Indeed. So it is.
No, no; not all alone. My predecessors and their predecessors are all here. Some are memories preserved in the words that I read, in the shapes of the stone arches, the layout of the gardens. Some are living presences who still teach me and care for me, and who need my care. The ones who will be the Keepers after me, they are also here – growing and learning. And, of course, there are the travelers. Some, like you, pause in this space between the closing of one door and the opening of another; notice me, stay to have a cup of tea. They tell me what they have seen and done, what drives them to travel, what torments them or gives them joy.
You are welcome to stay as long as you wish. Outside the portals, the time you spend here is not marked on any calendars, not measured by any clocks.
Yes, certainly. Follow me.
I am glad you think so. Perhaps you feel that way here because a little bit of this garden is in your cup each time we have tea together. The beehives are on that hill. The white clover in the grass is like a dusting of snow. There, by the brook, is the lemon balm. Lemon balm loves moist soil; clover thrives in bright sunlight.
Ah, yes. This is the peak season for peonies. These wine-colored ones are my favorites. That windchime was made by my late great-grand predecessor. She was a true master. This one I am still working on: I feel some tone is missing when it harmonizes with a soft rain. But on a sunny day like today, it does sound quite complete, doesn’t it?
You are right: in my realms, no keys are necessary. All the doors open freely at any time.
But we are not dressed for the weather that is likely to greet us behind the next door. So, let us just peek in.
Good, the snow storm passed at last. You know, one traveler taught me an expression in his language for this kind of darkness and silence: “You can hear every constellation.”
Well, that is a different realm, so why should it have the same time of day, or season of the year as this one?
Depends on what you mean by real. You have told me that the flavor of the honey that the bees gather in the garden here is as intense, as the honey that is brought to the River Market from the upland farms.
Take care, do not wade in too deeply: the bite of the frost you feel on your face is a warning that you should take seriously. If we were to go out there and let the winter embrace us, we really would freeze to death. At dawn, real ravens would feast upon our carcasses. We would become part of the forest. Then you would not return to the bell towers and the hanging bridges of Naori-Laaren, that you have told me so much about. No Keeper of the Keys has ever allowed such a thing to happen to a traveler. So let us shut the door and turn our faces to the sunlight on this side.
