Origins of A Name

With a dose of orange and navy blue, the sunrise dawns upon a simple cockleshell cottage. The cobble stone pathway, aged and broken, leading to a rustic door. The smell of moss and dirt fill one’s nose and the sounds of whistling birds decorate the wind. A carefree vine of ivy leans around the home, exploring every aspect of sun it can reach.
 
Peering through the splintered window, a stout old woman bustles softly her aged yellow hair, mattered. A moment of calm crosses the woman as she turns her ears swiftly to the window, a smile pulls upon her features. Making her way outside she reaches and sits upon her rocking chair, a breath of relief exhaling from her.
 
“Ahh, Mr Fox” she begins, “What adventures would you tell Old Rian today?”
 
Silence follows as she chuckles to herself. Careful and precise a small brown fox with a fuzzy patch of white fur upon its head approach the old woman sniffing her. “You’ll find no jerky here without a story” she chuckles again as she casts a piece of aged meat towards the fox, giving it a rough pat upon the head.
 
“Ah, Lady Robin, you care visit Old Lady Ryana today” reaching into her pocket she casts a few pellets of seed into the garden as a red and black robin bounces around on the earth gleefully.
 
Moments seem to pass as she rests carefully in the sun, “Little mouse, upon my house how does thee crawl so softly…my eyes might be blind little mouse but my ears are sharper than most…Old Rhya knows this – “
 
She stops for a moment as if an idea crossed her mind, “Yes, Rhya was my name…Just like the Rye bread my dearest sister would make” the old woman seems pleased with herself as if reliving aged memories from a time long ago.
 
Softly she begins to hum again, gently moving back and forth, the creak of her rocking chair carrying upon the wind. “At last, Mother Deer, I have heard of you pattering upon this ground for some time…” she pauses and the gleeful smile occurs once again “A fawn…goodness it has been that long already”
 
She reaches her hand towards the direction of the fawn who hesitates before sniffling softly at her wrinkled fingertips “My name was Rhya little fawn, at least that I who I am today…perhaps you are Rhya or Mother is Rhya” the old woman chuckles again, entertained by her bustling confusion.
 
“What is in a name though…if not to be given away to the next…” she smiles, closing her eyes.