Prologue: An old woman, a two-wheeled covered cart, an old donkey, and a lean dog move slowly down a dusty road. It is hard to tell if the woman or the donkey is moving more slowly. Their feet send up little puffs of dust. The wheels creak. The dog slinks along in the meager shade of the cart. Three small boys trying to hide in the weeds near the roadway suddenly stand up and start throwing small, hard, green apples at the woman. “Witch, witch!” they yell in time to their throws. The old woman pauses, trying to shelter herself from the projectiles, and scoops a handful from the ground. She places them in the corner of her shawl and turning, flicking, sends them back toward her tormentors. There are shouts as the objects find a mark. The boys are running away yelling “she witched us” and silence reigns. She shrugs and continues walking. A short distance away there is a track, meandering off the main roadway, such as it is. She twitches a switch she holds at the donkey, and they turn onto the track.

The woman is not a witch. And she is not as old as “old” appears to little boys and bored travelers. She is on her way to a farm. She is a carrier of gossip and news; she is a supplier of pins, needles, and such necessities. She is also a collector and brewer of herbs and teas that help both the humans and the animals through colic and other such illness. She is a setter of bones and a birther of babies. She is a trader. She is a wise woman, and her aura of poverty and age protects her as she travels. 

Everything begins somewhere.  An image, an idea, a conflict.  Tension. Tolkien uses the phrase “there and back again.”  Some stories repeat, coming around again.  Some simply lead on to other stories.  Ever wonder what is unseen around the corner that you can see?