They danced, among the shadows of the grass, as one with the earth they stood upon. Arms stretched out, hands clasped, one to the other, not wanting to break the chain. But something was missing. The circle was not complete. Still, they tried, reaching for their lost sister, hoping to, somehow, get her back.
Four sisters would always gather in the clearing of a large meadow, overlooking a small town. It was their safe haven, where they could dance, chant, and be one with the spirits. Each midday, they stood in a circle, hand to hand, and prayed to the goddesses. Each had a different goddess, each willing the other three should also be so blessed. Until that one day…
Three sisters showed up at the usual time, but number four was nowhere to be seen. They waited, becoming concerned, and impatient. Finally, one said, “We should just start without her.” The other sisters shook their heads, claiming it wouldn’t be right to begin without her. They waited. As the day grew shorter, the shadows crept in.
The scenery was changing. What was once lush green grass and blue sky was no longer. All color had faded to monochrome. And the shadows grew deeper around them. It was then they decided to join hands and hope their sister could hear them and perhaps join them. Though the sisters remained incomplete, the shadows cast a perfect circle.
“My eyes are playing tricks!” said sister one.
“As are mine!” said sister three.
Sister two said nothing. Turning toward her, they asked, “Do you not see the changes, dear sister? Are your eyes not the same as ours?”
“I see no change about me,” she cried. “I see two sisters grieving over a sister who will never return, perhaps she is part of the shadow world.” She sneered at them, and their blood turned cold. Realizing she must be the reason a sister was missing, they tried to break the triad. Their hands would not come undone. They pulled, and pulled, to no avail.
The seasons changed, the winter came, and the grass had died, as did the sisters, who remained attached to each other, for all eternity. There stands three figures, wicker-like, as if someone sculpted them. Should you come upon them, standing in the clearing, take heed. While three may be seen, there is a fourth, lurking, in the shadows of immortality.
Photo via Sue Vincent’s #writephoto prompt – Wicker
©2019 Dorinda Duclos All Rights Reserved
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