Briar Patch

Moving across the universe to our final destination.

Got it on 06/30.... where will it travel next ? 😻XOXO

Book VI: The Parting of the Talisman

Hark, and heed the next lay of my journey—how I, lone wayfarer on many roads, set down a token of old, a charm wrought not of gold or gem, but of tale and time.

Long has this talisman ridden at my side—across wind-scoured ridges, through the whispering trees, beneath stars that sang of distant shores. It has known frost and fire, silence and storm. In distant glens it was with me; in cities where the stones themselves seemed to breathe secrets, it rested in my pack. A silent witness to deeds both bold and quiet.

Now, in the hush of the countryside, I have left it—there, in the hidden place I found. It is no mere trinket. No, it is a blessing, steeped in the spirit of the road. A companion of years, now offered to another.

Let the one who finds it know: this token bears the light of many paths. May it guide you, shield you, and stir your courage when the wind is cold and the way unclear. You are not the first to bear it, nor shall you be the last. It waits not for a thief but for a kindred soul, one whose heart hears the whisper of adventure and heeds it.

Thus ends this chapter—but not the tale. The talisman lives on, passed hand to hand like flame from torch to torch, its story growing with each who dares to walk the wild. Keep it well, O seeker, and when the hour comes, may you too know when to let go, and let it wander anew.

Book IV — The Talisman’s Path

Long before the earth yawned wide and the cave swallowed light and breath, the Pup and I set forth upon another trail, a quiet quest through wood and thicket, where the trees stood like watchers and the wind whispered secrets to those who listened. The talisman came with us, as it always does — silent in its watch, old as the hills, bound to us by trials past and paths hard-won.

We walked beneath the boughs, our feet steady upon worn ground, seeking not battle nor glory, but the hidden mark that calls only to those who know how to see. The sun was kind, the air rich with green scent, and the hush of the forest lay soft upon our shoulders. No monster met us, no ghost of the old world stirred — only the stillness of the search, and the hush that falls when the heart knows it draws near.

We found it then — not with shouts, but with quiet knowing. The mark was laid, the sign recorded, our names bound to the tale without need for flourish or song. It was a victory of calm hands and clear eyes, shared between father and son, with the talisman bearing silent witness beneath sky and tree.

So stands Book IV: a tale of the woods, of a prize unearthed without blade or battle, and of the ever-present talisman, walking still beside us as the road bends ever forward.

Book II: Beneath the Vines, the Treasure Sleeps

Sing, O Muse, of morning’s hush and sacred silence,
Of the time before the cock’s cry, before the stir of mortal breath—
When I rose with the Pup while the stars still held dominion,
Called by a power older than road or map.
The talisman, relic of triumph past, lay waiting.
Not as ornament, but as oath.

We stepped from our dwelling with the sky still ink-dark,
And the wind met us as kin.
No words passed between us—for what need is there for speech
When the path is known by the soul?
He walked beside me, the Pup—
Bright-eyed, still with sleep upon his brow,
Yet ready, eager, drawn like I was to what lay hidden beyond.

We ventured beyond town and memory,
Out into the waking country,
Where vineyards rolled like the waves of a sleeping sea.
Each row of vines stood like verses in the land’s ancient hymn,
And we passed among them with reverence,
For such places speak not in voice, but in presence.

Near us stood a store of provisions—quiet, sturdy, watching.
Its shelves and walls bore witness to other journeys,
Other travelers who came seeking rest or riddle.
We did not enter.
The wind carried us on.

And there—beneath the morning sun as it crested the world’s shoulder—
We found it.

The treasure.
The cache.
Not marked by blade or flame,
But wrapped in the hush of growing things,
Guarded by soil and shadow.

I reached for it with hands made careful by time,
And opened the vessel as if opening the world itself.
Within—marvels.
Countless treasures nestled together like the stars themselves,
Each one a promise that someone had stood here before us,
And believed.

The talisman, resting at my side, stirred.
Its presence pulsed—not loud, but steady—
As though it too knew this was a place of power.
I held it in my palm and brought it to the light,
Letting it drink in the moment,
Letting it witness what had been found.

But I did not leave it.
Not here.
Not yet.
Its journey was not done.
The road still wound on beyond the vineyards,
Beyond the morning,
Beyond even memory.

So I returned it to its place beside me,
And closed the cache with quiet hands.
We turned from the treasure,
Not emptied, but full.
Not marked, but known.

And we walked on,
Carrying with us a talisman bright with new wonder,
And the echo of the earth’s hidden song
Still humming in our hearts.