Marshwoman Brew

There was a magical lighting in the Marshwoman region between the two great empires. It was known that the border went here, but it was not clear defined, for the landscape did not allow this. It was bog, and road markings, signs or similar could not be maintained. The landscape was changing all the time, and although it in its own special way, was very beautiful, it was too dangerous to move around in. Some had disappeared without trace, and search operations no one dared to assume.

Josephine and Knud Borge went hand in hand and enjoyed the surroundings to the full. They knew a little about the area and kept a close eye on where they put their feet, because there’s spongy here and there, and one could certainly be unfortunate enough to be sucked down and be utterly helpless, in a manner reminiscent of being caught in quicksand. Such were the stories about the area anyway, but if they really “held water,” had never been proven.

The missing persons could also be migrated to one of the two kingdoms and applied for asylum here, or they could have gone underground, which could well be done, without necessarily have to be swallowed up by it. But many were so engrossed in the idea of the bog uniqueness that they not voluntarily gave up the macabre rumors and legends that were in circulation. For a little extra color to the painting made it more obvious and thus easier to spot.

A nice and refreshing mist waved and gave the area a magical impression.

“Marshwoman brews,” said Knud Borge.

Josephine nodded, smiling. She liked Knud Borges sense of the mysterious-romantic and leaned against him as they walked. It almost felt as if they hovered, she thought … and suddenly she realized that it was just what they did.

“We hover, Knud Borge,” she exclaimed with a broken voice.

Knud Borge, which she still held in her hand, began to rise. It was so amazing that they instinctively left off each other’s hands, and a moment later was Knud Borge out of sight, swallowed up by the Marshwoman brew.

Josephine realized she smiled and was quite surprised that it did not bother her in the least. There was such a beautiful feeling about the whole thing, as if everything was in perfect order, which required no explanation. She hovered a few inches above the marsh and felt a wonderful lightness throughout her body and her mind.

Out of the mist appeared a white horse, with huge, swan-like wings, and came right up to her.

“Get on,” said he, “we must move on.”

Josephine swung herself up easily, and so it went with dizzying speed right into nothingness. There was neither space nor time here, and there was no one to observe it, so there can’t be told about it, therefore we let it stand here. When she became conscious again, she was in the process of crossing the diffuse boundary between the Marshwoman’s area and the lush, sun-drenched summer land, but before she could consider all this, it was completely forgotten.

Then she stood with her eyes closed and the shower in her hand while she washed the soap out of her hair, and the drain in the bathtub sucked greedily soapy water with a swirling and gurgling noise that interfered cacophonous with the music from her small transportable DAB and FM radio that stood on a lowered toilet seat, and a small rainbow formed suddenly by the shower’s hot water jets hit the edge of the bath tub and developed a fine vapor. The almost ethereal hues suggested the differences and similarities between visual art, music, poetry, fairy tales and other of the fine arts, all of which required inspiration and imagination.