THE KNIGHT WHO CRIED DRAGON (PART TWO)

[To read part one, click here first]

After six days of travel, Kasta found herself in Camp Clearing, a former outpost of the Denbridge King, at the foot of the Blue Mountain. The town had long been deserted, but to Kasta’s madness-fogged mind, it was thriving. Kasta entered the ruins of an inn and opened her arms wide to the crowd.

“Travellers of the Clearing!” Kasta said to the empty air, “I am Sir Kasta Bailey, Knight of Nettle and I have come to slay the accursed Blue Dragon. Who will assist me in my quest?”

Even in Kasta’s fantasies, the proposition sounded absurd and the tavern laughed her to silence then returned to drinking. Embarrassed, Kasta found a spot in the corner to perch with a flagon of mead and itch her hands. She was just thinking of leaving when two travellers approached her.

“Good day, fair knight,” spoke one of the travellers, a tall, blind monk, robed in ornate purple silks. “My name is Master Gebwin and this my companion, Borothia.”

Borothia was a short, dirty-looking archer who offered no introduction other than to spit on the ground.

“By the grace of the great realm of Hirun, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Kasta bowed.

“We heard of your quest to slay the Blue Dragon,” Master Gebwin explained, “That fiend has been a great curse on our land and we all wish to be rid of it.”

“You would help me in my quest?”

“Of course, and we know where to find such a creature.”

And so, it was not long before the Nettle Knight and her newfound friends were trekking up the slope of the Blue Mountain, in search of the dragon’s lair. At great length, they came to the opening of a cave and ventured inside.

The cave itself was a long corridor of stone arched high above the adventurers’ heads, certainly big enough for a dragon. Kasta, Master Gebwin and Borothia, tread lightly, trying not to disturb the cave’s quiet lullaby of echoing water droplets. The cave appeared empty so far, but who knew how close they were to the dragon itself.

Slowly, the sparkling reflections that danced on the rock ceiling faded from blue to gold. The band turned a corner and stepped into a great cavern, filled almost to the ceiling with a mountain of treasure. Gold, silver and precious jewels of colours never seen glittered through the darkness. With childlike glee, Borothia ran to the treasure, eager to admire the necklaces and amulets of ruby and sapphire.

Master Gebwin tried to call out to stop his companion, but it was too late. The moment Borothia’s muddied finger touched just one crown; the great cave began to rumble.

Before Kasta could draw her sword, there was a great CRASH and a cascade of metal scattered in every direction, burying Borothia in gold. Out from the pile burst the mighty, blue-scaled Rawl. There was no mistaking that ear-splitting roar; this was the creature that had burnt Denbridge to the ground.

Kasta looked to Master Gebwin, just in time to see him evaporate. Kasta turned and saw Rawl’s great claw coming toward her. She just managed to duck, narrowly avoiding death.

“Aim for the stomach!” the blind monk called out, having just materialised atop the treasure pile.

Kasta took the advice and dived under Rawl’s soft underbelly, the only gap in his armour. One clean stab was all it would take. Our hero drew back her sword, the half-remembered cries of her friends from Denbridge in her ears as she pushed it up towards Rawl’s skin. But then she froze. Her blade was a mere hair’s breadth from gutting this beast and she had stopped. Suddenly a doubt overwhelmed her mind and sapped all the strength from her.

Was this real?

“What are you doing!” Gebwin cried out, “Slay it!”

Kasta came to her senses, but it was too late. Rawl had now moved back and raised himself to his full height. Kasta knew what was coming. She scrambled to get up. Rawl reeled back, drawing a deep breath, the back of his throat began to spark. Kasta was now on her feet, but still well within range of the dragon fire. In a moment, Kasta would be dead. She ran with all her might and dived behind a stack of gold just as Rawl’s great flames spewed out and around her. Kasta cowered behind her cover, only just out of reach of the terrible fire; she could feel the heat singeing her hair.

Rawl had spent his breath. He saw that Kasta had survived, so changed position and pulled back to draw another. This was it, Kasta could not run to cover in time. Rawl drew his breath, whilst Kasta prayed, but then Rawl stopped. Kasta looked up. Borothia had emerged from under the treasure and was pelting the dragon with arrows. The arrows could not penetrate Rawl’s thick armour, but were enough to turn his attention from Kasta.

“Shoot! That’s it!” Gedwin encouraged Borothia, using some incantation to sense despite his lack of vision.

Borothia’s distraction gave Kasta time to climb up the treasure pile and get right beneath Rawl’s soft stomach.

“Watch out for the fire!” Gedwin shouted to Borothia, quickly casting a shield spell around her before she was engulfed in flame.

Kasta was now directly beneath the beast, this time her sword would be true. She drew her weapon, poised to strike when…

“Excuse me!” It was a voice that Kasta did not know, but it was enough to make the dragon pull up from over her. Rawl took to the air, Borothia continued flinging arrows its way, but just could not hit his weak spot. As quickly as he appeared, Rawl was gone.

At last, Kasta turned to the person who had interrupted and saw two mounted knights, a woman and a man, at the bottom of the treasure pile. Both wore the same coat of arms that Kasta did not recognise.

“Ye gads!” the Mad Knight exclaimed, “Knights of the realm, well met! Have you come to offer your swords against this dragon?” she gestured towards the cave into which the dragon had just fled.

“What dragon?” the Knight replied, “What on earth are you talking about?”

“If you have not come to assist us, then why have you come here?” Kasta’s band began to clamber down from the treasure mountain and cautiously approach the Knights. Borothia drew her bow and pointed it at them.

“I have come to ask you to move along,” the Knight replied, slightly unsure of herself now the band had their weapons drawn. “This land is the property of the Duke and you are trespassing.”

“So, good knight, you have come to expel us from the realm, even when we do you the service of slaying the Blue Dragon?” but as Sir Kasta spoke these words, she was not sure she meant them.

“What dragon?” the second knight finally spoke.

“There is no dragon,” said the first. Kasta paused. She had heard those words before.

“This knight cannot believe its own eyes!” Gedwin chipped in. Borothia inched closer to the first knight, her arrow tip carefully trained on her throat.

“Perhaps you would also deny my bow?” she said. At this, the second knight began to retreat, but the first stood firm, staring Kasta’s band down.

“My father, Duke Thaddeus will hear about this unless you leave right now,” she said with deadly seriousness. Kasta had not heard of this title before, but then, she had never ventured into this land before, these knights would not let them stay here.

“You wish us to have an audience with your thane?” replied Kasta, intrigued.

“Stop speaking nonsense!” the knight cried with great force, “Leave this realm right now!” She bellowed out with great force and echoed throughout the cavern. Kasta and the others lowered their weapons.

“Very well,” Kasta said. In her mind, she was trying to reconcile various inconsistencies. How had they not seen the dragon? Why did they not take the treasure? The questions were overwhelming her. She attempted to keep her composure, “We will leave you, but be warned that should the dragon return, it would be yours to slay.”

And with that, Kasta paced straight past the knight and back into the cave from where they had come. Borothia quickly grabbed a handful of gold before following with Gedwin. As they marched out of the cave, it became clear that Kasta was deeply upset.

“It’s all right, Sir Kasta,” Master Gedwin said, attempting to comfort her, “Rawl may have escaped us this time, but we’ll slay the beast yet.”

“Don’t you see?” Kasta span round to Gedwin, tears of distress in her eyes, “That Knight of Thaddeus was right. The King was right. There is no dragon.”

“You mean, Rawl was a spell of some kind? This could be the work of my nemesis, Treroc…” Gedwin pondered as they pushed out of the cave and onto the mountain slope.

“No, it’s not a spell,” Kasta slumped to the ground, dejected, “It’s a delusion, it’s my imagination.”

“What?”

“When the dragon attacked Denbridge, I saw the dragon, I really saw it.” Kasta rubbed the skin between her thumb and forefinger. “But I also saw Perilly barbarians. And I thought I would die and suddenly the dragon, the wraiths, the fairies and everything I have ever told a tale of, it suddenly didn’t seem as real as that man.”

Borothia put down her gold and sat beside Kasta.

“Back in Denbridge, they called me the Mad Knight,” Kasta continued, now taking off her mismatched armour piece by piece, “I did not think they meant it, but perhaps I am mad. If I were, how would I know? How can I ever know what is real again? Perhaps there is no dragon and I am not a knight, but a peasant farmer, playing dress-up.”

There was a long silence, broken only when Master Gedwin began abruptly laughing. Kasta looked up at him, but he did not stop until eventually, he spoke.

“You think you’re confused?” Gedwin chuckled once more, “I have been blind from birth, I know nothing of colour or light or dark. You think you don’t know the difference between what’s real and what’s not? Try living your life with everyone around you telling you that there is a whole other realm of experience that they cannot explain to you and that you will never understand. You think you will never know what is truly real? I know I will never know.”

The mage pulled a friendly smile and knelt to Kasta’s level. “If I do not experience the world as everyone else does, is my experience any less valid? There is truth in what I touch, smell and hear, just as there is truth in your visions. They may not be accurate, but when you thought you saw a dragon, you did see barbarians. Your visions exist within you and therefore have a truth to them, just not in the way you see it.”

Kasta thought for a good long while, before concluding, “I’m sorry Master Gedwin, but I think I have spent much too long in the company of visions.”

The Knight stood and as she did, her armour fell away, leaving only a dirty and dejected young woman. She walked down the mountain and away from Gedwin and Borothia, who both faded into the night as if they had never been there at all.

Kasta never thought she would return to the village of Nettle, but after climbing down the Blue Mountain, past Camp Clearing, the ruins of Denbridge and through almost all Lostwood, Kasta Bailey finally returned home.

Her mother welcomed her with open arms and for the first time, the Baileys were eager to hear Kasta’s stories. Kasta, however, was not interested in telling them. Instead, she returned straight to work harvesting nettles and did not tell a single detail of her time away.

And so Kasta toiled in the fields once more, as she had done in her youth. Unlike in her youth, however, she no longer welcomed the visions but instead treated every new thing she saw with suspicion, taking a moment to carefully inspect whether it was real or fantasy. This was no small undertaking as Kasta found that just like when in a dream, the difference between the truth and falsehood is subtle and can rarely be discerned. This became her daily war, confronting a lifetime of visions with all the might and valour of a knight in battle.

It had been nearly a year since Kasta had left Denbridge and she had only just begun to systematically sort her sights into fiction and fact when she was faced with one final test.

Kasta was working in the fields, heaving at a particularly stubborn nettle when it gave way and she fell down onto her back. She stared up at the sky and a gloved hand reached out for her. She took a moment to decide if the hand was real or not and, still unsure, she reached out to discover it was. Kasta was pulled up and onto her feet. Upon seeing the person who helped her she saw that he wore the colours of Denbridge. Not only that, but the man was in fact the innkeeper who had given Kasta food and shelter all those years ago.

“By my eyes… Kasta?” the innkeeper blinked.

Kasta could not believe her eyes either and took a moment to discern the truth of this situation.

“What are you doing here?” Kasta asked, still trying to make up her mind.

“I’ve been made a scout in the King’s army. But what are you doing? We all thought you were dead.”

“Why would you think that?”

“Oh, well this is rare. Do you mean to tell me, that everyone but Sir Kasta herself knows the story of Sir Kasta?”

“Forgive me, I’m a little confused.”

“You fought the dragon at Denbridge. You could not kill it that day, but you journeyed across the land to slay it, sacrificing yourself for the good of the Kingdom. But I’m glad to see that last part isn’t true.”

“No, none of it is true, there never was a dragon, I never was a knight,” Kasta protested.

“Of course not,” the old innkeeper smiled, “I believe you, but I don’t think the rest of them will.”

“Rest of who?” But before the innkeeper could answer, the ground began to shake, the trees behind him began to sway and out from the undergrowth marched the might of the King’s army.

“Look who I’ve found!” the innkeeper shouted, waving them closer.

Upon seeing Kasta, the soldiers were immediately awed. They all broke rank and came hurrying up to see the nettle farmer.

“Dragonslayer! Dragonslayer! Dragonslayer!” they all chanted, gathering around her.

Kasta took note of everything and eventually decided that no, this was not a vision, they really were in admiration of her. Kasta allowed herself a smile. The soldiers ran forward and immediately hoisted her onto their shoulders and carried her to the King’s horse.

At the sight of the King, Kasta bowed in the mud. The King descended from his horse and joined her.

“What a surprise to find the Nettle Knight among the nettles.”

“Sire, you were right,” Kasta kept her head low, “I am no knight.”

“Hmm,” the King said, before crouching low himself so that only Kasta could hear, “And why do you say that? Because you have no armour? No steed? No squire? These can all be acquired.”

“Because I have not been knighted. I have lied all my life.”

“You may not have proved yourself in my eyes when Denbridge was razed. But to my people, you have become the legend they were desperate for. You have not proved yourself to me yet, but with another chance, perhaps you will. You lied that you were a knight, but who says a lie can’t be turned into the truth?”

The King drew his sword and placed it lightly on Kasta’s shoulder, before raising it over her head and onto the other.

“By the Kingdom of Denbridge, I dub thee Sir Kasta Bailey. Rise, Dragonslayer, Avenger of Denbridge!”

Kasta rose, an incredulous smile across her face. The army cheered around her. The King leant in once more.

“Now all you have to do is slay a dragon,” the King said and Kasta smiled back.

To chants of, “Dragonslayer!” and, “Avenger of Denbridge!” she joined the King’s army. Kasta may have still been ‘The Mad Knight’, but now at least one of her fantasies had come true.

ANAX

THE KNIGHT WHO CRIED DRAGON (PART ONE)

Of all the great knights of the Lost Kingdom of Hirun, perhaps the greatest was Sir Kasta Bailey. Regrettably, this noble warrior will never be remembered as such, for her legacy is not as a great knight, but as “The Mad Knight”. It is unclear when the delusions that would define her began; some say she was born tormented, whilst others attribute it to her impoverished upbringing.

Kasta Bailey was not born into a world of magic or fairies or dragons, but the rather mundane world of nettle farming. The Baileys came from a long unbroken line of nettle farmers and Kasta was no different from her forebears, working the land since the age of six.

Unsurprisingly, farming stinging nettles is neither a pleasant profession nor what many little children dream of becoming when they grow up. Despite techniques to pluck the plant without being pierced by its venomous needles, the ubiquity of the spikes makes stings inevitable. After years of toil, eventually, the pain subsides into numbness, but for Kasta, she never quite got the irritation out of her hands. The Bailey’s profession was matched in tedium only by their primarily nettle-based diet, consisting purely of nettle bread, nettle soup, nettle cheese, nettle pie, and nettle cake.

Perhaps it was the mundanity of her diet that drove Kasta to imagine worlds more interesting than her own. All she ever wanted was to be something more than a peasant farmer and so her mind granted her that wish. As she toiled, Kasta began to see dancing sprites and fairies. They would advise her on the best technique for nettle-plucking and lead her to the plants that were the ripest for picking.

Kasta kept her visions to herself and they served no purpose other than her entertainment. This changed when one day Sir Godric of Whitelake rode his horse straight into the Baileys’ field of painful plants. Godric’s steed was stung so badly that it immediately threw the rider from its back, catapulting the knight into a bed of pain.

The young Kasta was the first to hear Godric’s cries and hurried to his aid. She helped the knight back to the farmhouse and nursed his swollen skin with dock leaves and warm water. As Kasta cared for the knight, Godric told her tales of gallantry in foreign lands, so outlandish that the wide-eyed young girl would begin to dream that they were true.

From that day forth, Kasta’s visions turned to those of knighthood. At any moment, great hordes of demons could come crashing out of the tress, a thirst for blood in their jaws. Kasta would stand and armed only with a hoe and rake, slay them with ease, saving her little village from destruction. The sun would set and Kasta would recount her day’s adventures to a bored and bemused family.

As Kasta’s audience grew less interested, her visions grew stronger. Eventually, her dreams could no longer be ignored and after one supper of particularly stingy nettle salad, Kastor packed a sack and set off to find fame and fortune.

Denbridge was the realm’s capital and, thanks to the now-deceased Sir Godric, the only place that Kastor knew of other than Nettle. Thus, Kastor set off for the big city, journeying day and night through woods, bogs and ruins until eventually, she found herself in the city of Denbridge.

The young woman had no knowledge of the means or requirements of a knight. Ordinarily, a person is knighted after many years of serving the realm, initially as a squire and then as a soldier in battle. After nearly a lifetime of service, if the soldier was particularly liked by the King and if they were particularly lucky then they might be granted the honour of a knighthood. Kasta knew none of this and upon arrival in Denbridge, immediately proclaimed herself a knight. She was barely an adult and still clothed in muddied peasant rags, but in Kasta’s mind, she was clad in gleaming steel armour.

The brave knight’s first quest was to the Denbridge tavern to finally try some food that did not sting her tongue. As she ate, Kasta would itch her nettle-stung hand and talk to the other patrons, reeling off implausible yarns clearly invented that moment. A few were infuriated by her obvious falsehoods, but to Kasta’s surprise, most took entertainment in the woman’s delusions. At first, the innkeeper only tolerated this strange character, but once Sir Kasta’s audience grew from a few to a crowd, the keep began to see his profits rise and offered Kasta free food and board, fearful that she might transfer her patronage to another tavern.

Quickly, Kasta became well known throughout the city and not only did people begin to flock to hear her stories, but they played along with the game. The smith donated a sword, passing knights would contribute a spaulder here, a gauntlet there, so that bit by bit, Kasta gained the appearance of a true knight. The final touch was given as a gift from the innkeeper himself, a shield, adorned with a nettle coat of arms.

The Nettle Knight, armoured in a mosaic of metal, became such a character of Denbridge that eventually the King himself sought an audience with her. As any good knight would, Kasta dutifully obeyed and upon entering the King’s court, took on a heightened air of chivalry. Having not knighted this woman, the King could have rightly imprisoned Kasta for lying, but the King was a good-humoured soul and enjoyed what he believed to be a very elaborate performance. The King relished in Kasta’s tall tales and was intrigued as to whether this so-called, ‘Nettle Knight’ was some sort of jester or if she was truly delusional. So captivated was the King, that he granted Kasta the honour of a place in his court, to serve as an “Advisor on Chivalry”.

Kasta threw herself into her role and unexpectedly found herself learning a great deal about knightliness. She was granted permission to talk to the greatest knights in the kingdom. She overheard conversations of war, discussions of tactics and a healthy dose of castle rumour. She became so knowledgeable that at the King’s banquets she now sat closer to the King than many true knights. Foreign dignitaries and unknowing guests would leave her company believing they had met the most esteemed warrior in all the land.

Of course, for Kasta the lie was more than a story and she continually implored the king, as chivalrously as she could, to involve her in his campaigns. Although the King respected Kasta’s wit and skill at spinning a yarn, he thought her no more than a highly skilled jester. The King would not let Kasta join any of the actual fighting for which a true knight is trained, lying that Kasta was needed to stay and defend the city. With no true quest to occupy her mind, Kasta sunk deeper into her childhood delusions. These delusions became particularly potent whenever the King was away on a campaign and the Nettle Knight had little to do but chase chickens around the courtyard believing them to be antagonistic wraiths.

So desperate to fight was Sir Kasta, that occasionally she would liven up the guards of the city by exclaiming that a dragon was approaching the castle walls. Although the city guard knew perfectly well that dragons were not and could never be real, they were bound by oath to, if not obey, at least humour a knight of the realm. They would investigate and of course, there never was a dragon, all that there would ever be was a circling eagle. Yet, Kasta firmly believed in what she witnessed and would repeat the stunt on multiple occasions until the guards stopped looking.

One spring, the King embarked on a particularly long and costly campaign that fed on the Denbridge soldiers until the city guard was stripped to a mere skeleton. One day, as the war marched into its third year, Sir Kasta Bailey, the Mad Knight of Nettle, stood upon the East wall of the city, watching the clouds, as she was often wont to do when she heard a rustle. Looking down at the trees encircling the castle, she saw them most definitely move. Sir Kasta sucked in a great lungful of air and immediately yelled out, “Dragon!”

The few remaining guards heard her but, having become accused to the Mad Knight’s regular cries of ‘dragon’, ignored the declaration, and returned to their game of cards. When Sir Kasta cried a second and third time, the guards were moved to return a, “Shut up, you fool!” but no more.

Their surprise must have been quite something when fire suddenly rained down upon them from above. The guards scrambled to their positions, but it was much too late. What they saw was no dragon, but barbarian catapults hidden in the trees hurling flaming barrels of tar over the castle walls. By the time the soldiers were in position, the Perilly horde was already scaling the walls.

If the castle soldiers were shocked, then Sir Kasta was practically stunned as she struggled to consolidate her delusions with reality. Through the fog of her mind, one truth emerged; now was the moment to prove herself as the brave knight he always claimed to be. Whether it was a dragon or a barbarian horde, now was the moment for Kasta to fight.

A great, hairy brute, armed with two hand axes appeared over the wall and lumbered toward Kasta. She drew her sword and looked death straight in the eye. Sir Kasta could fight illusions, she could fight chickens, but the Mad Knight had never fought a real threat. At that moment Kasta turned and promptly fled, yelling, “Dragon!” as she went. She tumbled into the keep and barricaded herself inside.

When the King and his forces returned, brimming with elation for another well-won victory, they found no welcoming crowds, but instead the smouldering ashes of their home. The few that had survived were huddled in the keep. Since those that had seen the barbarians were all dead, the survivors readily agreed with Kasta’s story of destruction wrought by the flaming dragon. The King quite rightly dismissed the impossibility of such a thing, but the delusional Kasta and the shaken nobles held firm that they had seen a monster.

“Come,” the King commanded as he helped up a noble, “We’ll march South, seek shelter in Warrowill Keep, there is no more refuge to be had in Denbridge.”

“Sire, you can’t,” Kasta suddenly exclaimed, “The dragon still roams the realm, we have to find its lair and kill it!”

“There is no dragon!” the King exploded, “You may live a life encircled by fairies and spirits, but the rest of us have to live in the real world. Where were you, hmm? You call yourself a knight but you cannot even draw your sword to fight. You are no knight; you are nothing but a peasant nettle farmer playing dress-up!”

Kasta bowed her head and rubbed her hand. Although she could not say it, within her she knew the King was right. The King and the last people of Denbridge left the city, leaving an ashamed Kasta behind.

Kasta’s madness was growing once again. The King’s words of disdain span round her head for hours until they warped into words of encouragement and Kasta found her morale once more. If the King did not believe in a dragon or in Kasta then she would have to give him a reason to believe.

“Well then,” the Nettle Knight thought, “It seems I will just have to slay the dragon myself.” And with that, the Knight mounted her horse and rode into the trees…

…to be continued…

THE SEED AND THE STONE

There is a story, told to the children of Hirun, that goes something like this:

Once upon a time, in a great forest, there slept a stone. Now, stones are well known for wanting nothing more than to be left alone and this stone was very happy just resting on the ground in the shade of the trees.

One day, a seed fell from the sky and bumped the stone on the head. The stone immediately woke up and asked the seed, “What are you doing here?”

“I’m very sorry,” said the seed, “But I just fell here. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“Disturbing me? Why that’s exactly what you’re doing,” the stone replied angrily, “I’ve been sitting here for years, resting quite peacefully and now you’ve come along and woken me up.”

“I’m very sorry, but there’s not much I can do. I’m afraid I can’t move, you see, I’m just a seed,” the seed apologised again.

“Oh, don’t you worry about that, you’ll move very shortly.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you’re so small, the wind will pick you up and carry you away,” said the stone and the seed began to worry.

“Yes, I suppose it might,” said the seed

“Or if the wind doesn’t take you, the rain will come and wash you away,” continued the stone.

“Oh dear,” said the seed.

“Or if the wind doesn’t take you, or the rain doesn’t wash you away, you will be eaten. Just look over there,” said the stone.

The seed looked into the distance to see another seed sitting on the ground. Suddenly a bird swooped down, picked up the distant seed in its beak and swallowed it whole.

“You see,” said the stone, “If the wind doesn’t take you and the rain doesn’t wash you away, a bird will come and gobble you up. Now, if you’ll kindly be quiet, I’m going back to sleep.”

The seed was now very worried indeed, but it had one question for the stone.

“Wait,” the seed said aloud, “why doesn’t the wind take you away, or the water wash you away or a bird gobble you up?”

“Because I am a stone, I am too strong for the wind to blow me away, too heavy for the water to wash me away and too large for a bird to gobble me up. Now, stop talking so I can rest,” said the stone, with a laugh, but the seed was still afraid.

“Would you mind if we kept talking? If I’m going to be blown away, washed away or gobbled up, I’d rather spend the time I have left not thinking about that fact and talking will take my mind of such a dreadful fate,” the seed asked hopefully, but the stone was not interested in conversation.

“We can’t talk, you’re a seed and I’m a stone, we are too different. You can talk to your own kind, but you can’t talk to me.”

“We can talk, we’re talking now,” the seed insisted.

“I know we can talk; I would just prefer that we didn’t. Now, you are going to do what I say because I am bigger, I am stronger and I was here first. What are you? You are just a seed, you are small, weak and pathetic,” sniffed the stone haughtily.

“That’s very rude of you,” retorted the seed.

“Well, it’s very rude of you to keep talking, so be quiet!” and with that, the stone fell asleep again.

“But who will I talk to?” cried the seed but the stone was asleep, and did not reply, so the seed had no choice but to remain silent.

For some time, the seed and the stone sat side by side, in total silence, and with each passing day, the seed grew more and more worried about being gobbled up. Then, one day, there was a loud noise, which woke up the stone.

“Was that you, seed? I told you to be quiet,” shouted the stone angrily, but the seed was quiet, the noise was coming from somewhere else. The noise was footsteps and the sound grew louder and louder until it was right behind the stone.

“Seed, seed! Help!” Cried the stone but the seed remained quiet, as it had promised, and the foot fell upon the stone. Yet, the foot went, as quickly as it had come, leaving just a large footprint beside the stone. The stone gasped and looked around, amazed to still be alive.

“By the earth, that was close!” the stone exclaimed, “Seed, did you see that?” but the seed did not reply.

“Seed?” The stone repeated but the seed was gone and, in its place, in the middle of the footprint, was a small hole about the size of, well, a seed. The stone was amazed.

“The seed’s been trampled into the ground,” the stone cried, to no one in particular, but although the stone felt a slight twinge of remorse it laughed.

“I told you you’d be gone soon! Didn’t I tell you? Well, not by trampling exactly, but I said this would happen. Now, at last, I can get some peace,” said the stone and it settled down to enjoy a well-earned rest.

However, as the stone was resting, the seed was growing underground. Slowly and silently, the seed grew roots, then a stalk. As the roots grew deeper, the stalk grew taller until it pushed out of the ground and kept on growing. The stalk grew taller and thicker until it became a trunk. From the trunk grew branches, from the branches grew leaves and everything kept growing and growing until the seed was a mighty tree.

The wind blew hard but the tree stood strong. The rain fell hard but the tree grew taller. The birds came, but they didn’t gobble it up, instead, they made the tree their home.

The tree was now so big that it pushed against the stone, waking it up for a second time.

“What’s going on? Who are you?” said the stone but the tree did not reply.

“Mother of nature, I know you, you’re the seed! But you don’t look like the seed anymore. Why, you’re bigger than the seed, stronger than the seed, heavier than the seed,” and once the stone heard its own words echoing around the forest, it paused and looked at itself.

“Why, you’re bigger than me, stronger than me, heavier than me!” said the stone.

The stone tried to rest, but couldn’t knowing that at any moment the tree could shed a branch and its great weight might crush the stone to powder. The stone worried about this for many months and finally when it could bear the thought of being smashed to atoms no more, the stone spoke to the tree again.

“Seed, I mean, tree, I can talk now, if you’d like,” the stone said, but the tree remained silent and the silence made the stone angry.

“Seed! Talk to me!” cried the stone, however, the tree was so tall, it could not hear the stone. In fact, the tree was so tall, it was as tall as all the other trees.

“Hello,” said one of the other trees.

“Hello. I’m Seed,” said the former seed and the other trees laughed.

“You were a seed, we were all seeds, but you’re a tree now and you need not worry.” And indeed, the tree didn’t worry ever again about wind, rain, birds, footsteps or even stones.

ANAX.