Miracles, Madness and Hjordis

Image of Bluebells of Scotland“Tell me again why this particular hill?” Grace glared at her grandmother Maeve.

“’Tis our best hope of marshaling all forces of Man and Nature,”retorted the old woman, her lavender cape, the only warm color for miles, whipping about her bony shoulders in the dry wind. “Plus, the light is better. Image is everything—well, nearly everything–for this plan.”

“You’re remarkably hip for an old crone,” she remarked, “But if you don’t slow down, Hjordis may drop her young one right here on the path.” Continue reading