No Pot of Gold at This End
by Kathryn Magendie
Lots of supernatural magic happens in the Smoky Mountains. And if some of it is unbelievable to you and you and you, well, there’s no way to prove that, now is there? We can hide more deeds in and among these mysterious mountains than city dwellers can (and I say “dwellers” as if it’s not spelled and pronounced that way, as if I am saying “fellers” all mountain south way).
But there are some things that need no proving. You must believe them! For in believing them, you can take away a piece of the magic for yourself—you can look for what you must find.
I once was hiking along a ridge-top when I saw a rainbow arcing across the sky, touching the next ridge-top over from where I was. There was something different about this rainbow, something more solid though it undulated, sparkly, and it was beckoning to me. I was mesmerized, hypnotized, and didn’t even think to consider the distance I’d have to trek to find the end of that strange rainbow.
But in the way that magic happens, when the earth aligns just so with the moon, and the stars although unseen bare their sparkled supernatural gifts, with only a few long running steps I soon arrived at my destin(y)ation.
When I tell this story, seeing as it happened on March 17, St. Patrick’s Day, people will ask, “Did you find a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow? A leprechaun?” I just shake my head. Seriously? A pot of gold? A leprechaun? Those kinds of things are for other legends and other fairytales in other lands. Not for here. Not for me. And they will then ask, “What did you find, Kathryn?”
“I found,” I then say, “a cup spilling over with brilliant color that washed into the cup and over its sides, and down the mountain . . .” . . . on it flowed, as if a creek where many colors of paint were spilled. I didn’t hesitate, but threw off my clothes and dived in. The water-colors were warm against my skin, and when I lifted my hand, it was red, green, purple, blue, yellow, orange—and all the colors among and between those. Glancing down at my body, it was just as my hand appeared. My hair streamed out behind me, brilliant golden silver.
I then drank some of the water, unafraid, for the rainbow whispered promises to me—“It is good; it is good; it is so very good, dear one.” And it was. I tasted sweetness, a sweetness that entered my body and then spilled out from my pores. I sweated colors, and then, quite suddenly, because it was so very lovely, I began to cry. I sat upon the grass tinted by the colors, my feet emerged in brilliance, and I cried for everything I ever lost and gained and would lose and gain again. My tears fell upon the grass in gemstones of emerald, ruby, sapphire. I did not pluck them from the ground for my gain, for they belonged to the rainbow.
The waters then rose up and washed around me, hugging me, and I knew the rainbow would soon have to leave. The cup tipped and spilled all of its wonder and I lay upon the ground and let the colors wash me clean. I saw my life before and ever since. But I could not see what was to come, and that was okay, for the rainbow eased my worry.
Soon, the cup was empty, the water-colors rising up out of it and back into the rainbow, and then, as if it had never been there at all (but it was! I saw it!), the cup and the rainbow disappeared. I mourned it for a moment, until I saw something glimmer in the grass—one perfect tear still held there, garnet—deep blooded red. I touched it and it melted into my skin becoming a part of my blood that raced through my veins. I smiled, rose, and hiked back down the mountain.
I would never be the same.
When I tell this story, people think it is a metaphor, that I have some grand reason for telling it, some purpose.
That is up to the listener. I only know what I experienced that March 17 in a year that is secret to everyone but me—perhaps it is this year, and I simply saw the future. Perhaps it was a hundred years ago, and I saw a past.
I long to hike up to the ridge-top once more, to see a rainbow, where I would not look for pots of gold or leprechauns, but instead for the beckoning. I long to search until I find it again—though, I know in that knowing way, it happens only once in a lifetime, in ten-thousand life-times. I know that now comes the time that I must leave it behind and never ever will I ever see it again.
Check out Kathryn Magendie’s novel – THE LIGHTNING CHARMER – today on Amazon!
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