𝕾𝖎𝖗𝖆𝖟'𝖘 𝕰𝖓𝖌𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖍

22/01/2026

The Story of Prophet Idris عليه السلام and the Angel of Death
Prophet Idris عليه السلام was among the earliest prophets sent to humanity. The Quran describes him in just a few words, but those words carry weight:

“And mention Idris in the Book. Indeed, he was a man of truth and a prophet. And We raised him to a high station.” (Surah Maryam 19:56–57)
Idris was known for deep worship, wisdom, and discipline. He taught people writing, knowledge, and justice. His days were filled with remembrance of Allah, and his nights with devotion. The angels knew him not as a distant name on earth, but as a soul whose deeds rose daily to the heavens.

According to narrations mentioned by scholars of tafsir, the Angel of Death once came to Idris in human form.
Idris recognized him and spoke with calm clarity.
“You are the Angel of Death,” Idris said.
“Yes,” the angel replied.

Idris then asked something unusual. Not out of fear, but out of longing.

“I wish to see how souls are taken, and how death truly feels, so I may increase in gratitude and obedience.”

By Allah’s permission, the Angel of Death carried Idris through the heavens. Idris saw wonders unseen by human eyes: angels in constant worship, realms ordered by divine command, and a reality far greater than the world he had left behind.

When they reached a high station, the Angel of Death received a command. Idris’s soul was to be taken there.

In that elevated place, between earth and heaven, Idris met his end. His soul was taken gently, and he was honored in a way no ordinary servant is. This is what many scholars understood from the verse: “We raised him to a high station.”

Whether every detail of this encounter is literal or symbolic, the message is clear.
Idris did not fear death.
He prepared for it.
He wanted to understand it so he could worship Allah better.

The Lesson
Death is not punishment for the righteous.
It is a meeting.
It is a transition.
It is an honor when a life is lived in truth.

Prophet Idris عليه السلام teaches us that elevation does not come from power or fame, but from consistency in faith, sincerity in worship, and honesty with Allah.

A short mention in the Quran.
A towering rank in the sight of Allah.
That is the legacy of Idris عليه السلام.

22/01/2026

Mouse here, pausing her editorial duties for a moment, with ink on her paws and crumbs on her cuffs, to tap the bell on the Gazette desk and ask for your kind attention. Victoria is beside me, pouring tea, nodding, and adding a plate of cake for fortification, because serious notes are always better read with something nourishing to hand.

First, and most importantly, thank you.

To the thousands who have welcomed Tales of The Glen into your homes, your hearts, your quiet corners, and your shared readings, and to those who have given something even rarer, your time, your words, your encouragement, and your beautifully written comments and stories, please know this:

You have built this beautiful place with us.

The Glen is what it is because of your generosity of spirit, your talent for noticing small wonders, and your kindness toward one another. Truly, you are a remarkable and gifted community, and Mouse would like it officially recorded in the Gazette ledgers.

Now, a small matter of clarity, laid gently on the table like a folded letter.

This Gazette, this Glen, and all works known as Tales of The Glen
are created only by Victoria Beata Limited.

Mouse works here.
Victoria works here.
The Glen Gazette is published here.

We do not work anywhere else, and we are not part of any other projects, pages, or ventures. Other folk in the wider world may be doing their own lovely things, similar or inspired, and we wish them well on their paths, but this particular path, with its firelight, hilltop lavender from the 2025 summer, and the chair that catches a cool breeze while your feet stay warm, belongs only to The Glen.

Because the noticeboard here has become rather busy, and the paths outside can be a little noisy, we kindly ask that anyone needing help, clarity, or reassurance reaches us by email, where things are quieter, steadier, and properly tended.

If you ever need us, please write to:
👉 [email protected]

That way, your message will be received with care, answered properly, and not lost in the bustle of passing chatter.

A final word, offered with warmth and care:

We will never ask you for card details, private payments, or anything of that sort. If something ever feels uncertain, please pause, take a breath, accept a cup of tea, and write to us by email. There are never too many checks, and anxiety is always welcome to rest by the fire for a while.

Mouse is now pushing a chair closer to the hearth. There is cake for strength, lavender for calm, a cool breath of air at the window, and a steady glow on the page.

Thank you for being here.
Thank you for helping one another.
Thank you for keeping The Glen a gentle place.

Signed, with ink, crumbs, and gratitude,

Mouse
Editor-in-Chief, The Glen Gazette

Victoria Beata
Author & Illustrator of Tales of The Glen
for Victoria Beata Ltd 🌿

May gentle things find you, and stay, always...

20/01/2026

BLISS AND BLISTERS.

Chapter 15.

By the time she arrived at his flat in GRA, dusk had begun to settle. She rushed to his flat and knocked.

He opened the door in a loose kaftan, his face pale but not as sick as she expected. Still, she didn’t question it.

“You shouldn’t have come,” he said softly, smiling. “But I’m glad you did.”

“You needed someone,” she replied, setting her bag down. “How are you feeling?”

He gestured toward the couch. “Sit. You look tired.”

She ignored that and checked his temperature instead. “You’re warm,” she said, frowning. “You need rest.”

He watched her closely, every movement, every line of worry on her face.

“You care too much,” he murmured. “I’ve never had someone look at me like that.” he said.

Her hand froze midair. “Please, don’t start.”

He smiled faintly. “Start what?”

“Those words. The kind that confuse the mind.”

He laughed lightly, raising his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. No confusion. Just gratitude.”

Still, the softness in his tone unsettled her.

Minutes passed quietly. He sipped tea she made for him and eat the sumptuous rice she had prepared while she sat beside him, scrolling through her phone to distract herself.

Not comfortable with the awkward silence and wanting to use the opportunity, he began talking about his parents, his childhood, his loneliness. He told stories with warmth, weaving verses of Qur’an between them like someone who understood faith deeply.

And when he spoke about loss, his voice faltered. He spoke about the loss of his dad with so much pain that arike knew he was being sincere.

Without thinking, Arike placed a hand on his shoulder. “Allah will ease your pain.”

He looked up slowly. “You say that like you really mean it.”

“I do.”

Silence stretched again as he stared at her deep into her eyes making her uncomfortable.

He reached out, lightly covering her hand with his. “You remind me that good women still exists. See how you rushed down here, I am glad you are going to be my wife "

Her breath hitched. She withdrew her hand immediately. “Muyideen…”

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly.

“Wallahi, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

But he had, and he knew it.

Something about his apology, quiet and sincere, made her heart flutter despite herself.

“You should rest,” she said, standing up

“Stay a little,” he murmured, his voice low. “Please, Just for company.”

She hesitated, the soldier in her saying no, the woman in her whispering he needs you.

So she sat again. Not too close, but close enough to hear his breathing while he smiled feeling victorious.

---

They spoke about everything and nothing.

About faith, destiny, and the ache of second chances.

He made her laugh and at interval, his silence made her look at him longer than she should.

Each word he chose was deliberate, kind, thoughtful, and laced with the subtle power of presence.

He didn’t touch her again, but his gaze did what his hands couldn’t.

“You know,” he said softly, “I prayed for peace. Then Allah sent you. You are so beautiful, so perfect and everything a man wants in a woman, I am not supposed to say this but you are my wife so permit me to say it. You are perfectly created and each day, I picture what it would feel like to have you in my arms, I am so blessed.”

Her heart thumped. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not?” he asked her but she couldn't say anything rather she struggled to breath, the woman in her taking over.

He smiled faintly.

He nodded slowly, leaning back, watching her with quiet intensity.

“I’ll be careful then,” he said. “But don’t stop caring.”

That broke something in her resolve. She looked away quickly, stood up again, and picked her bag.

“I should go.”

He rose too, though a little slower, feigning weakness. “Thank you for coming. I mean it.”

When she turned to leave, he spoke again this time softly, almost as a plea.

“Arike… if I ever hurt you, may Allah punish me.” he said to her.

She paused, her chest tightened, unsure why his words felt like both a promise and a trap.

She nodded and rushed out telling him to take care of himself.

Outside, the night was cool, but her skin burned.
Every word he’d spoken replayed in her mind, the tone, the timing, the eyes that said what his mouth didn’t.

She told herself it was harmless, that she could control herself. But as she drove home, her hands trembled on the steering wheel.

She didn’t know when she’d start visiting more often,

but that night was the beginning of it, the quiet slide into something she thought she could manage,

and he knew exactly how to lead.

©️Oyiza Ahmed.

19/01/2026

Nature......

19/01/2026

19/01/2026

Yes, dua can change what's written in your destiny. Even if something feels fixed, written or impossible - dua has the power to shift it. Not because you control fate, but because the One who wrote your destiny is the same One who told you to call upon Him. Sometimes the test was written, but so was the moment you'd raise your hands in the middle of the night, crying. So was the ease that follows. Nothing is too heavy for Allah to lift. Keep making dua - it's never wasted. 🤲🏻🤍

19/01/2026

Long ago, before the Curraghs had decided what they were going to be, the land was all muddle and memory. Water wandered where it pleased, trees grew sideways to listen better, and the mist practised arriving without being asked. It was a place full of stories but very few footsteps.

Into this place came the Wallaby.

He had travelled a long way, though he never said from where, and he found the ground strange beneath his feet. It was too soft for running and too wet for standing still. When he tried to walk, he slipped. When he tried to rest, the land sighed and shifted beneath him.

“This place is not made for me,” said the Wallaby politely.

The Curraghs heard him, because the Curraghs hear everything, and replied in the only way they know, by offering a question.

“If not you,” said the Curraghs, “then who?”

So the Wallaby tried again. He leant forward. He used his tail to balance. He lifted both feet together and hopped.

Ah.

The land held.

From that day on, the Wallaby learned the language of the Curraghs. He learnt where moss makes a road and where reeds hide water. He learned that brown leaves are not empty things but blankets for what sleeps beneath. He learned that the ground listens, and so he learned to move kindly.

At night, the old stories stirred.

The Tarroo-ushtey rolled deep below, heavy and dreaming, and the earth remembered how to tremble. The Cabbyl-ushtey watched reflections ripple and fade, still fond of faces but tired of trouble. Beneath the elder trees, the Mooinjer Veggey leaned close to their fungal ears and listened for carelessness.

The Wallaby greeted them all with respect. He did not boast. He did not challenge. He wore a little coat when it was cold, and sometimes a knitted hat, because warmth, he discovered, is a form of courtesy.

People began to glimpse him at the edges of things. A hop where there should not be one. A pause in the mist. A kind face bending to the leaves. They wondered what his name might be.

The Wallaby never told them.

Instead, he would hop up onto the mossy highway, that narrow green path shaped exactly to his knowing, and look back as if to say, “Come along, if you can.”

Some tried to follow. The path twisted. The Curraghs folded themselves gently. The Wallaby disappeared, leaving only the feeling that something important had just passed by.

And that, Best Beloved, is why the Wallaby still lives in the Curraghs.

And if you would like to hear more, well then, follow along. Come and pull up a chair. I’ll pour you another cup of something warm, just as it should be, and put this rug over your shoulders so the cold doesn’t interrupt the listening.

Settle in.

There are more stories here, waiting to be told, and now that you’ve arrived, we may as well begin.

Victoria Beata, Author of The Tales of The Glen Books
May gentle things find you often, and stay a while

17/01/2026

Thru the horizon, Flamingos in Dholavira
17/01/2026
Nikon D850 Nikkor 200-500

17/01/2026

“Oh, there you are,” Mouse says softly. “It’s Friday night, and I was hoping you might come.”

She glances around The Glen, where the light has thinned into that silvery, end-of-day quiet.

“This is the sort of evening when all one really needs is a small, peaceful corner to unwind. Even if it’s a bit fresh and frosty, it’s the good kind of cold. The kind that clears the thoughts and lets everything settle.”

She pats the log beside her.

“Come and sit here for a while. You don’t need to hurry anywhere just yet.”

Mouse stretches out her feet with a pleased little sigh.

“And look,” she says warmly, “the socks you sent. This is the pair.”
They are beautifully made, thick and soft. Proper walking socks, designed by Field & Fern, a woodland fashion house that believes comfort is the truest elegance. Socks made for long days, tired paws, and quiet evenings.

“They make me feel looked after,” Mouse tells you, wiggling her toes. “And that matters.”

She adjusts the book and smiles.

“My arms are tired tonight. I’ve been busy all day, carrying things that needed carrying, fixing what had gone a bit crooked, helping where I could. It’s the good sort of tiredness, the kind that earns a rest.”

She taps the cover.

“I’m reading Small Hours and Brave Things. It’s about ordinary creatures doing necessary work, and learning when to sit down without feeling they ought to be doing more.”

Mouse closes the book gently and looks straight at you.

“If there’s anything on your mind, you can leave it here with me for a moment. The Glen keeps such things safe.”

Her whiskers twitch, and her eyes brighten with a secret.

“I won’t stay in too long,” she adds. “I’m heading out later to meet a dear friend who’s coming all the way from Dalby. That’s quite a journey, and it deserves a proper hello, maybe a warm drink, and a good long chat under the stars.”

She leans closer.

“Before I go, tell me… what are you having for supper tonight? Something comforting, I hope. And tomorrow, after you stop by my house and we walk to the market together, where shall we wander?”

She smiles, already picturing it.

With warm weekend wishes, 'Tales of The Glen' Victoria Beata