Scribble #107

The Wisps of the Scottish Moors



Wilda loved the clouds. That expanding grey shroud.
   She loved the luscious, crawling green of the mountains. The craggy, yellowing stone everywhere - from the base of the masterful mountain, to the shores of the gigantic lake, and scattered in jagged pieces all the way up again - stone and rock that bear the marks of thousands of years.
   In the distance it would be too misty to see such splendour. But nothing ever got in the way of the lake, cooling and laying in wake like a meditating sentinel, or a lady ready with a sword to give to a future queen, from its calm depths.
   This was what Wilda loved most of all.
   There was no other word for it - the lake was enchanting.
   How is the waterfall so blue, thought Wilda, and yet the lake so green.
   The cascading waterfall was as blue as a baby bird's first ruffling of feathers - forever meeting a land of water as clear and pure and fresh green as both the right-side and underside of a gecko. Wilda loved to swim there, to skim the beautiful, barely-swelling surface that seemed to have a life of its own. It gleamed with a life of its own.
   Once she temporarily disturbed its peace, she could touch and gather together her own little collection of stones and pebbles with her hands and feet. She blew bubbles into the water, which disappeared in a second and were dragged away into the lake's neverending horizon. The sun, higher than the mountains and tantalizing mist, glowed in that distance, dimmed or glimmering depending on the time of day.
   Why would anyone want any of this to change? Wilda wondered, her dazzled eyes drifting to an offshoot willow branch hanging towards the water, as if drinking in its magic. No one would want this place gone to ashes once they see it up close. They would never let it fade away.
   Chest-deep in water in motion, she cupped a little of it in her hands. In this miniature mirror she could just make out the reflections of her friends, Sage, Paprika, and Larkspur.
   They wasted no time. They jumped into the lake, screaming with joy and right beside Wilda, the better to rile her up. The girls splashed and splashed. Wilda dunked the protesting Larkspur underneath, and little Paprika was swimming to the rocks and then jumping and diving, over and over again, to show off to her sister Sage, who mostly floated lazily out of reach, the sun glistening on her plump body.
   Each girl knew this lake - the whole nine yards of the cold and terribly lovely wonderland - like their most used limb. It was their home.
   Yes, Wilda mused happily, content even as she received a scolding from Larkspur, who looked a pale green in the water (in fact, they all looked green, even their hair had a kelp tinge), this is our home.
   Why, we must look like nymphs from a distance!