Mo Is Seduced By The Mountain

 

 

 

Mo looked heavenwards at the swallows wheeling. From somewhere nearby came the humming of bees, maybe a nest. Far away, down the slope, a smoke of chalk blue hung in the air, metamorphosing with subtle change, as if a cloud of butterflies had just taken to the wing. Mo heard a faint sound, a pleasant but unexpected sound, like the tinkling of sleigh bells. She turned so she was facing the valley of the Suir. She could even smell something now, an unfamiliar scent, not a flower scent but a muskier smell, like the smell of bread baking, or the smell of a clean body climbing out of a bath. 

Then she saw the blooming.

It was as clear as an island of lambent green in the middle of a grey ocean, a gigantic circle of fecundity, vast in diameter, around a single focus. The focus was monumentally clear across the valley. And now, as she gazed at it, she sensed a new stirring, like a breath on the air, spiralling and eddying towards her, yet without any sense of wind - not even when she felt for it with her tongue.

Turning in a slow rapture of motion, she looked back at her friends, willing them to join her. But they were too preoccupied to notice. The communication was intended for her: for Mo alone.