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.
