In a far distant country, in a dark forest, an old woman lived all alone in a cottage beside a winding road. Her husband, who had built the cottage and cleared the land. The couple had one child, who had moved away from home years before, to seek her fortune in the city. The old woman’s only companion was a black sheepdog. One gloomy winter’s day, the old dog crawled off into the woods, and never returned. The only answer to the woman’s repeated calls was the mournful wailing of the wind.
Few travelers ventured into the forest, and fewer still in the cold months of winter. The woman, whose name was Rose, was always cautious when anyone knocked on her door, for some of the travelers were violent, angry men who went about seeing who they could murder and rob. When a knock came at dusk, Rose peered cautiously out the peephole her late husband had drilled into the door years before.
In the dim light of approaching dusk, she saw a stooped old woman, even older than her, standing in the drifting snow. She wore only a thin coat, and shivered in the cold evening breeze. Rose’s warm heart was touched immediately, and she threw back the bolt and opened the door.
“Why, my dear, whatever are you doing out here, in this kind of weather, with nothing on? For mercy’s sake, come in, come in!”
Rose led her ancient guest to the roaring fire, and sat her down in the quilted rocker that had served well in the forty years since her Sam had made it. Bustling about, and talking with the insistency of someone who has been solitary too long, she soon thrust a mug of hot ale into the ancient one’s trembling hands. She hovered for a few moments, concerned lest the other spill the hot contents over her lap, but the hands that raised the cup to blue lips steadied.
Later, as they shared bread and cheese at the rough-hewn table, the aged traveler found enough strength to talk. “My name is Lyra,” she said, in a cracking voice Rose had to struggle to hear. “I live deeper in the forest, or I did live there. My house caught fire four days past, and I escaped only with the clothes I wear, and these few trinkets in my pack.”
For the first time, Rose noticed a small cloth sack tied on Lyra’s back; she could have sworn it was not there before. Lyra continued with her story.
“I managed to find shelter among the rocks and trees, and built a fire with the tinderbox I carry. Last night, my tinder ran out, and I was prepared to curl up somewhere and die. After walking most of the day, in this terrible cold, I saw at last the light from your window.”
Tears came to Rose’s eyes, and ran unhindered down her cheeks. “You poor, dear woman,” she said with a sob. “God must have sent you my way. Only today, I lost my only companion, a sheepdog who had been with me for sixteen years. My husband is long dead, rest his dear soul. I was feeling very sorry for myself, but at least I have a warm place to sleep, and food enough for the winter. You stay here with me as long as you want. This is your home as long as you will have it.”
Lyra’s ancient face cracked apart in a toothless smile. “Bless you, my child. You have a kind heart. I will stay here until I regain my strength,, and the weather breaks, then I will be on my way. I have a sister who lives to the north of here, and she will take me in.”
For the next ten days, Lyra slept on a warm rug near the fireplace (she refused to take Rose’s bed), and shared the food her kind host set before her. Rose knew that feeding the extra mouth would cause her food supplies to run short later in the winter, but she never once stopped to worry about it. The good Lord had always provided, and He would not desert her in His mercy now.
Rose passed the long winter days sewing, joining pieces of cloth together into quilts, and lovingly embroidering each square. Her work hung on the walls of the cottage, and graced the rocking chair and bed. She sold the quilts in the spring to passing traders, who stopped by her door year after year. Her nimble hands had long provided the means for putting food in her mouth, though in recent years they had started to stiffen with arthritis. What she would do when she no longer draw thread through cloth was one of those concerns she happily left in God’s hands.
The cottage in the woods
One morning, after the morning prayer and breakfast they always shared together, Lyra rose to her feet. “I am much stronger now, dear Rose, and the weather has broken. I must go on today.”
Rose protested. “But, sweet Lyra, the weather can change in an instant, and you are still so frail. I am so lonely here; why not spend the rest of the winter?”
Her protests were of no avail. When she saw she could not change her friend’s mind, Rose insisted she take a warm coat, and as much food as she could carry on her still-frail back. In return, Lyra opened her meager pack, which had been hanging on a peg on the wall.
“I cannot repay your kindness in saving my life,” she said, “but I have some extraordinary lengths of thread I want you to take. Use them in a quilt; whenever you see them, remember me. Now, the Lord’s blessing be on you. I must go in the morning light; I have a long way to go before night falls again.”
Rose took the proffered gift of a dozen threads of various colors. They hardly seemed long enough all taken together to make a pattern on a single square, but she could hardly turn down a gift of love.
“Knit a rose with the red thread,” Lyra said just before she turned to walk down the road. “Make it beautiful, like you.”
There was hardly enough red thread for that, but she had enough to make up the difference. After clearing away the morning dishes, and stacking them neatly on their shelf after cleaning, she sat down in her familiar spot to sew, attaching the short strand of red thread to her cherished needle. With the nimble touch they had almost forgotten, her hands drew the thread through the cloth over and over, with practiced skill.
Before she even realized it, a brilliant red rose took shape under hands. When the last stitch was finished, the thread ran out. With astonishment, she realized that the single strand of thread she had run through the needle’s eye had lasted all the way through the creation of the intricate design, the most perfect rose she had ever made. Outside, a bird sang, and her heart thrilled at the sound.
Then she thought, “How can this be? Magic thread, and a lark singing in the dead of the winter. Why, Lyra must be some kind of enchantress, even a witch.”
She shivered then, in a momentary rush of fear, but the memory of her guest’s warm smile and gentle voice dispelled these thoughts. No, she might be a sorceress or some kind, but Lyra was certainly not evil.
The bird continued to sing, it’s song nearer and more persistent. Curious, and still a little nervous, Rose opened her door, and peered outside. The song ceased, and she looked around to see if there was any sign of the bird. Her eyes fell almost at once on a flash of bright red, up against the house, and beside the door. There, amidst the white drift of snow, was the most perfect rose she had ever seen, just like the one on her quilt.
For a moment, tears dimmed her eyes, and she could not see the flower. When she brushed the tears away, the rose was still there. Tenderly, she plucked it, and carried it inside her little house. She took one of the vases that decorated her cottage during the warm months, and placed the rose in it, in water, on the table that usually bore only the burden of food during the cold winter.
She had eleven threads left, and she considered what else she might make. The first thing she thought of was making a picture of Sam, but she gave that up at once. They had had many happy years together, and he had gone to be with the Lord in God’s own time. To bring him back now would be the worst kind of sacrilege.
Perhaps her dog, Sam? He, too, had spent many years under her roof. Bringing him back might not be wrong, but somehow it didn’t feel right to make him go through life again, happy as it was. What then? Surely the thread couldn’t be meant for something as frivolous as the rose?
Perhaps Sam?
She looked over at the bright burst of color, and the rush of joy that came then belied the idea that this was something trivial. The quilt lay neatly folded over the back of the rocking chair, and she picked it up, expecting to see the lovely outline of the rose. To her continued amazement, in this day of amazement, the rose was gone. She understood then; once the rose became reality, it ceased to be a part of the quilt.
Absently, she sat down in the rocking chair, the quilt coming to rest on her lap. Without thinking, her fingers plucked a golden thread from the little collection on top of her sewing basket. The golden goblet took shape under her absent gaze before she even realized what she was doing.
It was indeed fit for the table of a king, this vessel of intricate design. She marveled at what her own hands were doing, as if they were governed by some will other than her own. That, she considered, as exactly the case; no conscious design of hers went into what she was creating. Dismayed, she willed her fingers to stop, and they immediately obeyed. Looking at the unfinished work made her heart ache, though, and she began the work, that was no work, once more.
When the last bit of thread went into the cloth, and she snipped the end, the song of the lark came once more. She rose as before, and opened her door. The singing stopped, leaving an empty space of longing in her heart. Expectantly now, she turned back again, the golden gleam of the goblet all but blinded her eager eyes. The assurance came to her that someone would come to receive the gift. In a flash yet another realization flooded over her; the rose was a gift for her, and her alone. From that point on, her hands would craft gifts meant to offer a blessing to others.
The remaining weeks of winter flew by on wings. The little cottage was filled to bursting with an assortment of marvelous creations, some plain and some elaborate. When the first flowers of spring thrust up from the warm sod, she realized that the last magical thread was gone. She realized that she hadn’t noticed that before, but had long since ceased to wonder at surprises.
As evening fell in that bright, sun-filled day, a light knock came at the door, accompanied by a merry laugh. Without bothering to check the peephole, she opened the door, and stepped back with open mouth. In front of her was a lovely woman with flaming red hair, dancing eyes, and full lips parted in a radiant smile.
“Rose, my dear friend, the Lord’s blessings be upon you. I see the winter has been kind to you.”
Rose bowed deeply to this lady of obvious loyalty. “Forgive me, my lady, but I don’t know your name. Welcome to my poor home.”
The stranger laughed again, a musical sound almost like the song of the lark. “I am Lyra, born anew with the spring. You were kind to me when you found me in an hour of great need. You asked for nothing in return, but when I gave you work to do, you set about it willingly. Your true reward awaits you. Come, and I will take you to your new home.”
Rose looked back into her cottage, the only home she could now recall. “But all of the things I made…”
Lyra touched her arm lightly. “They will be taken care of. You no longer need to worry about things.”
Her glance lingered for a short while, then she turned toward the waiting carriage. It came as no surprise to her that one of things she saw, slumped in the old rocking chair, was a worn-out body she no longer needed…
Written by Gary W Cavendish, March 2006