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Story time...
the door along the way
We travelled here for a reason. But after hours of walking, what that was became less clear. The mind began to wander. To mimic its kindred feet. The road was steep and the sights were vast. The sun was strong.
There were people of all shapes and sizes. From tall and round and short and flat. Dispositions would vary too. Happy and sad and mad and glad. Inquisitive, funny and true.
Then suddenly the clarity returned. But not like that after you wipe the smudge from your spectacles. Or after adjusting your eyes from dark to light. It was the reverse. Like when you look at a painting and it reveals itself when you squint. You lose focus and see clarity in the blur.
The road was paved with cobbles. But concrete covered them since. The path now began to narrow. And the hum of the hustle and bustle, turned into a whispering hymn.
We felt warm all of a sudden. Seemingly dry and parched. But the air was cool and damp. Exhaustion, almost. Or just a sense of exaggerated exertion.
Bam! To a halt. Like a battering ram. Or two in a rut. Skull to skull. Not physically but at the end of our sight. And thus in our mind the path did not continue. The blurred clarity of mind combined with and caused by fatigue.
The doorway appeared newly built but old in its craft. The stones were heavy and the edges were clean. The door was wooden and coated but in need of a second one soon. A new sense was triggered. The odor new too. But the memories triggered were not. The odor now an aroma. The handle seemed real and in reach. The metal was cold but the feeling was warm. It entered the mind through the nostrils and tickled all things in its path.
The door was heavy and the room was dark. There was wood and copper. Iron and steel. The aroma was strong and pungent. Absorbed by the elements occupying the space. And the by the space itself.
Equipment galore. Barrels and presses. Stills and vats. Stains on the walls, the ceilings, the slats. Some barrels looked fresh, some jars were still full. Hues of gray, crimson and brown coated the room.
Bottles lined the walls, with corks both natural and synthetic. Some had screw caps. Some were open, some closed. Barely ten paces inside, we stared into what seemed like an endless workshop. There was a faint light. A flame, a flicker. Oil or gas? Maybe electric. The movement was real. We approached it and it approached us.
The it was a who. The master of the craft. It had to be. With messy dusty hair and matching overalls blue. A white collared shirt with maybe a stain or three but that wasn’t the point. The crafter carried a bottle, large enough for our numbers, and glasses that equaled the half of our double. The frosty glass of the bottle glimmered.
Few words and gestures were exchanged. The signed exchange clearer than the spoken. We found ourselves sitting, at a tall wooden bar-like table, on uneven stools. We were lively again and quenched. Our bellies full now with both drink and food too.
The end, was not in sight. The moon now lit the sky through the windows facing it. The wooden door in the doorway of stone.
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