Where Eagles Dance

Where the Eagles Dance

Once upon a time high in the hills of the northern lands stood a small town. It was a quiet little town, perched in the crags high above the busy plains, tucked into the granite embrace of the tallest mountain.

Here, halfway to the sky, the eagles would dance on the breeze and clear streams sang as they raced their way down the mountainside. In the summer the wildflowers bloomed, cloaking the hills with their rainbow hues. The town would burst into colour, humming with life as the golden butterflies swirled through the gardens accompanied by the skirl of the bees.

It wasn’t always sunshine and light in the little town, life could be hard. Winters were long and dark, the harsh winds screamed through the streets and ripped the leaves from the trees. Ice and snow silenced the song of the waters and the ground froze as hard as the granite mountain above.

As time passed life seemed to get tougher in the high hills, winters loomed even longer and darker. The mountain folk forgot to listen to the singing streams, the eagles still danced but no one turned their eyes skyward. The butterflies still swirled to the tune of the bees but still no one laughed at their antics as they stopped to smell the wildflowers.

Heads down against the wild winds, eyes turn inwards the people of the town began to trudge their way grimly through life. As their worlds shrank around them, the colour disappeared, each day the same, the little northern town began to fade to grey.

Years passed, until one spring day when the harsh north wind gave way to the faintest rays of sunshine a new sound was heard on the mountainside. Swirling on the breeze, curling it’s way through the twisting streets, a shimmering melody, growing stronger as the silvery notes tumbled together.

As if from nowhere, she appeared, a bright note in a sea of grey. Dancing through the trudging crowds, she spun and wove her way towards the market square. Her clothes were a rainbow of fluttering silks with tiny golden bells that jingled as she danced. A mane of curls fell around her face glistening in the gentle light of spring, first lilac, then pink, then the first blush of peach. She moved with an ageless grace, a silver flute held to her lips, the melody soaring high beyond the great mountain above.

The dancing stranger came to a halt in the middle of the square and just for a moment the town held it’s breath, the trudging crowd paused before shaking their heads and continuing on.

All day until the sun sank below the hills she played beautiful joyous tunes that spread throughout the town. Each day that spring she was found in the market square, dancing and playing her magical melodies. Without realising it the mountain folk began to listen out for her as they trudged and slowly their tread became lighter. Lines of discontent began to ease as chins lifted and they turned their faces to the strengthening sun. As the year became brighter so did the people of the little town and the cloak of grey began to lift.

Early on midsummer morning the town awoke, ears straining for the delicate tune of the flute. All was quiet.

Silently, the people stepped out onto the streets. All around them the mountainside burst with life. The eagles danced, the streams sang, wildflowers bloomed bright as the summer sun overhead, and all through the town the butterflies swirled to hum and the skirl of the bees. Stunned, the people stood gazing in frozen wonder at the beauty that surrounded them. A single butterfly with plumage of lilac and pink and the first blush of peach curled down through the town and alighted on the tip of a baby’s nose. The spell broke as the baby’s giggles pealed skyward.

High in the hills of the northern lands there stands a small town. It is a quiet little town, perched in the crags high above the busy plains, tucked into the granite embrace of the tallest mountain.

Here, halfway to the sky, the eagles dance on the breeze and clear streams sing as they race their way down the mountainside. In the summer the wildflowers bloom, cloaking the hills with their rainbow hues. The town bursts with colour, humming with life as the golden butterflies swirl through the gardens accompanied by the skirl of the bees.

Life can be hard in the little town. Deep in the winter when the darkness falls and the harsh winds blow the mountain folk know that life will return as they gather together and tell the tale of the dancing stranger and her magical flute.