At the heart of a clearing lost in the forest (celtic) was a witch. She sported a long velvet dress emerald that caressed the ground with delicacy and an infinite cascade of wavy hair similar to the softness of the jet. She had a clear skin the glares of the moon and a cat-like glance, at once haunting and piercing. This witch was fitted with a power well particular, that of the Magic of Plants, which was as well, she is a priestess of Nature. No grass to him was unknown, no tree had no more secret for this magician. She knew the art of picking the plants and concoct various preparations, while respecting, revering. She was known in the neighborhood as a healer but was also fear, the Magic of the Plants that can bring Joy, Sleep, but also Melancholy. If the witch was a master of the Magic of the Plants, it was also the Magic of Sound. To the nearest village, during calm nights, the villagers could hear a few notes coming from the forest, escaped from his harp. This harp, she had made it-even with wood graciously borrowed from his beloved, his willow tree protector. She had taken some of her long hair and had dipped into the money to make the ropes. Thus, a pure and enchanting was her harp.
An early morning, while the mist nappait the landscape, the witch decided to go explore a part of the forest that was strange to him, in search of rare herbs. She hung her sickle of copper to the belt of her dress, took her basket of harvest and crosses the threshold of her izba. Just the edge of the forest is reached, the witch stopped dead in his tracks and made a half-turn. She returned to her cottage to retrieve her harp that she tied in her back and set out again of more beautiful. It proceeded from a not very confident at the heart of the wood, until you reach the edge of the forest that was strange to him. This part of the forest that seemed more dense, more ancient, the air is permeated with its energies. The witch sank into the depths of this new sylve, without taking heed to his way, nor at the length of time it took. Walked for a few minutes or several hours ? She didn't know and cared point. Then she began to be tired, the witch saw in the distance a thin trail just drawn, framed by a few bluebells. Until now, it had found no grass, which would be useful, only a vast forest on the floor of periwinkles and ivies tangled. She then chose to follow the subtle path where shattered a few strokes of light through the treetops and where the atmosphere seemed lighter. It would still be a few not, and if any grass there was his eye, she would return to her home. The witch reached the end of the trail, leading nowhere, when she heard a whisper far away, carried by the breeze. His gaze turned to the origin of this whisper, but she saw nothing. Intrigued, she walked in the direction of the whispers that she heard again, barely audible. The witch continued to approach, the words becoming gradually intelligible to his ear. " Approach, I need you. "It was then that she discovered a fantastic stone, so high that it frequented the tops of some trees.
Open-mouthed at the magnificence of the stone lifted, and the witch stood frozen a moment, forgetting the promptings seen before. She stared at the stone with wonder, and made instinctively a brief curtsy as a sign of greeting and respect. At this time, the whispers became a voice net, but no less mysterious. " I need you ". The witch looked up in surprise, the stone spoke to him. " Let me tell you my story. "The witch put down her basket on the ground, as well as her harp. She knelt down at the foot of the menhir and apprêta to listen to his life story, captivated. The stone began his memoirs with a slow speech, mystique, where every word seemed to be in charge of power.
" I saw the day it has been many years, erected by the druids of old time. I've always known that this forest. At the time, she was vivid, stretched across many lands and was a source of infinite life. But today it goes dull at the same time that my power is declining. I was not the only stone thrown, we were nine, thus forming a magic circle. We were the Circle of the Sylve Emerald. Our Circle was a place of meeting and of meditation for druids and sorcerers of the Nature. It is here that were held the magical rites, celebrations, marriages, prayers, invocations. It is here that they honoured Nature and that they drew their magic, my companions and I nourish the earth and the wood of our power. Our daily life was full of song, dance, and music, every ritual, every celebration feeding our magic. A complete harmony was established between the Man, the Stone and the Nature. But that time is over, as fleeting as a wing-beat. One after the other, all the druids are gone, the wizards have been forced to hole up in the shade and our knowledge fell into oblivion. The eras followed one another, denigrating always a little more the value of Nature and ancient customs. The Sylve Emerald fell at the same time that the Circle was broken. One by one, my companions were desecrated, lying, broken, weakening our power and that of the forest, which lost its beauty, its prestige. The magic left this wood, which had always been a cradle of enchantment. Now there is only me, the last vestige of the magic that reigned once. But my power goes off a little more each day, as my loneliness grows, and I fall into oblivion and indifference ".
Painful tears flowed down the cheeks of the witch, while the menhir near the end of her story. A short silence settled, heavily loaded with memories, nostalgia and sadness. The witch looked up again his wet eyes to the stone and asked :" How can I help you ? ". And peter answered him and said : " All the men can see me, but rare are those who can hear me. You carry the magic of the Ancient in you, I feel nothing by your presence. With your help, I could regain my vitality and my power, thus giving to the Sylve d'emeraude a part of its splendour and of its magic of yesteryear. Agree to provide this support, in return I will bring you what you desire. Tell me, what do you want ? ". The witch asked with a vague look on her basket collection, completely devoid of any grass whatsoever. She then took timidly the word :" I will help you with devotion in your quest. My wish would be to be able to find an abundance of magical herbs and medicinal for my preparations. But how can I bring you my aid ? ". The menhir answered, his voice was growing as the link with the witch is spun, to the point that she no longer knew if the voice came from the stone or from the inside of his mind. " I need this place to live to continue to exist. Honour me by your presence, for your consideration, let me a place in your memory and most importantly, plays for me ". A slight breeze arose then, bringing a swirl of leaves hugging gently the harp of the witch. " It is with pleasure that I will play for you but my harp, as my magic, only knows how to play three tunes : the joy, the melancholy, and sleep. "The stone answered him :" So I'll bring the herbs associated with the tunes you'll play. Each happy tune I will doterai of the Holy Herb of the Fairy, the Eyebrow of the Moon, of the Backbone of the Wood May, of the Cape Ladies, the Balm, Wild, Gold Blood and the Herb Sacred. For all music soulful I will encircle thee in of Deer antler, Green Apple, Berries of the Deceased, Coat Trees, Grapes, Blood, and Herbs for the Witches. And for every song of the sleep, you posséderas the Hood of the Wolf Blue, the Cherry of the Beautiful Lady, the Grass Fire, the Apple Endormeuse, the Glove Poison, the Flower of Divination, the Herb of Circe, and the Grapes of the Witch ".
The witch nodded, sealing the agreement set forth by the stone. She stood up and began without waiting to start a song, his harp sitting comfortably in the hollow of his arm. Still moved by the story of the standing stone, the witch began with an air of a well-known funeral march. As his fingers danced with the strings, the notes rose and echoed in the Sylve seemed to wake up gently. The witch, absorbed by his music, failed to understand that a circle of plants around them now the menhir, with here and there a little Cherry Beautiful Lady, and Herb of Circe. It remained in play for a moment, completely devoid of the concept of time. She finished by warmly thanking the menhir and went to collect some herbs and then returned to her house, promising at the stone to come back very soon.
Since that day, where the chance, which was certainly not a, had led the witch to the menhir, she returned every week. Although the Circle of the Sylve Emerald was not restored, it was again a place of life, of magic, of ritual, of music, of singing. The forest radiated again by its splendor, many wild animals lived there now, some even venturing to the outskirts of the menhir to enjoy the sounds haunting from the harp. For its part, the witch blossomed a little more each day to the precious relationship that they have between the stone and the forest. His power grew so much that the wood is regenerated, his spirit is bound to that of the menhir, bringing him sometimes shards of his memory and images of the past. She continued to play for the menhir, up to compose melodies that told his story. Thus, it would never be forgotten. At the end of each visit, the witch used to harvest the herbs that his notes had made it grow and thanked the stone for this priceless gift. She was not slow to observe that these herbs have enjoyed a particular kind of authority, the virtues of each plant is increased. Its preparations became even more efficient and very popular. In its own way, the witch was flooding the world again of the magic from the Sylve Emerald.