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Hey everyone! This is a story I wrote to go along with the Zantarni pixel contest. The contest is that we're supposed to make an avatar into a god or goddess, and I guess I got a little carried away:
I hope you enjoy my attempt at a mythology!
There are many things about the world that no man can understand. Even enlightened eyes can look upon the wonders of the world and fail to see them as clearly as they stand. The man that holds the sun up high in the sky, the woman who follows him with the moon in tow. The thousands of spirits that squabble and dance around the night sky as little pinpoints of light. The way the mountains move and the oceans create the music for the trees to dance to…
All these things happen above our heads and below our feet, but no one can see their reveling or hear their music. No one inquires why because they simply do not know that these things exist. If they did, they would be called insane.
Long before the great cities were built, the young people of the world Zantarni were but simple hunters and gathers. Nomads, they were. Tribes formed and grew until there was no need to keep moving. From these, the first civilizations began. These were good times, for people respected each other and shared their wisdoms.
Those who could see the great choreography of stars and feel the ebb and flow of the universe were seen as wise men and women, for they could speak for the spirits that tied them to it.
One cannot be taught to see the sky above and ground below in the way that the ancient wise men could, one can only be born with such a gift. When one refuses a gift given to them by the Gods, it can only end in misfortune.
A young man, no older than thirteen, lived in a forest in these times of peace with his tribe. His name was Watao, and he was gifted with The Sight. He was the beloved son of Nahile, a respected Seer of the Forest People. But as people’s lives were shorter in these times, her Sight was fading. Watao was to take her place, and he accepted as it would be for the good of his people. But there was doubt in his heart.
One night while he lay in bed, he felt an overwhelming chill take him. He looked up and at the foot of his bed stood a rabbit. “Trouble a-come this way,” said the rabbit in a booming voice. Watao stared and did not respond. “Trouble,” it said again, sniffing the air. “Coming this way. Tell People.” The rabbit scampered off into the night.
In many years, the Forest Tribes had seen very little in the ways of misfortune. There were no signs of this changing, and Watao felt that no one would believe him if he said that a rabbit told him of danger. He told no one.
A week later, his visit had been forgotten, perhaps even just a dream. No signs of any trouble had come and there were no problems to be foreseen. Watao was content. But, once more he felt the chill overtake him in the middle of the night. He awoke, this time to a wolf sitting tranquilly on the ground beside him. Watao sat up. “You need to tell them,” the wolf said in the same voice as the rabbit. “You need to tell them or the consequences will be great. Trouble come this way.” It disappeared into the night and Watao laid back down.
“I will tell them in the morning.”
Morning came, and he told no one. Nahile spoke to him, now a very old woman by the standards of the time, and though her Sight was fading she still knew when something was wrong. “Watao, my son,” she said in voice that sounded like leaves being twirled about in the wind. “The Gods do not like unheeded warnings. If they have told you something important, then you must tell the People or no one will.”
If he would not listen to the supernatural, he would at least listen to his mother. He nodded and went off to tell the Village of his visits in the night.
He stood up in the middle of his village and suddenly felt the spirits move him to speak. The people stood in anticipation.
“We must prepare for war,” he said, choking back his doubt. “I have been spoken to by the Gods and they say that there is trouble to come.”
“When,” asked a man in the crowd.
Watao hesitated, and one word floated down from the Heavens and landed on his lips: “Soon.”
Over the next few days, the people of the Forest prepared for the coming of war. They built weapons and went over any possible way they could defend their home. In three day’s time, they had created an arsenal of crude weapons made of stones and wood.
On the third day, birds flitted through the trees. To Watao, they all seemed to say “tomorrow… tomorrow.”
Tomorrow, indeed. They heard the stomping of many feet, the pounding of hooves, and the savage yells of invaders. Watao’s people stood at the ready, but they were not prepared for what faced them.
Their enemies were not an equally matched neighboring tribe. They rode steeds and brandished steel swords. Their enemies were large men that seemed twice their size, covered in thick leather armor. On their clothes were keepsakes of their victories: bones, skulls, and old teeth. These were the Warmakers. While the Forest People were living in peace separated from the rest of the world and sheltered by trees, the rest of the world had moved on. They had learned the art of conquering.
Nonetheless, the last remaining peaceful tribe stood their ground to defend their home.
War raged for no more than three days. The Warmakers had won. Only one of the Forest People still dared to breathe.
Watao lay mortally wounded on the battlefield, spared only through luck. The forest he had lived in was no more than ash, and his people no more than lifeless bodies. As he took his last breath, a wizened bear came and stood over him and spoke with the voice of the rabbit and the wolf. “You know why this happened. If you had listened and warned your people when we first came, you would have had time to run.” The bear shook it’s head in shame and grunted despairingly. “Sight is a responsibility; the Gods look after those who receive this gift. Those who refuse it will never join their brothers and sisters in the night sky. But the Gods have looked kindly upon you; you listened in the end and dared to face an unknown adversary. So you will be spared, but only on one condition.”
“What condition,” the boy rasped.
“You must restore the earth.”
“I accept,” he said, letting his eyes roll back into his head.
The bear backed away and Watao suddenly felt life in him again. He sat up, then kneeled, giving thanks to the Gods for this second chance.
For three days he spent his time digging graves for the fallen. The mounds of dirt that marked the place of all his friends and family took up over an acre of the ruined land that once was his home. At last, there was one left: his dear mother. He set her in her grave and covered her with black dirt, then kneeled by the mound and prayed to her spirit for forgiveness. A tear fell from his eyes and landed on the dirt that covered her. As the tear soaked into the ground, a small sprout of a plant grew in it’s place. As it grew, Watao could feel his fingers become hard. He looked down and saw that they had become bark. It continued to grow from his fingers, down his arms, across his shoulders, until all of him was covered. From his head sprouted leaves, twigs, and moss. He stood up and found that despite his resemblance of a tree, he had a full range of motion.
This was his price. He began to wander the scorched land, seeking his redemption by planting new life wherever he went. But even as he renewed the land he walked upon, the Warmakers continued their path of destruction. He would follow them until his job was done.
Watao became a part of the song of the universe. In the grass growing and things becoming anew he can be found, but never seen unless by someone who possesses The Sight. He walks the ruined lands he once called home, a path of renewal in his wake. His job is never done as long as people seek to destroy the land. But those who can see him will tell no one. Who would believe a story about a walking tree.
 Gethsemane · Mon Dec 18, 2006 @ 04:53pm · 0 Comments |
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