Through an ancient wood forgotten by time a sparkling blue stream twisted and rolled. Polished stones of many colours sprinkled her shores of soft brown mud. She shimmered as the breeze raced over her. She babbled on long, far, and away, gossipping with the wind and the trees. Spring life bloomed in the cool sweet water and buzzed above in the flowering trees. Around swelling dark stones, water-ripples curled and caught sunshine forming fine trails like corn-silk locks of a young girl’s hair.
Towering tough oaks erupted into wrinkly green buds that collected morning dews and forest mists and glistened as though dressed in pearls. Their flaky bark softened contentedly in the orange rays of the rising sun. They stretched their mighty branches upwards and wide in the sky, creaking and yawning, sighing in ease and fatigue as they shook themselves gently from their winter sleep. Woodland creatures scurried about, their breaths and heartbeats bubbling in unheard rhythms. Silver minnows wearing rainbows on their bellies darted in and out as if sewing the edges of the stream into a seam made with webs of sunlight. They made, now and again, lucky snatches of algae and less lucky larvae caught in the current. All in all, it was a happy Spring season in a forest beyond time.
Quite by chance one of these happy-go-lucky minnows nibbled what appeared to be a lump of clay, but what was in fact a pudgy brown finger taking a chill dip in the stream. The nibble tickled and startled the baby to whom it belonged. He had been snoozing on the bank, but now the sun came streaming into his groggy eyes, and he cried. He cried and cried and then settled a moment and then cried again, and the forest stood and the magic loomed and the wind caressed him like a silk sheet, and he calmed and he cried, calmed and cried.
He howled and he howled and he howled like a wolf with one leg in a trap. He squealed and he kicked and he threw bits of mud into the air. He was not happy. He was cold and scared. The stream shivered with goose-bumps as he screamed and the reluctant wind carried his howls deep into the forest where wide-eyed chipmunks shook their heads from side to side with shifty eyes, looking, both curious and bothered, but not knowing what it was that was making such a terrible disturbance. The oak trees did their best to cover their ears and look the other way from that awful noise coming from the banks of the stream.
One particularly tremulous and long-winded cry shook the small green cabin made entirely of twigs and leaves that perched at the top of the reddest oak tree in the forest. The tree’s trunk was massive, and his roots buried themselves profoundly in the rich black earth below. His four enormous branches reached toward the four edges of the world. The cabin was about half a child’s span in length and three digits high; it was the cozy little home of Miranda, the fairy. Now, Miranda was a beautiful fairy, forever young, who was really as ancient as the forest itself. She breathed her first breath when the sun’s first pink loving rays kissed the first sparkling drop of dew on the first green tender shoot of the first proud oak sapling that sprouted on the first morning that ever dawned on the forest beyond time.
When Miranda heard that howling screech, she burst out of her acorn-cap bed, flew straight up, and knocked her head bouncing right off the ceiling! She changed colours from white lilies to red roses, purple violets to blue morning glories. She was all upset and all confused. She rubbed the bump on her head and then zoomed out the door. She knew that something was wrong somewhere in the forest.
So, with a flash of green lightning, she flew through the stiff branches and wavy leaves of the red oak over to the East side of the tree. “Mr. Squirrel, are you there?” she shouted at the large damp nest of leaves and moss. She heard some munching noises and a slurp. She called again “Mr. Squirrel?” More munching noises followed. Miranda flew up to the top of the nest, made a big O with her tiny hands around her mouth, and shouted at the top of her lungs “Yoo-hoo, anybody there?” Mr. Squirrel realized at about this time that someone had probably been calling him for a rather long while and that he had been just a tad too occupied with his breakfast of nut-bread and honey-water to notice. He bounced to the window, he opened the leafy cobwebs he was using for drapes, and he peered out squinting into the sunshine.
He wiggled his nose and wondered “What’s all this about?” and Miranda zipped down from above like a jolt and startled Mr. Squirrel away from the window. Like all little girls, Miranda was filled with energy of the stars. He sighed, he puffed, and he ruffled his coat. He recovered from the shock and climbed out the top door.
“Oh, hello, Miranda! What can I do you for, m’dear?” She giggled. He smiled. Mr. Squirrel always had a happy way of saying things that other people just said because they know they’re supposed to. He still had a thick ruddy winter coat and a little bulge of a winter belly. When he smiled ear to ear, you could still only see two pearly white buckteeth sticking out from his moustache and whiskers.
“I heard a noise! It sounded like trouble!” said Miranda.
“I didn’t hear any noise myself,” he replied “but if your trouble’s needs a nutty fix, gee-golly, I got the whole eastside stocked, packed tighter than nobody’s business.” Miranda understood somehow that he had a lot of nuts.
“Um, maybe.” was all she could say to what she was not sure was a boast, an offer, or a bit of both. Mr. Squirrel was a hard worker, it’s true. He worked the whole summer long collecting nuts for the winter, when he snacked between naps and spent too much time indoors.
So, with a “thanks” and a smile and a flash of green lightning, she raced through to the North of the red oak tree. Soon she was tapping furiously on the door of Miss Mourning Dove’s maple sapling cabin.
“O Miss Mourning Dove!” she called. She waited for a moment. The door creaked open and Miranda began to chatter “Oh, I’m so glad you’ve answered. I was–”
Poof!
A huge cloud of dust shot right out the door and hit her in the face. She sneezed and sneezed, and when a fairy sneezes it is no laughing matter. Fairies have rather large lung capacity for their size and when they sneeze they zip around the forest like untied balloons leaving a trail of golden glitter like that of sparklers at night. After three tremendous sneezes that sent her zipping all over and through the red oak tree, she ended up right where she started. Fairies do have, on the other hand, exceptional luck. Miss Mourning Dove saw Miranda when she turned around. She had been fluttering her wings to sweep out her little house.
“Cou-Cou, Miranda. I was just doing some spring clean-up.” She was totally oblivious to what had happened. “How are you deary?”
“I’m g-g-goo...oo...oo...d!” and she sneezed and she zoomed like she was on her own personal roller coaster on fire and she ended up right where she started from.
“Oh, dear.” said Miss Mourning Dove.
“Yes, well...” started Miranda. Then she rubbed her nose back and forth to catch the new sneeze that was starting there. “I heard a noise and there may be trouble. Did you hear anything Miss Dove?”
Miss Mourning Dove bobbed her head up and down, left and right, sideways, and around in circles rattling her little bird brain, trying to remember the world ten minutes ago and having some difficulty.
“It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.” said Miranda out loud. She could see that the poor bird was confused. “At least her heart’s in the right place” said Miranda to herself.
“You could always try...” Miss Dove nodded to the left side twice “...Mr. You-know-who. Or maybe Mr. Owl.” and then she nodded to the right. “They are never far away.” And Miss Mourning Dove gave Miranda a peck on each cheek for courage.
So, with a “thanks” and a smile, a wink and a nod, and a flash of green lightning she was in the West side of the tree, where clustered old acorns had hung unfallen from the tree, turning from tough and brown to brittle and black as they braved the winter winds in their woody caps all season. This is where Mr. Owl had made his roost. Mr. Owl was sitting still as a statue. With his feathered horns above his head, his marbled plumes, and (as those fair-nosed Romans might say) his arching beak, he was just as impressive.
“Mr. Owl?” she asked softly. The great owl flashed open a single yellow eye that blazed like a candle’s flame.
“Oo, helloo-oo.” he answered warmly, still mostly asleep. While Miranda was huffing and puffing all in a tizzy, he stretched and cracked his wide old wings, and yawned and sighed resignedly as he woke himself from a philosophical dream. He had been dozing as he was more than something of a night owl. “Oo?” he asked inquisitively, as Miranda waited anxiously.
“Did you hear a noise? It sounded like trouble!” she said.
He thought a moment. Mr. Owl spoke the languages of the winds and the waters and was very old and very wise. “Noo-oo.” he said raising and ruffling his feathery brow like a mystic from the East. “But remember, Miranda, dear, when there is trouble to loo-ook before you swoo-oop! I’d tell you-oo the story that goes with the moral, but I can see you-oo are in a hurry.” Sometimes Mr. Owl’s words made Miranda think; sometimes that was a good thing.
So, with a “thanks” and a smile, a wink and a nod, a chatter of her teeth and a flash of green lightning Miranda was knocking just below the black rotted-out hole in a dead southerly part of the red oak tree. Mr. Snake used this as a door to his hollow branch cavern. Miranda put her wee hand to her ear and leaned towards the hole to listen. She thought she heard a scratching sound. She waited and listened, waited and listened.
“YESsssssss!” Mr. Snake said in a loud and trailing voice when his head was just behind her.
“Eep!” Miranda leapt off the branch with a yelp. Mr. Snake had been gliding silently along the branch, closing the distance. Miranda nearly had the life scared out of her by that sneaky snake. He was a weird one. He had the ability to make others think he was somewhere else or doing something else. He probably wasn’t really evil, no, but he sure liked scaring people. Even now that Miranda was hovering above the branch with her wings buzzing like a hummingbird’s, she was frowning and wrinkling her nose and not wanting to get near him.
Miranda said to herself “He wouldn’t eat me. We’re neighbours.” But that was little comfort because Mr. Snake had once tried to eat Miss Mourning Dove. Mr. Owl bit the snake by the tail and threw him out of the tree to protect her. A clump of moss broke his fall. Miss Dove escaped unharmed, but ever since then, Miss Dove called him “Mr. You-know-who”. Miranda approached cautiously.
Mr. Snake’s golden body wrapped skilfully around the branch and relaxed. He had red speckles down his back and his diamond shaped head ceaselessly flicked a pink and black forked tongue. His senses were so sharp that he could detect the faintest traces of the faintest scents and even the direction they were coming from. His glassy black eyes stared between this world and another. He knew things deeply, with his skin and his bones, in a way that no else could know them. It was too bad he was so spooky. Before Miranda said anything, Mr. Snake spoke.
“Yesss, I see something serious, a sound, a scream, somebody new, so nobody I like, sounded sort of... by the stream... South somewhere.” His body uncoiled from the branch and in an instant he glided into the darkness of his cavern.
Miranda raised her eyebrows high and her eyes bugged widely. She really had no idea what to think of that one. On the one hand, he had just helped her; on the other, he had tried to eat Miss Mourning Dove. Miranda thought him not a little bizarre.
Off she went, a tiny pink ball of light no bigger than a pinky nail, racing southward through the lush spring greenery of the forest, leaving a trail of golden pixie dust, like tree seeds or flower pollen or the Milky Way, that flashed and fizzed as it vanished.] When she arrived at the sparkling stream, her tiny wings were tired of beating and she was huffing and puffing harder than ever before. She flew along the brown banks of the stream searching for what it was that had made the noise. She was floating still in the air and squinting her eyes to see as far as she could in every direction, when a terrible cry knocked her right out of the air!
She fell into the creamy white throat of a water-lily. The water-lily whispered to her that the brown lump that was causing all the racket was across the stream. She pointed with a petal. She also said that she would be much obliged to Miranda if Miranda might do something about it, because the lump had been wailing all morning and disturbing everyone in the area.
Miranda raced across the stream where she found a baby ogre boy, freshly born of the mud, crying because the bright morning sun was in his eyes, crying because the mud was cold and wet, and crying because he did not know where he was or what he could do about it.
Now, as you may know, baby ogres are about the ugliest babies of any creature in the real or magical worlds; and they have a tendency to perfect their ugliness as they grow up. His forehead was thick, brown, and leathery; but that did not stop Miranda from kissing it. His ears were lopsided and one of them was pointed and twice as big as the other; but that did not stop Miranda from whispering into them that everything was going to be okay. His hair was black, long, and wiry; but that did not stop Miranda from washing it with clear stream water. And his cheek was rough and had already started to grow a sparse bristly beard; but that did not stop Miranda from wiping the tears that poured from his deeply sad, blue eyes, which were the only feature of the ogre that you or I might consider pleasing. Miranda knew that despite appearances all babies of all creatures were tender and all babies of all creatures needed love. She dried the trails of tears on his cheeks by fanning them with her wings, and the lullabye of their humming sent the baby to sleep.
Miranda filled with joy and thought that the baby ogre was the most beautiful being in all the worlds, so tender and honest, so helpless and needing. There was no question. She decided, without even telling herself in words, that she would take care of him and love him for the rest of their life together. She wondered how she could help him now. She thought he must be hungry. She decided to fly back to the red oak tree to get help and advice on what to do. Before she left, she whispered in his ear that she would not be long and gave him a soft fairy kiss on each of his eyelids. Her baby had sweet dreams of honey and raspberries.
When she arrived at the red oak tree, she was so breathlessly excited that she could hardly tell the story. “He was so beautiful, so peaceful, so helpless! I’ve decided to take care of him. His name is Etham.”
All of her neighbours agreed to help. Mr. Squirrel would hook-up nuts from his East-side stash so that her baby could fill his belly and grow into the ogre he would become. Then, he would not cry from hunger. Miss Mourning Dove would show him all the wildflower pastures and enchanted waterfalls and gnome caves and all the wonderful things she had seen on her flights of luxurious discovery throughout the ancient forest. Then, he would not cry from not knowing where he was. Mr. Owl agreed to teach him the languages of the waters, the winds, the trees, and the fairies. Then, he would never cry from being alone and helpless in the world because there would always be someone or something to talk to.
“Could you teach him the language of fairies first?” asked Miranda, who was already eager to share with her baby all of her thoughts and feelings and to have him understand her.
“Well, of course, my dear.” he answered kindly. Secretly, though, he wondered and worried that Miranda had given herself too quickly and too completely to something she did not understand.
Mr. Snake too had an interest in the child. “Purely scientific, see?” he explained. “I’d like to study his somatic structuring, senses, and such, so that the illustrious Mr. Owl here might better find him a trade of some sort, so that he does not grow into a waste of forest resources.” Mr. Snake was a cynic. His hisses were a constant laughter at the world. If this would work, then that wouldn’t; and if things went according to plan, he called it fluke. He did not always say what he believed, though there was always some truth behind his lies. He was even cleverer than Mr. Owl, though not as wise or scrupulous, and he had tried to eat Miss Mourning Dove.
Everybody was curious and they hurried to see Miranda’s baby ogre on the banks by the stream. Miss Mourning dove agreed to carry Mr. Squirrel, or rather refused to carry Mr. Snake. He was left to the charge of Mr. Owl who had a short bout of déjà vu. A thought popped into Miranda’s heart as she raced on ahead of the others.
Near the creamy white water-lilies there was a raspberry bush that produced the most delicious raspberries in the entire forest. When Miranda arrived, she saw that the bush was in flower, so she used her fairy magic to cause a single branch ripen. Then she plucked a plump ruby of a raspberry that was about as big as she was. She had no problem carrying it because fairies’ muscles are as strong as their wills, and Miranda’s will was strengthened by love. She flew up to a bustling bee-hive not too far from the bush. The worker bees were busy doing spring fix-ups of the hive, so it was difficult to get their attention; but the bees knew Miranda well and filled her raspberry cup to the brim with sweet golden honey.
With a “thanks”, a pirouette of delight, and a flash of green lightening Miranda was waking her baby ogre Etham with a fairy kiss on each of his eyelids. When he opened his eyes and saw the glowing pink ball of light that was Miranda holding the honey-filled raspberry, he smiled his first smile. Miranda turned blushing red roses. Etham opened his mouth and laughed his first laugh. She dropped the berry in. He smacked his mouth and smiled. The raspberry was as tart as the honey was sweet. Miranda shone more brightly and more happily than she ever had before; the sun and the moon beamed out of her heart.
The neighbours arrived at the same time. Everybody else’s first thought was that he was the ugliest thing any of them had ever seen. After a few minutes, however, they had accustomed themselves to the sight of him and began to think about how he must be feeling, so cold and alone. Miranda was right, they thought: he was too pathetic not to be adorable, in his own way, at least when he wasn’t crying.
He was not crying now because he was enthralled by the beauty of the light who had given him gentle dreams of honey and raspberries and woken him to give him just that. He adored her, and his adoration inspired their deeper love. He loved, and his love brought them together into one. He knew that her light would never leave him, and that gave him a comfort profound and sure.
Even all together, baby ogre Etham was too heavy for them to move. So, the team co-operated to build the baby ogre a shelter of sticks, stones, and mud right on the shore where he lay. It was not splendid, but it was the best they could do. He could roll over, but not stand up. It would keep the rain out of his eyes, the wind off his body, and protect him from the sun. They knew that pretty soon he would be strong enough to build his own house of rocks and mortar, a strong house that would last for ages.
That night the baby fell asleep, warm, with a belly full of nut-butter and raspberry mash, listening to Miranda’s fabulous stories of places and creatures from long ago in worlds of imagination and splendour where colours are more brilliant than any that can be seen. Her tales were all the more enchanting to the newborn, because she told them in a language he did not yet understand. Even so, her words were rich in fairy magic. She whispered to him as she rested in a cozy nook of her baby’s smaller ear, the one that was small and round like a quarter and not big and pointed like a carrot. Every word opened a universe inside his mind. The whole night she carried him away to places where the stream babbled poetically over the many lives she had known who drew water from her and the many depths she carried with her always. He felt these babblings like a rush of cool water. He listened to the stars telling secrets to each other, and watched as they winked to each other with promises of silence. The silver minnows with rainbows on their bellies danced in the water and laughed with their wide mouths and played games with their tails in the black rolling river beneath the wise silver moon. The baby ogre understood and loved them all because he was too young to know anything except by love; and he believed everything that Miranda told him, because her stories were beautiful and her voice was beautiful and she, whom he could always see like a glowing pink raspberry star leading him and loving him through all those worlds of dreaming, she was the most beautiful of all.
In the morning, Miss Mourning Dove, Mr. Squirrel, Mr. Owl, and Mr. Snake came over the blue stream as they had come before. The ogre baby woke up when they lifted the roof off of his shelter. The first thing he saw was Miranda holding a huge ruby raspberry filled to the brim with golden honey. When he opened his mouth to smile and laugh, she dropped in the berry and gave him a kiss on each cheek. Mr. Snake slithered into the house and began his study of the ogre child. As he slid over his stomach Etham realized that he was hungry after all of his night-time adventures and began to cry. Mr. Squirrel jumped in to the rescue with his nut-butter and honey-water breakfast specialty. Mr. Owl began to teach him the language of fairies. Mr. Snake, Mr. Owl, and Miranda were delighted to see that despite the legendary blunders and general obtuseness of ogres, her Etham learned readily and quickly.
Miss Mourning Dove flew overhead. She showed him the peace of the blue sky and the white clouds drifting through it. She showed him the sparkling blue water from his small home beside it. She flew high near the tops of the great oaks reaching in their might up from the forest floor below. He saw the world illuminated from the opened roof and tiny cracks in the walls. Things slowly became familiar to the ogre. Etham understood that he was home.
All the while, Miranda flew about or sat in his ear, whispering encouragement and taking even more pride in his accomplishments than she would have had they been her own. In the days and weeks that followed, Etham learned to recognize the ancient forest and its creatures thanks to the daily flights of Miss Mourning Dove; and thanks to the lessons of Mr. Owl, he learned the names for things he knew. His body became strong as Mr. Squirrel filled his belly each day with nuts and Mr. Snake slithered over him in his investigations. He learned that everything and everyone works together in a great co-operation of life, even if they are unaware of it or don’t want to be a part of it. There is no escaping living and dying and rebirth from the soils, but that’s okay, because the cycle of life is worth celebrating with works of the body and creations of the mind.
He loved Miranda above all. He loved how her soft fairy lips kissed his rough ogre cheeks, how her delicate fairy fingers stroked his wiry ogre hair, and how her loving fairy tales softened his blunt ogre spirit. Miranda loved him too. Miranda could only love him. She showed him that she loved him with each loving caress which she let pour freely from her heart. He knew when she kissed him just how beautiful and special he was to her. Each night he fell asleep listening to the stories of the whistling wind as it passed around the walls of his home by the stream. The babbling waters gave him dreams in poetry. Miranda loved that he loved all that she had struggled so hard to give him.
Etham was growing quickly. He was getting too big for his house. Then one day, after a lesson on building with rocks, Etham tried to eat Mr. Owl! That ogre grabbed Mr. Owl by the wings, bared his stinky yellow-brown teeth, and was ready to take a big bite, when Mr. Owl, knowing exactly what would happen if he did not act quickly, bit the ogre’s fat dirty little nose as hard as he could. The ogre screamed in pain and threw Mr. Owl against the wall. Mr. Owl wasted no time escaping out the open roof while the ogre child held on to his bloody nose and screamed and screamed. Miranda’s neighbours fled for their lives. Etham thrashed and kicked until his house was a circle of muddy sticks on the bank. All the while Miranda had been calling into his smaller, non-pointy ear for him to stop; but the ogre’s dumb hunger and stupid rage deafened him to her cries of terror. To test his strength against the ones who cared about him and becoming free at their expense was just something he had to do.
Etham wanted to live and work on his own. Etham did not want a tiny twig and dirt box to live in by the stream. Etham did not want to eat nuts and study unimportant things all day long. Etham knew how to build. Etham could make his own food. Etham didn’t need anyone. Etham had his own destiny and he saw it standing before him like a dream in his imagination. Etham’s destiny was a stone tower taller than the tallest oaks in the ancient forest. Etham was going to build that tower.
All four of Miranda’s neighbours crossed the sparkling blue stream never to return. They all agreed that Etham had betrayed them; and if something like that happened again, one of them could be eaten! It was for their own safety that they could not forgive him.
Only Mr. Snake seemed oddly satisfied about what had happened. Sure, he agreed that they must never return, but their was something untrustworthy in his voice; and he said everything with a kind of sideways grin. Mr. Owl suspected foul play. Mr. Owl was certain that that snake had done something awful. The others just believed what they had been told from legends old: Trust an ogre as you would a snake; an ogre cannot be trusted.
As for Miranda, she knew she was safe. Etham, too, knew that there was something so deep and true in their love that he could never consciously harm her. There was that, and then, of course, there was the fact that such a clumsy ogre simply had no chance of ever laying a hand on such a lithe fairy. Then again, perhaps there are more than one way to catch a fairy and only one is with your hands.
After many apologies from Miranda on behalf of Etham, her neighbours agreed that they would help him and give her advice, but on the condition that they would only ever speak through Miranda and that they would never ever cross the blue stream, not even if Etham was in danger. They simply could not put themselves at risk. Miranda agreed to their terms and began to work harder than she ever had before.
From that point on, it was Miranda herself who carried the nuts from Mr. Squirrel’s east-side stash, one-by-one each morning for Etham’s breakfast; that was a tiring task. And it was Miranda who took notes from Mr. Owl in a little book and gave his lessons awkwardly to the ogre; that was a very tough venture. And it was Miranda who guided her ogre boy by a light through the trees showing him all the beauty and magic of the ancient forest; that, however, was something Miranda could do even better than Miss Mourning Dove. At night they would dream together, as Etham slumped beneath a tree and Miranda slept in the ogre’s smaller, non-pointy ear. Each morning she would wake him with fairy kisses on each eyelid carrying a ruby raspberry filled with golden honey.
Life at that time for Miranda and Etham was not as bad as it might seem. Etham was still young enough to play and smile and laugh and run. He liked bugs and mud and climbing trees. Miranda had to do a lot of work, but the love Miranda felt for her ogre boy made her strong and fast. As you might have guessed, the speed of a fairy, like her strength, depends on her inspiration; and for those who love, there is no more powerful source of inspiration. Miranda could fly fast enough and stay strong enough to get all of her chores done in the morning. During the day, Etham broke down rocks into stone-flour for his bread. He was learning to feed himself like ogres do, by baking ground stones in the sun. He was particularly fond of the softer sandstone delicacies; his favourite of these was the pavé.
Soon Etham’s muscles began to bulge. He was proud of them. Soon he believed he was the strongest thing in all the ancient forest. He could crush a hundred rocks to powder in a day. Crushing two hundred rocks was not impossible. He raised his flexed arms towards the mighty oaks in envy and said “My tower will be even greater than you!” He thought to himself that now that he was the strongest creature in all the ancient forest, it was time to start building.
In the evening they walked together and shared twilight dreams by green ponds and played tricks on the grumpy spiders in the creaky willows who trailed their branches in the water like women washing hair. She told him stories about her friends and neighbours on the other side of the stream. He could not remember the squirrel or the mourning dove or the owl or the snake. She told him how she was born in the first glistening dew drop on the first morning that ever was; but he could not believe that anything had ever happened so long ago and he had difficulty imagining the beginnings of a forest beyond time. She told him that she missed her home in the reddest oak tree. He told her that he would build her a new home, a new home for both of them, a tower of stone.
“I love you and have always loved you.” she said.
“I will build us a tower of stone.” he said.
At night her love was strong. He made grotesque noises and did not sleep peacefully, but there, as he dreamed, he loved her as he did when he was new. She told him stories and he followed her everywhere. He put himself in her care and was weak. That was how she remembered loving him when she first saw him helpless on the muddy banks. That was how he allowed himself to be loved in his dreams.
He began work on his tower. Day in, day out, until very late in the evening, he dug and pulled water-worn rocks from the stream’s bed, dragged them through the forest, and stacked them to make his tower. He talked to Miranda about his plans. It made Miranda happy to think that Etham was working for her, for them, but at the same time, she felt him moving further away from her. She became weaker. Where once she shone brilliantly even in the daylight, now she flickered dimly even at night. She no longer had the strength to get nuts from across the stream in the morning. She could no longer understand the lessons of the owl or the snake. The mourning dove seemed to speak another language, distant and senseless. She did not even have the strength to fetch a raspberry with honey, and she suffered because she had to search for the warmth in her heart that at one time had overwhelmed her.
Eventually, they no longer explored the forest’s wonders in the evening. Eventually, they were both too tired, Etham from his work and Miranda from waiting. Etham didn’t seem to notice that much had changed. He was now a full-grown ogre, a powerful giant. He was satisfied to eat the rock bread that he made all by himself. He had his work. There was steady progress on the tower, moreso everyday. He had forgotten so much.
A mighty tower of stone that would last for all time! That is what he wanted. That is what he saw in front of him ever in his mind’s eye. That is what he worked for. That is what he willed. A mighty tower: he said it to himself again and again. A mighty tower: he said it each time as though he had never heard the words before. A mighty tower: he said it as though by repetition the sound itself would create his masterpiece: mighty, Mighty, MIGHTY!
The hours and the days became longer. He worked alone. He worked with only one thing in his mind: a mighty tower of stone that would stand taller than the oaks, a mighty tower from which he could look upon the forest from on high, a tower in which he would be king. Miranda slept unnoticed now in the smaller, non-pointy ear of the ogre. She sobbed when she woke and it was still day, because in the day the ogre saw nothing but his work and his unfinished goal.
He pulled rocks from the stream and stacked them high. His muscles grew so strong from labour that he could not think of anything else. He thought only of his strength and his work and his end. He stank like a beast because he sweat in the sun and he never bathed. He loved himself and all that he did. In the evening, he was proud of the work that he had done that day, he ate the rock bread he had made that morning, and he went to sleep thinking about what work was to be done when he awoke.
It was only when the ogre was deeply asleep and far away from himself that he began to dream. Sometimes Miranda heard his true voice then, the one that remembered how to speak with her. It was only when he was far away from himself that he became soft enough to kiss again, soft enough to love and be loved. Miranda herself never wakened. She did not have the strength. She slept and sighed. She smiled a listless smile for the joys she once knew and flickered, a pale grey sadness, that no one, not even the snake was keen enough to see. The ogre became tougher and harder until he refused to dream. Sleep became just time lost from work.
After many years of hard labour, of sweating and straining, of cursing over many a smashed finger and toe, the ogre’s tower did reach beyond the reaches of the highest oak trees in the forest. He climbed his tower to the top where the wind was bitter cold. He looked down and saw snow on the leafless tangled treetops. He saw winter, winter everywhere, the entire ancient forest blanketed in snow beneath him, the ancient forest and winter on every horizon. He smiled a crooked smile. He was king.
He breathed deeply. The winter wind stung the scar on his nose. He did not remember how he got it. The wind screeched woefully through the barren black trees. He had forgotten how to speak that language. Far below him beneath a frozen crust, the blue stream carried glowing ice slivers in its current. It told no stories anymore. He did not remember that it ever had. For years and years it only babbled noisily.
He wanted silence! He wanted the wind to stop calling and the stream to stop crackling because it was his forest, his kingdom, and he wanted silence!
And silence came. Silence came like forgetting to breathe, like forgetting to touch, like forgetting to believe. He watched the silent snowflakes fall. He watched the snow swirling in the wind. He saw the branches bending. He saw the creatures walking, jumping, running. But he heard nothing. He heard no sounds and forgot everything that he could remember. He forgot even his own name. Miranda turned to ash and fell from her bed in the ogre’s ear, pale, cold, and gem-like, as beautifully as any other snowflake in the silver night. She fell to the roof of the mighty tower and she disappeared in the cracks of the stones.
Centuries passed and the ogre passed too. Centuries passed and the forest re-newed. Centuries passed and the tower crumbled down. Centuries passed until the tower was a pile of stones. Centuries passed and the blue stream changed her course and she began once again to collect the stones that had been pulled from her so long before. She re-claimed them all, all the stones one-by-one, like a mother calls back her children from their adventures of the day; and on that clear night in spring with its waxing new moon, when the stream pulled that last stone from her banks and it tumbled into her waters, the stone made a spark like a tiny pink star that did not extinguish when it dived into the water.
The star began to dance with the minnows.