Spellweaver: A Historical Fantasy Novel

Colors. We’d see a pale, grey-yellow winter sunset. Catriona would see it warmed by red and amber with multi-colored prisms shooting through it. We’d see ominous dark clouds overhead, and she’d see silver and blue and gold and purple. We’d see brown mud, and she’d see the colors of the flowers coming up in the spring.

 The only thing we saw in myriad colors was her hair. It lit up the village! Ach, it had every color of the day’s sunshine in it—from a crimson sunrise letting us know that the rains were on their way, to the scarlet sunset, letting us know that a beautiful day was coming on the morrow. It had the golden strands of a clear, high noon and the silvery strands of the clouds rolling in. It glowed like the sun itself and waved on her head like the grasses blowing in the gentle winds. Blended together it was like a shimmering golden-red curtain or a red-hued flow of gold. It cascaded down her back to below her waist, and unlike most of the other women of the village, she did not care to tie it up and away, pinned at the neck. No, she let it blow in the breeze.

 It seemed like the sun followed her around, all though the day, residing in her hair, her eyes, her being. Perhaps it kept one special ray on her, for she seemed more lit up than…well, more than anyone, really.