There were three days until the meeting at the moor and he had just arrived in England. His heart was still in Venice, melting over a large chair in a rose-colored teahouse but he must breathe this air for the moment. He held a small pouch of sand, brown leather with red string wrapping the open end tight. A bundle of sage was in his left hand, accompanied by a fine bottle of red wine.
Level sprite, a water spirit, came to the dock and whispered in his ear “Sir, we must talk about these papers.” The only boat he could see was the barge just unloaded from the planks he was standing on. It was maroon in color, help together by a pattern of sheet metal. The paint was beginning to fall from the front, onto the dock and the ocean below.
With such urgency in her voice he knew he had to listen. He bowed and lowered his ear to the small beam of light. “They have been drawn up quickly, there is a lack of consideration for another tribe,” she said in a tender, soft voice. He breathed in the dust surrounding her body and laid his bottle of wine out before her. “We must trust our neighbors to the north,” she added, “And they must be able to trust us.”
He took his hand and placed it on top of the radio on his chest. He turned the dial to the off position and rose to his feet. He smiled at the small being and took the papers in his hand. “I shall return, with one key in mind. I believe you. I need more time, I suppose. You have so much wisdom.” He bowed and backed away until she vanished beneath the wooden pathway. The ocean air moistened his brow and he looked back towards the bay.
