A Shadewaking Day’s Tale

The twig people tell a story about how the leaves were gifted to the trees, another about how the rain and the moss became lovers and many more about the wonders of the world. They tell these stories to educate young spirgs, to give them a feeling about their place in the world and to teach them respect for its beauty. But there is one story that they only ever tell on Shadewaking Day. It’s not an educational story but in a way it is a story about the beauty of the world.
On Shadewaking Day old lady Dewsilver Boughbold would sit down at nightcoming with a wormlamp beside her and wait for the young and the youngest to gather around. She’d play Sorrow’s Song on her grassflute and then begin her tale…

‘Listen close, there is a wind a-singing, “heya-hey”, it goes, and “heya-ho”. It is summer’s last wind and it knows the name of the raindrop girl.
Once, when the soil was young and the trees were taller than the mountains, when the rabbits had horns instead of ears and the queen of the robins held court on a silver branch, a young sprig went out to gather dressweed down at the foot of her tree. But it was raining and so her path was slippery from wetness. She had to be careful not to slip and fall, so she went slowly.
On her way, and while taking her time, she met a raindrop passing by to join his fellows on the ground. It was a beautiful raindrop, all silvery and blueish and she called out to him.
“Heya, raindrop wait for me, please! What’s your name?“
And the raindrop, bewildered by the young sprig who would ask him such a weird question said in answer:
“We have no names, one drop is like the other, bound to form and bound to shatter we are reflections of a greater whole.”
This seemed very strange to the girl.
“But you,” she said “are unlike any raindrop I have ever seen, all silvery blue and beautiful and something so wonderful should have a name.”
The raindrop remained silent, looking at her quizzically, but diligently she continued:
“Bluesilver Kindwater is your name, silver and blue is what you are and of the watery kind too.”
“Bluesilver Kindwater” said the raindrop, tasting the strange idea of a name, “Am I Bluesilver Kindwater?”
“Yes, yes you are. That’s your name now.”
“What strange thing, to have a name, all for myself, not merely rain, anymore.
See how the light plays in my water, it plays like this in no one else…”
They silently looked at each for long moments, “You are beautiful too”, the raindrop said finally and leaned forward to gently caress her but before he could reach her a sudden gust of wind blew him away from her, casting him into the open air and thus he was taken by the downpour towards the ground.
The sprig hurried after him as fast as she could but by the time she had reached the ground he was nowhere to be seen. She felt a terrible pang in her heart. Then she cried for she realized that not only had she given a name, but with a name her heart. For loss of love she cried.
But as young girls are, she was practically minded and so did not cry for long before she wiped away her tears and went out to find Bluesilver Kindwater again.
Among the ferns and mosses she searched and under leaves and needles. The trails of deer and mice she followed, the flight of bees and sparrows. And when she came upon a big, warty toad she asked her: “Have you seen my love? He is a raindrop all silvery and blue and goes by the name of Bluesilver Kindwater.”
But the toad only replied: ”One raindrop is like any other and once they hit the ground they all soak the soil anyway, they do not remain my dear. It’s foolish of you to love one such as them.”
In answer the young sprig told the toad about how she had met Bluesilver Kindwater and how she had given him his name and her heart, but the toad’s old and warty heart would not soften.
“Go back to your tree, little sprig-thing, there is no love for you in the rain.”
Hearing this, the girl shed more tears and ran away from the old toad as fast as she could.
She ran and ran and knew not whereto she was running, halting only once she ran out of breath. She was far from her tree, somewhere among the undergrowth of the grove. Pausing, she caught her breath.
There was not a plant or plantling, neither barkface nor rock she recognized.
She walked around a bit in this new place until she came upon a thistleling who was deep in thought.
He was sitting on the bank of a thin rivulet that whispered its way through the undergrowth and seemed not to have noticed the sprig-girl
“A-hem” she said.
Very slowly the thistleling turned to look at her with a calm, questioning gaze.
“Ah yes” he said “is there something I can do for you?”
“Yes” she answered and told him her story and to sound less foolish this time, she did not cry.
When she had ended, the thistleling he turned back towards the rivulet and was silent for a long time.
For such a long time, did he not speak nor stir that our young springling started to think that he had lost all interest in her story, but just as she had made up her mind to turn and go, he spoke again:
“The water that falls from the sky passes into the soil” he said without turning around ”and from there into the rivers and streams and rivulets and those carry it into the sea, the great water of the world and there the sun lifts it up again into the clouds, where it lives for a time before raining down on the earth again.”
And then both were silent for a long time.
After the shades had wandered almost a fourth circle, the sprig bid the thistleling farewell and wandered straight in one direction, her mind made up.
She wandered until she reached the edge of the forest, many daycomings later.
There, in the open grassy field she sunk herself into the soil, willed roots to grow and began to stretch ever so slowly towards the sky.
In time, snows covered her and summers warmed her that she could not count anymore, until she grew large and grew many leaves, and those leaves she streched into the rain, catching all the raindrops she could.
She lets them all slip and slide from her leaves that are not Bluesilver Kindwater waiting for the day when he will touch her leaves and then she will hold him and never let him go again.’

Old lady Dewsilver Boughbold cleared her throath and took a swallow of water, her tale finished.
Slowly and one by one the children rose and walked away into Shadewaking Day’s night, only one of the youngest, a tender sprig and still very green came up to lady Boughbold, looking at her with huge eyes, unsure of what to say.
“What is it my dearest?” Dewsilver asked.
“What was her name?” came the whispered question.
“The sprigling’s name?”
“Yes, yes, didn’t she have a name too?”
At this old lady Dewsilver smiled the gentle smile of the wise and old twigs, “Yes she had a name once, but we do not know it anymore.”

~ von gedichtblog - 14. Mai 2013.

2 Antworten to “A Shadewaking Day’s Tale”

  1. wunderschön :)

  2. It’s a lie.. she has no name… she’s nameless…

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