Once Upon A Time

Normal 0 false false false EN-US X-NONE X-NONE

Once upon a time. In a far away land. On a creaky wooden bridge. Above a river flooded with sand.

The quiet slumber of the village. A raucous cacophony of the jungle. A slow circle of trees. Marks the forest dangle.

There roamed the River Spirit. Floating over heavy water. A sad unit of ectoplasm. An unexplainable emotion in it would loiter.

A foot or so high was all the Spirit had to float. Lush green trees would then all dwarf. The village lay splattered out before. As if into a cradle waiting to morph.

A fear, a cry, a tear, a gush of the deepest emotions. In the center of the village would rise. A small hut not too large. From just here its purpose you cannot surmise.

But a village from the 16^th century. What can you expect from people who call you ‘thee’. A quiet way of life they lead. New things we know they are yet to see.

In the hut lay the River Spirit. Only the Spirit it was not. For in the physical lay the ectoplasm here. You could almost say he was asleep in his cot.

Had been a child when he went to the river. Walked across the bridge, not waited for the mother. Leaned too far, too deep he looked. By the time he was fished out, bloated and swollen now was he booked.

Now the water in the child is all but gone. The breath he draws now quiet and damp. The mother waits every moment for his eyes to open. Sitting by his side always carrying a lamp.

All through the night she waited. All through the day. And a month passed by. At last she was forced to look away.

And it has been but a year now. The Spirit leaves the river not. Watches sometimes from a foot high. As his mother passes his little hut.

And now a storm is coming. Rounding up wind. Large volumes of dust it floats. Dark as the outside of an orange rind.

And the Spirit is pushed from the river. Past the sandy shores. Moves to the village. A far-off memory marking his course.

Reaching the hut he looks around. All is quiet and just quite sound. His mother is here holding his hand. And suddenly he is not the Spirit, it is his hand.

More than a year later. Sits the child down. Picks up a pen. Notes his adventure mound.

Some other child is in the hut now. He knows. Some other Spirit is tied to the river. He knows.

And may this pen guide the Spirit back to the Village. Back to his home. And till then may the hut store the child. Let him know he is not alone.