text: In a time before time, when the mountains were still young and volatile, there was a cave of wonder hidden on a far-away rock resting deep out at sea. A shoreland piper lived there, his eyes were bloodshot yet pale. He was not of the fairy-folk, nor of the human-folk. He was an earthbone, an animeyas, a Walker-of-Water-Tone. Of stone was he, so porous and free. Often would he sing of despair and of glee. Yet his heart was with the tart of melon-calling Bree. 'O Breeze!' he would play, always on repeat. The ocean was wide and blue-gray during these beginning days. Islands like his were few and far in between, but many creatures knew of them and flocked to them in hopes of finding caves like his own, or perhaps a tree to make a home. He was well liked by the animals, for he bothered them not and instead sang his songs of forget-me-not. Countless sea-birds would follow him and say 'Play some other tune about some other lady. We hear enough of the Wind already, up here in the air where her gusts swoosh swift and fair." But he would just laugh and continue to whistle and bounce. Sometimes he would make a serious sound and whisper 'Only that which is as heavy as air may catch me like a net of lilly-weed hair.' Deep inside his cave was a cove of sea shells and ancient elf-jewels resting in the salt-brine. It was a place of calm solitude, a place where one could go and hear only the soft whine of the wind and the chirps of chicklings. This was his orchestra. The wind would rush into the fissures of the rock and down into his body holes, issuing forth mellow tones of color and hue. He would place his little hands over other holes and cause different sounds and whistles to come forth. This was his magic. For all the chasms and cracks upon that island would catch up his song and send it out into the airwaves over the ocean, spreading his tune to the islands around him. And as his love for this eternal dance propounded over the multitudes of waves, little pixies and fairies would harken on white sandy beaches. Their little cheeks red with emotion, their eyes closed or open in admiration. The music of the Walker brought joy to the fae folk which in turn gave them visions of ocean sailings and grand escapings. The fairies thought that his songs were about adventure and change. In truth, his songs were about blue longings and new range. One day, the shoreland piper played a tune previously unthought. He had become inspired by watching a massive yellow leaf float ever so gracefully to the surface of his cove. The stars reflected themselves in the still water until the leaf broke the placid jewel-home, giving way to a twinkle of moonshine swoon fickle. The song was, of course, about the wind. His Love deserved nothing less than the best. It was his overture to her, and when he was finished, he would be over singing. The melancholy life of solitude called to him, for he would never be with the wind. All of his life experience he put into this long tale of his love from above. The birds were perched at his cave entrance, while frogs and lizards rested upon the shells of large sea turtles on the beaches. His magic was at work that day, one can be sure of that. He needed no hat to pull off such a feat, only a cove of elf-stone and coral-shell, and a body of hollow bone and show and tell. On the islands nearby, the fairies and pixies danced and played. Oh! Such games they had on that night. They ate berries and drank cordial, but they mostly sat amazed in wild wanderlust. His songs had wisdom and wistful searchings for home and kingdom in them. To them, it was a beckoning. The four fairy queens spoke together in thought from the four islands. The flower fairies wanted to fly and find the orchestrator. The tree pixies thought of asking sea-birds to help them find their chief joy. Yet, the mushroom fairies had the idea at last. They would build rafts of bamboo and of large shells. In this way, they could grow strong as a team for the journey was long and sure to be dangerous. They would use coconuts to hold their flowers, nuts, and mushrooms. In this way, they would survive their journey's end (fae folk tend to be tied to some sort of source). They would make sails out of their hair, and most of the pixies loved their new hair style and felt it fit the strange change they had felt in their hearts. And they would forge paddles of coral to show their love of the sea and give respect to beauty in creation. As the legendary shoreland piper continued to induce wonderment to the young world, the fairy folk sailed to his island using only the melodies he played as a guide. The stone fairies did not join with the others, for they were content in their mountains, listening from afar. The flower fairies had the best singer, and her name was Anthuri. On that great journey, she sang this song quietly to herself. The fairies who heard it did not hate it, nay they said it paired perfectly with the angelic song already playing. "O silent silver streams, they wash my hair. From quiet meadow springs, I've taken my lair. Only the tale of tales could give me this scare. What is this I feel? What is this soothing light? Am I going to peel upon the very first sight? My journey is long. My night abound. I will chase this life. I will chase this sound." And so it went for quite a while. Anthuri only stopped her singing when she saw the island the fairies and pixies were seeking. They left their boats upon the shore, and floated after a heart worth keeping. Dreamland kisses of tonal hisses rifted by the fairy misses, beckoning them to the cove of lilies. They passed by turtles and crabs sleeping upon the beaches, and they passed by birds and 'munks resting upon the branches. The cove was beckoning, and they were following. When they peered through the dim opening of the cave, they at first were confused. No man or elf could be seen there, no fairy or beast was singing. Nay, it was a little rock creature covered with pockmarked holes standing there upon the brink of the cove like an orchestrator looking out upon his band. He moved with Grace, and he seemed to have no face, yet in him was a light known only to reside within the fright of fairy kind. He was akin to them, being an animeyas, being an animated spirit, but he was different. The fairies collapsed into a long sleep as his song reached its crescendo, and oceanside memories licked across their dreaming minds. When they awoke, they found that the rock-child was gone, and they knew not where. All over the island they looked, but to no avail. Until, finally, a young pixie named Willow Switch saw a grove of palms upon a high mesa upon the island. The fairies rounded themselves together and ascended to the peak of the mesa, seeking this mista’. There they found him, dancing and singing with odd little creatures who were of similar size to the pixie-folk. The creatures were fuzzy like a kiwi fruit, and they had two antenna protruding from their foreheads. They wore no clothes nor suits, and they had wings upon their backs that seemed as soft as a silk-bed. Together with the Walker, they danced and sang and laughed and played. The fairies were at first in shock at this new beginning, but they quickly joined in with the fun. It was soon to be realized by the fairies that these new creatures were to be their counterparts. When the fairies would raise their arms, the others would drop theirs. When the fairies wished to rest, the others wished to play. Many of the fairy-folk fell in love that day, for these others were smooth and silly, and acted ever so gay. As all the pixies were female, all the others were male. The queen of the tree fairies spoke aloud and said “My eyes see that we are all fae-folk, somehow. May you tell me what you call yourselves?” And a new creature arose to speak with her. He was slightly larger than the others, yet he was of similar shape and mold. But he had four arms instead of two, and his colorful wings could drape around his shoulders like a cloak. He lifted lazy eyelids and answered thusly. “We are the trow-folk. I am their leader, Kalimah! One day, all of my trows will look as I do. We are herdsmen to the little bugs and birds, or so we think. We awoke upon this mesa just the other day, as our great friend here sang his song of love to the Wind. Finding ourselves alone as his song ended, we lifted our voices together and summoned him to our birthplace. He says his singing brought us here.” And the queen of the flower fairies spoke and said “Why, we fairies awoke when the Wind whispered in the Meadows of our distant birthplace. We are of like kind!” “So it would appear.” said Kalimah with a smile. And the queen of the mushroom fairies stood and beckoned all to her. She was fairest of all the pixies, and Kalimah bowed before her, as did all the other trows. The Walker had only watched the two folks dance and play, and as they spoke he had begun to walk away. He was sad again, for his melancholy would not let him forget his love, and he felt trapped as if in a pen made from the sweetness of sorrow. And the queen sang to the Animeyas, which caused him to turn and listen. “O Walker-of-Water-Tone! Our hearts here have found their home! We will all follow in your footsteps, and sing songs of joyous desires known to be full of love and peps. You have awoken many fires, so do not begin to fret. You are married to the Windy Mother, you are her magical husband-other.” And he saw the truth in her words and began to weep. Who else could play with the wind as he could? Although he could never kiss the wind, he could feel her kisses. Although he may never see her in her majesty, he could sing about how she might look and be. And so, in the springtime of magical enchantment, the Father of Fairy-Folk accepted his heart. He lived no longer with despairing disappointment, but rather with the wee children he had gifted to start. Passion may wither like a flower in the sun, yet always can it arise again like children seeking fun.