Date: February 6, 1999
Place: Sylvan Glen - Forest
Cast: LeafLover, Morning-Mist, Riverway
Scene: LeafLover tells a poignant story of remembrance -- a story of Little Hawk, a son who was lost and then found again.

Sylvan Glen - Forest:
      The serene beauty of this forest glen would seem to have been crafted by the loving hand of a beneficent deity. A natural amphitheater allows for a spoken voice to carry well within its confines, but leaves it muted to the outside world. In the depths of winter this area becomes a smooth bowl of sparkling white, but by summer the graceful curves of the green grassy hill are dotted by the colorful presence of wildflowers. Trees of the thick greenwood surround this placid break in the forest's growth. Knotting and interweaving, they seem to work together to maintain a natural border between woodland and glen. Well past the bottom of the amphitheater's slope, near the far border of the wood, stands a massive oak tree.
      Its girth is near unspeakable, for it has grown older, and far larger, than any other oak in the forest; only the land's natural sweep in this area would keep it from being seen above the other trees. Majestic in its grandeur, the ancient oak rises from the earth like a symbol of Nature's enduring power and strength. Neither time nor storm would seem capable of felling this titan of the forest. Roots as thick as a grown man's thigh twist and tumble together in an arcane pattern as far across the ground as a house is wide. From this base springs a trunk of legendary proportions; vast and thick, gnarled by age and hard as stone, rising up past the height of three men before the foliage thickens so deeply as to hide the top of the tree within an impenetrable leaf-green mask.

LeafLover returns with a medium-sized drum of a dark wood in her hand. It is apparent that the drum has been magically shaped. She hands it to you, allowing you to look it over. "This drum relates to my story."

Riverway unwraps his arms from about his legs, extending his hands to take the drum from you and look it over while he repositions himself to sit cross-legged. "It is a good drum," he states before holding it back to you, eyebrows slightly raised once more.

LeafLover looks at you for a moment. "I do not know what lessons you have already learned, so I will simply begin by telling you a story, that you may observe. Is this acceptable?"

The young man nods, and slowly begins to smile. "Tall Cloud taught me how to make it pleasing, the sound from an instrument. He would listen to me and sometimes play with me, that I would improve. Of storytelling he taught me as well, yet I know I have much left to learn. The stories, if I hear them, I will learn and pass on."

LeafLover sits cross-legged on the ground, her drum in her lap. Her hand moves lightly over the skin of the drum, her posture straight. She takes a deep breath before beginning.

"This drum will not be played for this story, though without the story, there would be no drum. This is the story of Little Hawk." Her resonant voice speaks calmly, and quietly, yet with a sense of power. She lifts the drum, indicating the carved image of the hawk on the side.

Relaxing his arms so that his hands settle in his lap, although his posture does not change, Riverway turns his head a little further to see you and hear your words better. Although the wind which travels past him hides much of his face behind the unruly mass of hair, his green eyes are visible behind the strands.

LeafLover continues her story, her hand moving lightly over the image as she speaks. "Many years ago, long before the time of the Ettowealona, there was a small family. There was a mother, her mate, and her two daughters. To this family was at last born a boy-child. The family rejoiced over the birth of this new child, for already it was known that the child would be strong in magic. But there was great sorrow as well, for it was apparent that the infant was not well."

Riverway's hair moves, whether by a motion from his head or another breeze, it is difficult to tell. He remains still, as before, without doubt long used to being still while a story unfolds.

LeafLover rests her hand lightly atop the drum as she sits cross-legged on the ground. "The child was named Little Hawk, after his father, who was a shifter and shifted as a hawk to announce to the forest creatures the arrival of his new son." She smiles slightly before continuing with the next part of the story. "It was thought that perhaps the child would be a shifter as well, if he lived."

LeafLover stops momentarily, her even breathing filling the air, drawing the listener in. "The healer who looked at the child after his birth announced grave news. The child had a bad heart. Even her great skills were able to do nothing to help the child. She gave him six moons to live, at the most."

LeafLover stops for a long moment. "She was wrong."

The lad nods slightly, but hardly with the bird-like movements of the creature the character in the story is named after. His eyes remain rapt on your face, that perhaps he might somehow remember the story as much through his eyes as his ears.

LeafLover lifts up the drum, so that the hawk is clearly visible. "Little Hawk was a fighter, though his short life was filled with pain, it was longer than the healer predicted. His mother, who had shown an affinity for healing magic, now learned to become a better healer, so that she might ease his pain and his breathing from time to time. This was a useful skill, and perhaps prolonged his life, perhaps not.

"Little Hawk lived for a year before his small heart finally stopped beating. He was buried, and soon his sisters forgot that he had ever been, as they were too young to remember him. Little Hawk's parents never spoke of him to each other." She breathes deeply, stopping for a moment.

Morning-Mist rubs her eyes as she ducks low and strides out of the opening in the large tree. A low growl is heard deep in her throat but goes away as quickly as it appeared.

Upon the slope of the glen sit Riverway and LeafLover. The woman, holding a drum in her hands, is relating a story to the young man. That one sits cross-legged, his hair a pale curtain which hides most of his face, and even so it is clear his attention is locked on the Storyteller.

LeafLover covers the picture of the hawk on the drum with her hand. "For many years, Little Hawk's name was never spoken in the mother's presence, and she never mentioned the child, the memories too painful to deal with, and locked away inside her mind." Her voice becomes low, and more quiet. "Then one day strange things came to the forest. Feelings of being watched, and nightmares. These things came to the whole tribe, and all suffered. There were many days of these nightmares, and things only became worse as time passed."

Ah, this is one story the graisha knows. Or at least very like one she knows. As such, Morning-Mist walks closer to listen in, without making herself stand out really.

"Eventually it was discovered that these feelings were being caused by an Atlantean child who was trapped in the lake, and who was strong in magic. But the nightmares had worked their magic on the woman, who suddenly found herself locked in the memories she had denied for so long." A long pause before continuing. "After time passed, the woman again found her mind in the present time, and with her she carried the memories of Little Hawk. It was then she decided that his story should be told, simply so that he should not be forgotten, especially by his sisters." LeafLover rests the drum on her lap, her hands folded over it. She turns to face Riverway. "That is the story of Little Hawk."

Something in Riverway's posture changes to indicate thought, rather then the attention he had focused on LeafLover, although his silence persists. The last of the words filter through his mind, till at last he smiles again. Briefly, as he nearly always does. "Thank you," he says. "It is a good story." It carries a deep meaning. Brushing one hand over his face to remove the hair, at least for now, he turns his attention to nearby, younger, woman. "Chookma, Morning-Mist."

LeafLover turns, nodding to Morning-Mist. "Chookma." Her demeanor is calm, holding nothing more than its usual reserve.

Morning-Mist nods to the pair. "Chookma." She sits down on a large rock. "Can go on if want. No will interrupt."

LeafLover shakes her head, moving her hand as if to dismiss the thought. "The story has ended."

Riverway relaxes himself, stretching out his legs and easing the muscles in his back which had kept him so quietly upright. "I understand this story," he relates quietly, brushing back another errant strand of hair which has taken to tickling his cheek. "Sometimes I like to ask how others understood a story. Tall Cloud, his words brought me to do this. It is not the voice that makes the story, he said, it is the ear."

Morning-Mist shakes her head. "No. Who tell story and how tell matter, too. If listen to many stone-walker, will see that. Stone-walker like to say things in most hard to understand way can."

LeafLover listens and contemplates a while before answering. "Some stories are meant to be told solely for the sake of remembrance. This is one such story."

"When a tale is told, many of those who hear it will would repeat it differently. This story, they will have heard it a different way from the others," Riverway persists, although he does so with quiet conviction, not argumentativeness. "LeafLover, her story reminds me that even that which is small and painful is valuable to remember."

Morning-Mist shifts her attention fully to LeafLover and looks her over. She says nothing for quite some time. Finally, the graisha stands and begins to walk away.

LeafLover shrugs. She watches Morning-Mist, uncertain what to make of her departure. Looking back to Riverway she says, "Make of it what you will. The woman in the story had a name," she says as she stands. As she reaches the entrance to the great oak, she looks back over her shoulder. "The woman's name was LeafLover." With that, she disappears into the oak.

FIN  

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