This is a story from the days when the world was flooded by darkness and water, and all creatures wandered in the caves and the spaces below the surface of the world, lost and preyed upon by monsters and other things which lurked there. In those days the way of things and memory of the spaces above were kept in great songs, which the creatures sang amongst themselves in the shadowy places underground.
At the beginning, when the Isles had just been pulled from the sea and the land was fresh and new, the creatures of Mycorzha walked and crawled and swam in all of their myriad ways the same was they do today. But the nights were cold, and everyone had to huddle close together for warmth, for there was no fire to be had in those days. Stories were told of a time that flame had fallen once, from the sky people. But before any could find it, it had been snatched up by the deep dwellers, the watchers of stones, and now they kept the fire guarded fiercely in a deep cave in the earth. The creatures of Mycorzha saw where the mouth of the cave was lit by the embers, glowing against the mountains, and many had dared to approach. None had made it past the watchers, who roared and shrieked and frightened them all away.
There was a time long ago when the world was younger, that a tiny egg sat on a tiny leaf, and from that egg hatched a very small caterpillar. But she did not remain small for long, no! The grasses were plentiful that year, and with her brother and sisters and cousins she ate hungrily. Leaves disappeared, then stems, and when the last bite was munched right down to the dirt she moved on to the next stalk, and so things continued for quite some time. All the caterpillar’s world was stalk and leaf and shoot and stem, and even as her brothers and sisters began to tire and yawn and pull cocoons over themselves, still the little caterpillar continued to eat and eat until she was the last one awake in the whole of that part of the prairie. Only then did she curl up beneath a broad leaf, take one last tiny nibble - for who can go to sleep without a proper bedtime snack - and at last spin a lovely little cocoon to fall asleep in.
The grasses wave and dance across the plains, the flowers bloom and bees dance. The butterflies flit from bloom to bloom, just as each of us flits from life to death, and then to life again - life for the flowers, for the grass, which give us life in turn. And so it goes on and on, and the same stories come again and again to us on the wind. They are the Isles and the Mysts, teaching us the ways of how to be, how to live, and it is best that we listen, or else we will be taught by harsher methods.
Long long ago, before my grandmother’s time and even before her grandmothers, before the lands themselves had fallen into slumber, there was only the Sun high in the sky, alone on her endless journey across the great dome. This is a tale of how the First Moon came to be, and why it follows always in the Sun’s wake. Sit down now, and listen to how things came to be.
There is an old coyote who buries poems in the desert. He etches them upon scraps of bark and stones worn smooth by ancient rivers, and nobody understands why. They gossip among themselves; how strange, the ways of this old timer! He lives out among the rocks and the grasses, and none remember his family or band, and nobody goes to visit him. The farmers move from mound to mound, chattering as they move beneath the early morning sun along the river, telling tales of the old coyote. He is mad, some say, like those who were taken away, the ones who caused the sky to darken and the ground to buckle. No, says another, he is one of the old stones that woke and now walks on four paws. Not so, another chimes in! He is the northern wind that took a shape, and will lead cubs into the canyonlands and whisper secrets in their ears.
This is a story of dreaming, and of becoming, and of returning, because all things are cycles, and all that has happened will happen once again. And so it was in those days that magic was abundant, and all the many creatures of the land and sea and air wielded it in the way that you and I might a brush, or a hammer, or a knife. The air itself sparked and shimmered, and it seemed as if one only had to dream to make things real and present as breath and life. But as is often the case, the creatures of that time limited themselves by their own imaginations, and most dreamed only small dreams.
Old as the ‘groves this marsh-tale is, young one, which I tell to you now same as it was told to me. Many and more seasons and turnings past the creatures o’ the marsh came to these shores, and here we fished and wove and gathered in the bounty o’ the swamps and seas.
Leroux was causing trouble, to begin with. Of that there could be no doubt, for in the swish and glisten of that red tail there lay such a mischievous bent that I can say without reproach that Leroux was up to something, and that the something that they were getting up to was absolutely troublesome in its nature.
Settle yourself down, and I’ll tell you a story as old as the hills, just as my ma’ told it to me long ago. This is a story of wisdom and foolishness, both in equal measure, and lest you be thinking you can tell which is which, listen to this as closely as you may, for you might just need to be learning the difference!
There are places on the Isles that seem timeless, unaffected by the comings and goings of creatures off in the wider world. The Morel Marshes harbor many secrets, and the tales the creatures tell there speak of folk wisdoms and lessons to heed, about things that few outside the swamps know. Now set you down and I’ll tell you a story. Listen to me sure as you listen to your mama when she’s of a mind to give you some wisdom! Back in days of yore, before your grandpappy’s grandpappy was more than a wee tad, there was living a bullfrog by the name o’ Remy. Sweet-String Remy, he was called, and he didn’t get that name for nothing! Never was there a hand scaled or webbed better on a bow, and he could make the strings sing like the cicadas or wail like the fading light before a summer squall. Folks’d come from all over the marshes to hear ol’ Remy play, and it was said that his fiddle could make the swamps themselves stop and listen. Which was proven out to be truer than you might’nt believe, but that’s getting ahead of things. Remy, he had a way of setting out to a particular patch o’ muck, a ways outside of the town he was living in and alongside the trunk of an old, old cypress with knees high as the ‘skeeters buzz. There he would set bow to string, and play up the sun in the mornings and sing it down to sleep in the evenings as the bayou settled into dreaming. After a day’s tribulations, warming was the sound o’ Remy’s strings to the folks returning from forage, but kith and kin alike knew they weren’t to go and have a listen closer by. Remy took more kindly to neighboring with his own sweet self of the evenings when he was practicing. Even moreso, the nights were the place of spirits, and Remy was one o’ the few who dared to stay out much past sundown in those times. He kept with him a small lantern, filled with water sweetened with honey and pawpaw juice so as to give it particular interest to fireflies. These came a’swarming to it as thick as morning mist, which gave the little hollow the flickering feel o’ heat lightning on a summer evening. And Remy would play and play, hands dancing across them strings fast as thought, such that the night itself came on faster to listen. Remy always had his mind on his playing, and hadn’t given himself much to thinkin’ about finding himself a young sweetheart. That is, until the mind crept up on him and bit him on the behind! But once it took him, oooo Mysts and winds he was nothin’ but sighs and faraway looks, the right picture of forlorn lonesometude. Those of Remy’s neighbors who aimed to help took to asking him what tribulation so weighed on him, and not some few o’ ‘em batted an eye while they were at it. But Remy just shook his head, overcome by a whole storm o’ feelings. His playing was the only balm to soothe him, and he played until folks were fearin’ it might do nothing but rain, so saddening were the notes which Remy filled the swamps with. There came an evening when Remy, bow mourning its way across his strings fit to grieve for every spirit that had ever haunted the marshlands, paused to gaze upon a curious thing. A moment before he had set out his little lantern, and the flash and glow of fireflies had begun to dance through the cypress roots and hanging mosses same as always. What t’weren’t the same, though, was the faint tinkling like o’ chimes, and the fact that some o’ the flickering lights drifting on the night wind didn’t seem to flicker like a firebug should. An’ though more than the usual moss and grass and such were wavin’, there was no wind at all. As the flickering o’ fireflies danced through the marshes, Remy beheld a sight none after him have witnessed. Coming towards him out o’ the mists was a figure with legs that were too long, steppin’ through the swamp and muck as easy as you or I might stroll along dry earth. Like a deer she looked, swamplights tumbling from a coat thick with moss, and vine trailin’ behind like a great sweeping tail, or maybe like wings thin and gossamer as a beetle’s, glistening under the rising moon. Each step she took set the muck to glowin’ with dim marshlight, and her eyes were twin beacons as yellow as the firebugs which swarmed around her. She tossed her fair hair and great antlers like spreading boughs shifted like those of the cypress above, all a’tinkle with chimes and honey-lamps. These were thick with moths and glowbugs and the dim light of swampfire, and Remy knew he was starin’ at none other than the Lantern Queen herself! As she came onward, Remy’s little clearing was lit up by her presence, and shadows danced as she tossed her great head once again, bowing low towards him. Now, Remy could scarce tear his eyes from the sight o’ so great a spirit coming upon him alone in the swamps, but a music-maker he was through and through, and he knew an audience when he saw one. So taking up his bow and fiddle in hands that trembled brittle and dry-skinned as the winter leaves, off again he went into his playing. As the music filled the marsh along with the dancin’ glowbugs, Remy’s eyes grew near round and bright as the Queen’s to see her rise gracefully to her hind legs and begin to dance. Graceful as water she was, and it was all poor Remy could do to steady his breath at the sight and keep on. Soft notes poured from his fiddle, and before him the Lantern Queen danced and danced on. Song after song did he play, and wondered at a strange energy which seemed to take him, buoying him up like swampglow and mist which rose and eddied about them both. Neither did the Queen tire, not ‘till the sky in the east began to pale. Remy brought the song to a close with hands which felt not quite like his own, and the Lantern Queen was suddenly there just before his face. Bending down low upon those too long legs to regard him, her stare swept through Remy as a ripple through his very being. And then she offered him one hoof, still and silent as the trees in a calm. Some would say that it was too late for that poor frog, even then, but even while peering up at her Remy shook his head, and bowed himself low over his fiddle. When up he straightened the Queen had vanished, nothing but the dying glow of fireflies retreating into the swamps to mark that she had ever been. Remy was left to stumble home, head a’reeling with what he had seen and his tongue thick and heavy with something he couldn’t quite say, but what filled up his heart nigh to burst. That strange and restless energy seemed to return, and though he tried to lay himself down, up he came again like a float bobbing to the surface. He took up his fiddle once again, and all day long the local folk heard him playin’ and shook their heads, bemused to think he yet pined under the weight o’ heartsickness. On they ambled, leavin’ Remy to his manic course. Come the following night Remy returned himself to the swamp, bow hand itchin’ as the sun sank towards the horizon. As it banked itself for the dark hours Remy set bow to strings and began to play, the same song as he’d played the night before. Quiet were the trees which drank his music, and he drooped to take it for the dream he had feared, while his notes trailed out into melancholic melody. But even as he sat despairing did the dark shadows under the boughs come a’light with swamp glow, and through the mists came to his ear the tinklin’ of chimes. Now his music went running up in bounding notes as the Queen came forth, the glow o’ the swamps rising like false dawn. The music again took Remy up and ran away with him as the Lantern Queen came to dance, that strange energy pullin’ the notes from him fast as thought. This night he threw himself into the notes, his awe and admiration of the Queen woven through the song as sure as though he’d spoken it plain. He poured out his heart for her to dance upon, until the eastern sky glowed stronger than the Queen’s pale radiance. Once again she was there before him, sudden as a squall, one hoof raised. And though he once more shook his head, Remy was more than sure she would welcome him to take it. And as he bowed to a swamp now echoing and silent, he wondered to think that she would choose to come to such as he. And what might happen, were he to reach out to put his hand in hers. Back to his home he stumbled, and ‘round it went again some five more nights. Each day the marshfolk were haunted by the broken, manic notes of Remy’s playing, and what few had the gumption to come to his door he hollered at with cries not to disturb his practicing for anything, that he had some great work he had set his mind to. Shaking heads and mutterin’ they went away, while Remy’s mind raced along with his bow. And each night he returned to the swamp, nigh frantic to see the Queen return. And return she did each night to dance before him, and set his mind and body a’light as sure as the marsh about her. And as before, each time dawn crept towards them and Remy’s song faltered there she was, loomin’ above him, one hoof inviting him on. And still Remy hesitated, some piece o’ his heart knowin’ that there a’waited something with no return. But he knew that even as his music grew more and more haunting and beautiful that he was losin’ track o’ why he stayed his hand. An’ so it came on the eighth night that when Remy made to leave his house in the evening there were a crowd o’ swampfolk at his door, hootin’ and hollerin’ to know his business. Why had he been playin’ up a storm at all hours such that they could barely sleep, they cried. But ol’ Remy was canny enoughto hop out a high window with his fiddle, and to creep away down the backside o’ the house with nary a soul the wiser. Melodies knocked about his skull such that they might burst out, and he might’nt have questioned if they weren’t coming from up ahead if he’d had a mind to think. As it was, he came to the spot under the ol’ cypress as the sun was setting and set about his work like a frog possessed. The mist rolled in that final night with a chill, thick as silt to choke the fading light. Remy welcomed it in with notes low and soft, the music calling it forth, calling for his love to come. And so she did, appearing between one beat and the next, swamplight dancin’ in her eyes as she seemed to ride the mists towards the clearing. And there she danced like all th wild things of the world, lit by swirling clouds of fireflies and chimes tinklin’ like the voices o’ spirits on the wind. Remy wove the tones into his music, letting the notes fly higher and faster, as haunting as the figure before him. The sight o’ her, legs shifting as saplings in a wind, train o’ moss swiling behind and about, fair took his breath from his body and stole away his mind then and there. On he played as the music rode him, melodies wrapping him up tight and carrying him away on whisperin’ promises woven into the dancing of the Lantern Queen. That night was a place beyond time’s reckonin’, fractured as the delta and twice as like to mire a critter until they drown. Remy’s song was of a beauty not o’ the Isles, and didn’t rest until the sun pooled in the east to bring the notes to a shuddering climax. And even as they rang in the still air o’ the fading night the Queen was there before him, her hoof outstretched and waitin’. The marshes saw fit to hold their breath as Remy, bowing low, looked upon the haunting majesty o’ the Queen. And reachin’ out he took her hoof in his hand at last. Folks far and wide swear to hearing a distant peal o’ thunder that night, all across the bayous and waterways and straight over to the Saffrons. They say the horizon lit with heat lightning that rippled icy blue and sickly yellow such that folks shuttered in, locked up doors, and buried themselves deep in straw and muck to hide from whatever powerful spirit-work passed that night. Not a soul dared make their way deeper into the swamps until the following morning, when the mist had fled before the sun and the cicadas hummin’ away once more. Only then did some brave folk venture out to Remy’s playin’ spot, but nowhere was he to be seen. Naught they found but his fiddle, smoking and charred, and his lantern flickering with a yellow-green flame like swamplight and firebug glow. Even to this day folks talk o’ Remy’s playin’, but never again was that bullfrog seen, not hide nor ripple, this side o’ the mists. Some say he passed clear through to another world, the Lantern Queen taking him forth to some place the likes o’ which we can’t much fathom. Other folk whisper that he’s playin’ still, down in the realm o’ the Queen, on and on without stopping until the day she might tire of his song. All that’s known is that nowadays those who mean to send the Queen on her way light lamps to hang in windows on evenings when the mists draw close, and elders listen for music on the night breeze and caution folks to bed. It ain’t all gloom that came o’ Remy’s tale though, for couples newlywed light their lamps as well, to brighten up their home on wedding nights and proclaim to the Queen and spirits both their vows and lives together. And some say Remy plays for those new couples, sure as he played for himself, to living hearts and set feet to dancin’ no matter where he might have gone. And such, so they say, is the way o’ it!
Listen well now, for this is important! There were days long ago when the shore was living, and the land met the sea with arms of reaching green. But that was before. Now the cliffs stood stark and silent, and wind whistled eerily through holes in their faces.
