The Cauldron and The Labyrinth
Some say it is simply a folk tale, the story of The Cauldron and The Labyrinth. It’s the story of a cozy little shop with an ancient lineage. No one really knows when or where it first came to be, but it seems to go as far back into memory as the storytellers can recall.
Some say that it began as a cottage deep in the comfort of the woods. The cottage was made of stone, irregular rocks plowed up from fields, packed with smaller stones, straw, and clay. As it aged, the moss and lichen crept along the outer walls until it looked like the cottage itself was alive.
The original cottage was one room. Its stone hearth stood against the northern wall, a defense against the winter cold. A large iron kettle hung on an iron arm that stretched above the flames. Some say a young maiden, some say an old crone tended the fire and stirred the cauldron. Perhaps it was the same woman who had simply been there for a very long time, drying her herbs and making her candles.
Her life was simple at the cottage, ebbing and flowing with the change of the seasons. The great oaks and ash around her blooming, stretching towards the sun, and then dropping their brittle leaves to the forest floor to create a rich carpet of compost lying below a blanket of snow. Sometimes she would have visitors from the village, where she was both feared and revered, depending on who you asked.
She always seemed to know they were coming, greeting them with tea or stew, perhaps a warm loaf of bread with fresh cheese from her goats. But her hospitality was always undercut by her bluntness. She did not suffer fools and was sharp with those who wasted her time.
Most of her visitors were desperate. They sought hidden knowledge. Cures. Curses. Predictions. Protections. Sometimes they would leave with small bundles. Sometimes they watched her cast bones. And sometimes, she would tell them to walk the labyrinth outside the eastern wall.
At least, that is how they say it started. That is how it got its name: The Cauldron and The Labyrinth. And just as no one really knows how the first cottage came to be, no one really knows where it went. But the stories persist, and so did The Cauldron and The Labyrinth. It comes when it is needed. They say it comes when it is called by the ancestors. At one time it stood in London next to a theater. At one time it stood near an antique bookstore in Paris, and once, down the street from an artist’s studio in Florence. It arrives and departs without fanfare.
The keepers are called, too. The keepers need no special qualifications beyond the ability to hear the call. The call is subtle, a slight tug on their intuition, like a spider plucking its web or the fates pulling a string. There is no genetic inheritance, no cultural mandate. The keepers are seekers who are simply called into their new role of sharing what they know, bringing their own traditions into the fold.
The stories of The Cauldron and The Labyrinth carry a power of their own. They bring with them the power to steep and the power to reveal just like the cauldron and the labyrinth themselves. But it is a power reserved for the seekers, for those who are willing to listen to the magic as it unfolds.
The above is the introduction to a new flash fiction series that I am writing. For more stories from The Cauldron and The Labyrinth, visit: https://www.wattpad.com/story/335343158-the-cauldron-and-the-labyrinth