From the Edge of What Is Not

He came from the Woods, the twilit Woods at the edge of What Is. He came to the cities and told tales of the wood from which he came.

He told of the Sons of the Winds; those hunters who ride the air and make their homes in the farthest peaks of the Mountains, unreachable by all but their mothers the myriad Winds.

He told of the Fathers of Trees; the Seeds who bide their time in the earth until all is ready to send their children forth.

He told how the Trees forget their patient fathers and grow tall above all save the Birds and the Winds.

He told of the Birds, who are greater than all. How they make their homes in the Trees and fly above them with the Winds. They eat the Seeds of the Trees and bathe in the waters of the Rains and the Streams. And the world Which Is minds them not.

He told of the Rains; the fathers of the Streams who dwell with their sisters with Winds beyond the Mountains' peaks.

He told of the Daughters of the Mountains, who dance with the Rains and the Streams and whose dances are seen by none but the waters and the Seeds of the Trees.

His tales were beautiful and he was loved by all who understood his craft. They asked him for more, they wanted greater and deeper tales. They knew of birds and streams, of mountains and winds, and they wanted new tales yet untold.

So he told of things which are not things; of colours unseeable, of places which cannot be reached, of songs with no sound and of air with no breath. He told of beyond his twilit Wood. He told of that Which Is Not.

His new tales were new, they had never been heard because they cannot be heard. His tales were of things which cannot be understood, they had not words and no language.

His tales were of that Which Is Not, and so his tales were not.

And he was not.