At the beginning of time, there was an enchanted forest. Through this forest ran a river that shimmered with all of the colours and hidden hues of the world. At the heart of the forest, the river fell in thick sheets; a waterfall that rose to the heavens fed it endlessly. The river snaked through the forest, feeding the trees- the trees stretched into the sky and hummed with a nearly electric life.
Every night, as the stars peeked out upon the forest, all of the creatures of the world would gather about the base of the falls, for from behind the wall of water came a most lyrical voice.
This voice spun stories and near tangible tales, explaining and entertaining with rhyme and riddle- the creatures of the world were enthralled. Each night, the voice whittled something anew, speaking of worlds the creatures had never known.
The creatures wanted greatly to meet the voice. They wanted to know the source of it as well as it seemed to know them. To this end, the creatures of the world began to plan.
It was arranged that the birds of the forest would carry the beavers into the heavens to find and block the source of the falls. As the birds and their cargo departed, the rest of the forest gathered about the base of the falls, silently waiting for the cascade to cease.
As the water haltingly stopped, the creatures crept forward, craning to see into the dark cave beyond. What came stumbling out was unlike anything any of them had ever imagined. The two legged creature stumbled forward, a limb raised to shield his eyes. The beauty of the forest struck the man dumb, his alluring voice failing him for the first time.
Over time, he regained his voice and began to resume his musings. The creatures of the world took turns guiding him about the magnificent forest, teaching him what they could about the way of their world. Still, every night the man would gather the creatures and entertain them with his stories.
Unnoticed by the jointly entranced creatures that sat and strode alongside it, the river began to dry. As the last dregs of its water disappeared, communication between the creatures and each other, as well as the man, became increasingly difficult. Soon, the magic of the forest had faded into nothing, and the man was left alone in an empty forest.
He began to walk, and as he walked, he listened to the birds’ lamenting songs; he faintly recalled the dark, endless edges of his cave and the stories that he spun the faceless voices through the falls. With a soft tread and a softer breath, he sang back to the birds. He began to recount and re-create the beauty he had so briefly known- the birds listened intently, and repeated his melodies back to him.
To this day, man, still walking, seeks the colours that have fled from the world- through paint, song, dance and prose he pulls them momentarily back into existence for all the creatures of the world to know once again.