(From memory, date unknown, 2012?) I’m part of a group of college-age researchers. It’s summer; we have come to Cornwall to interview some villagers. I’m pretty new to the team, but I have a male partner who has more research experience in the area. He is the team leader.
He is running a little late. He’s fine-tuning the call-in messaging system used by our group. He and I share the same voice-mailbox, which is accessed with the numeric code 1980.
I arrive at our subject’s cottage alone and knock on the small, wooden door. The stone house is several hundred years in age, with low, timbered ceilings and windows made of thick, bubbly glass. Wildflowers, herbs and historic cultivars of domestic Cornish blossoms grow all along the front of the house, which is situated on a patch of land away from the rest of the village. Surrounded by waving seagrass.
A stooped, dark-haired woman opens the door. She is ancient but exudes a ferocious, electrical charge. I explain the official reason for my visit. She gruffly invites me in for a bit of tea. I have to duck my head to get in the door. She leads me into the kitchen, which is off to the right of the entry hall. We sit across from each other at a small round table, sipping our tea quite awkwardly. I take out my clipboard and start to go through my list of survey questions but she refuses to answer any of them. She stirs her tea silently, energetically, looking directly into my eyes with a dark scowl.
I am relieved to hear a knock on the door. It’s my research partner, a tall slender young man with dark hair. The witch lets him in. She is much more receptive to his inquiries. They have met before and have developed a warm relationship. She even agrees to let us inspect the upper floor of the cottage while she waits in the tearoom.
My partner and I walk to the enclosed staircase together. It’s a cramped, tiny closet with wooden walls, ceiling and stairs which smell of ancient tree sap and dust. Against the far wall runs a second set of stairs, fairy stairs. The treads are at least half the size of the human stairs. It’s tricky, but these are the stairs I choose to climb to the upper level of the cottage.
I open a wooden door at the top of the stairs to enter the attic space. The floor is covered in wide wooden planks and the rafters are very low along the eaves. One can only stand upright in the center of the room. My partner stands close to me, on my left side, his right shoulder touching my left shoulder. This feels warmly intimate and comfortable. I’m happy. He tells me the story of Edie (the name of the old herbalist): she is the village librarian, the keeper of all knowledge. We walk together to the right side of the attic, to a rectangular opening in the floor through which we can view the rows of bookshelves in the room below.
Day notes:
I had this dream before I read Sabine Lucas’ book. She and others, such as members of the School of Metaphysics, say halls with doorways, bookstores and libraries are symbols of the Akashic Records.
Interestingly, I had a later dream about a magical black sow. When I shared it with our dream group, Claudia named the pig Edie. There is a Cornish folk tale called “The Witch’s Pig.”
