes blackened fingertips into the mucky soil. You can hear her hum as she plants new bulbs.

When dusk settles, she gathers her wicker basket and leaves for the manor. She leaves footprints in the earth and enters the mansion.

You follow in her footprints. On the earth.

She washes her hands in the kitchen sink and earthy water pours down the drain. She puts on a pot of tea to boil and heads for the fireplace in the next room.

The ceiling is three metres high and the fireplace burns bright flames. The entire room is bathing in orange light. There is a sweet, pine smell from the fire and it wafts into the air and above the mantle piece, engulfing a painting of a wide-eyed, clever leopard.

The woman empties her basket and bones clatter out on the wooden floor. She assembles them into animal shapes. It could be any four-legged creature, or a crawling baby.

‘You think I don’t see you there?’ she softly whispers.

Your heart stops.

‘Yes, I’m speaking to you. There is no one else around. Just you and I.’

Deadly silence.

‘Don’t worry. You haven’t intruded,’ she says, and her eyes are fixed on the animal bones.

You thought you were just an observer. But she sees it all. Hears all.

‘I’ve a story to tell. I gather these bones. They are of my brother, and if I don’t assemble them, there will be no sun tomorrow,’ she says. She laughs a childish laugh, but it sounds strange, coming from an old woman. It echoes in the empty castle.

’These bones are now assembled, and we sing a song above the bones. The truths we tell will make this song. Bones are the longest lasting piece of us. They are indestructible. They last long after we’ve left this layer and they provide homes for creatures long after us.

But they get buried, forgotten, and we forget ourselves. I am the finder of these bones, the keeper of these bones, the binder of these bones. I collect you. I reconnect you. I sing a song above you, so you can light another day, with the sun inside of you.’

The fire in the fireplace blasts out into the room and The Morrigan stands up in flames. The bones on the floor take shape and become a horse-sized black wolf with focused eyes and erect ears.

The Morrigan climbs her wolf and they gallop out. Flames burst and pop and explode but the house is unharmed. The house is made of bones.