Devonne Brown

If I Didn’t Live Here

If I didn’t live here I might as well live in a fishing village in Scotland. I did in a past life and worked in a clock shop, and wore burlap, even my shoes were burlap. I lived above the shop, right on the sea wall. My job was to sweep up. I was surprised just how messy the clock shop got. Shards of watch works were scattered everywhere. If they didn’t get swept up, they’d get stuck in trousers and ankles like briars from the fields. I’d just sweep them into the sea. Nobody cared.

It was my responsibility to load the frankincense into the censor at the cathedral so the priest could swing it back and forth. It was part of the invocation, the only part of the service that made any sense at all. I have no idea what muse or muses could resist the aroma of frankincense. Their corporeal form was visible to those who wanted to see and hear. I could see and hear them, It was too much for me though. The muses, though well intentioned and magnificent, made my hair stand on end and caused me to double over with a belly full of butterflies. I couldn’t take energy like that, but knowing it was there, knowing it was possible, knowing I had access to it, and could create it just by loading the censor was like a drug I couldn’t put down. Terrible, awesome, fearsome, it was my calling.

There were times I’d stand at the sea wall and watch the Selkies, the seals that had once been made, or would one day be one. They were gentle creatures with beautiful songs, unlike the sirens who lured sailors to their deaths. The Selkies were kind souls who appeared on Midsummers Eve or a full moon. 

No wonder I wanted to go back.