Disclaimer: If Paramount wants this one they can have it. I'm not sure what black hole it escaped.
Keeper of Stories - by Lady Janus
as told by keeper of the stories of the place on the edge of the forest
i watch them these strangers in my land
i sit high in the fruit tree and watch them
they came one day carrying things of mystery to me
they built a shelter like the birds do high in the branches of their trees
a nest for the these two large pale ones
they toil together never far from each other moving their things of mystery from the place in the meadow to the edge of the forest
their voices are strange i do not understand what they say
they seem to know nothing of this land
they do not seem to smell the changes on the wind that tell of the storms and the angry upheavals of the ground to come at the end of this season of trees heavily laden with fruit and when females drop their young
so strange are these large ones who have come to my land
i watch them call to each other
show of teeth
gentle touch
eyes lifted to the sky searching
show of teeth
quiet voices
then they move aside
the smaller one calls to the taller one
i do not understand what their voices say
small one has pale hide and hair the colour of the ripe fruit that is like the colour of the sun on the water before night falls
the fruit that grows on the trees down by the river which i must climb high into the branches to reach it
the fruit that ripens just before the season of the cold rains that come floating down and settling white on the ground
the season when the river no longer flows but is cold and hard when the tribe must walk down it to where the shelter trees grow in the place where the water rushes up from the ground to heat the blood of the tribe against the season of the white cold rains
that is the colour of the hair on the small one
tall one has hide the colour of the wood of the trees that grow deep in the forest where the land begins to rise and rise and rise until it is buried in the sky
tall one has hair the colour of the night when no light shines in the sky and i must close my eyes and sleep
where is their tribe i wonder
who will heat their blood against the season of cold when the river no longer flows
so i watch
i watch these two strangers who now wander these lands
they gather food fruits and plants
small one gathers the tastiest of the little ones that ride the wind on delicate wings that flash all colours of the world when they fly
small one gathers the delicate little ones in mysterious nests that hang from the trees
tall one is strong and one day cut down a tree and made the stem hollow
each night the small one fills it with water
steam rises from it like the pool where we must go in the season when the cold white rain covers the land and will not wash away
small one removes the many coloured outer skins that they cover their hides with and climbs into the pool in the hollow tree stem
each night small one lies very still in the water with its eyes closed for a time then calls to the tall one in their nest
tall one answers and their voices ring out in the night to the top of the highest trees
i do not understand what their voices say but still i watch
then after the small one leaves the tall one climbs into the pool and rests awhile
one night i moved down from the low branch of the tree where i watch the small one to the rock that lies at its base
i watch the small one in the pool of water in the hollow tree stem
small one smells startled and frightened of me and cries out in alarm
tall one rushes out of the shelter
the light of the pale night sun in its hand
tall one shines the light on me standing there on the rock near the tree where i watch them each day
small one is wrapped in a small white outer skin
it holds out a hand and talks to me
i talk to them
why are you here in this land
i ask again and again
what are you
i do not understand their speaking
i think they do not understand mine
they jabber and gesture
still i do not understand them any more than i understand the speaking of the predators that live deep in the forest
the predators that kill those of my kind too young
too old
too slow to flee when they come to the sheltering place in the season of the cold white rains
i watch these strange ones that i can not understand then move swiftly through the trees to watch from a safer height
tall one looks down at small one intently then says something quietly and moves back into the shelter
the days pass and still i watch them
follow them
sometimes they walk together
sometimes they walk alone
most times when they are alone i follow the small one
small one continues to collect the tastiest of the delicate ones each day
the tall one continues to make strange things of wood
one day a storm began to call
i watched them as they talk beneath the tree where i sit
i do not understand
there is no anger
no fighting
no posturing
no submission of one to the other
but there is a smell of wrong being about them i do not understand
then there is a show of teeth
a gentle touch
a shake of the head
small one gets up and walks away calling to the tall one and shaking its hand
and i follow
leaving the tall one to its mysterious thing made of wood
i watch as the storm comes closer
i watch small one move from nest to nest collecting what it has caught that day
can it not smell the gathering winds
does it not see that even the delicate ones no longer ride the wind and take shelter in their hiding places
i walk up to the small one and try to explain
the storm is gathering
you must find shelter
the sky and the ground are angry
you must get out of the path of their wrath
leave
i cry
leave
i cry again
take to your shelter like the birds who have built their nests high in the trees
leave
leave
small one seems to finally understand and quickly gathers up the mysterious things that hold the dead delicate ones
i take to the trees as the small one stumbles through the forest
the small one grasps tree branches as the ground begins its angry shaking and the winds tear through the land as the sky answers the angry ground
the small one cries out as it falls
i start down to help
to tell it to go
then the voice of the tall one rings out on the wind
it is there in a moment helping the small one to stand and they run through the trees across the angry land
i take my shelter beneath the leaves of the fruit tree
the tree whose food is tasty but covered in spines that dig into the hand and mouth causing pain to those who are not careful how they handle it
the bodies of the tribe are warm against the cold rain from the angry sky the colour of night
the bodies of the tribe are comforting against the terrible shaking of the angry ground beneath us
i wonder about the two large strangers in their shelter
then i fall asleep
after the storm they clear away the fallen tree branches and repair their nest the small one no longer collects the delicate ones with wings that flash the colours of the world
i watch them walk through the forest together fingers entwined
i watch them bathe uncovered in the river
they are strong
they do not drown
it does not sweep them away to their deaths
after they bathe then lie uncovered on the banks together
they lie close but do not touch
they talk softly their faces close
where is their tribe i wonder again
why do they not warm each other with their bodies these strangers in my land
they are the only ones of their tribe
i watch the small one working in the dirt
turning it over
burying the grass
i watched the small one bury small pieces of plant in the ground and pour water on them
the third female to have mated the first male of the tribe sits on the branch with me for a short time body heavy swollen with a child
then uninterested she moves slowly back to the tribe
one day i watch them bathe
that day their bodies came together in the water
face to face
mouth to mouth
arms wrapped around each other
they lie on the banks
i watch them mate
again and again
tall one is the male
small one is the female
i wonder when the female's body will be heavy with child
will it come before the cold frozen rains
small plants are growing in the dirt where the female works each day
one day i watch them
they stand outside their nest wearing the hides they wore when they came
hides the colour of night and the colour of the flowers in the meadow
i leave my tree branch and stand on the rock
the female holds out her hand and speaks
i do not understand
the female stands near the male both smelling of pain
i do not understand
then they disappear
i climb to the highest branch of the tree in fear
i watch the mysterious things disappear from in front of the nest
the nest stands empty season after season when we return from the sheltering place after the frozen rains have melted to water and the river flows again
the nest stands empty
i watch the plants grow and bear fruit in the place where the small one worked in the dirt
the strangers never return
the third female mated to the first male has pushed the male child from her body
i will teach the child the stories of the place near the edge of the forest
he will learn and teach another
one day i put a piece of a tree branch in the ground and carried water from the river to wet it

it grew and bore fruit
the ripe fruit that is the colour of the sun on the water before night falls
****
The Teacher looked down at the three young apprentices who sat on the ground before her.  They had learned all the other stories and now they had learned this last.
"You are all ten years old, twenty seasons.  You are no longer children pulling each other's tails.  You have learned the stories of the tribe.  Have you committed the last to memory?"
"Yes Teacher," the three answered fervently.
"Tell me have any of you been across the bridge?" The Teacher sat down before them so that they could look her in the eyes now as equals.
"No Teacher," said Hree, the one most unafraid.  "It is forbidden," he whispered in awe. "Then we will cross the bridge over the river, take the path through the ancient forest where our ancestors wandered through the trees during the warm seasons and you will see the home of the strange ones."
"Such a place still exists?" Hree asks incredulously.

"But the story is centuries old--how can it still exist?" Scri whispered fearfully.
"The story is over ten centuries old and yet the place at the edge of the forest still stands," the Teacher said in a quiet voice.  "Tomorrow we will begin the Walk.  It will take us twenty days to complete the Walk.  Then you will study the dwelling and know that once, strangers Walked among us.  When you return to the Sheltering Homeplace you will never be the same.  You will no longer be apprentices.  You will not be farmers trying to be teachers.  You will be teachers."

The End
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