He smiled inwardly to see them, young and strong and growing as was right and good. Outwardly, the buck thought he might have a little fun before he got 'round to the tale he'd chosen for this evening.
"So then," he said, tilting his head, "I seem to have more foals at my feet than waterbugs. Don't you have something to do? It's the Fire Festival! Run! Play!"
"But Amaranth Dusk," a young filly whined. "It's dark!"
"So? Matope has given us firefly-eyes," he said, blinking his own in demonstration, causing the light to flicker over the myriad colors of the foals before him. "Use them."
"But Amaranth Dusk," cried a young buck. "It's the Fire Festival!"
"I could swear," the dark-furred buck said slowly, tilting his head and trying not to grin at the fidgeting foals, "that I had just said that myself."
The first filly scoffed. "But Amaranth Dusk," she complained.
The young buck stepped on the whiny filly's tail, making her yelp and glare at him- silently. "Amaranth Dusk," the colt said respectfully. "In the nights of the Fire Festival, stories are told. And you tell the best ones! Can we have a story, pleeeeeeease?"
"Oh! How could I have forgotten," he exclaimed, laughing at last. The whiny one rolled her eyes.
"A story... a story, let me see... Ah, yes, I have just the one."
Quote:
Once, long ago, there was no fire in the swamp. Nothing to warm the bones of the old ones or clear away the dead, sick trees so that new, healthy ones could sprout. The tree stewards were tasked with knocking down some of the old trees when they became too many, but the work was hard.
Broken Horn, an old buck, had been one of the tree stewards for as long as anyone could remember. He was grumpy, and cranky, and had no friends at all. But his songs rang through the trees that were his pride, and his heart was always with Matope, and her children. Even if he didn't like them very much.
One day, while Broken Horn was trying to knock down a particularly bad snag, a snowy- white crane landed atop the whole works. Broken Horn couldn't knock it down without risking injury to the sacred bird, so he sat down in the mud with a huff.
"Well, white wing," he grumbled, "I was having a time of it to begin with, but with you up there I can't finish my work at all!"
The crane just stared at him, which was rather un-cranelike behavior. Broken Horn stared back, waiting for the animal to take the hint and move on. It continued to stare.
Now, Broken Horn was a stubborn old buck, and it wasn't as if he had anywhere to be. So, he waited. All day. And into the night.
For a week, he stayed by this snag, determined to get the better of this crane. But the crane stayed. Finally, on the seventh day, it took off and the snag shattered beneath it, falling into the black waters of Matope as though it had never been.
Now, the wood had been rotten to begin with, but still- a bird of that size shouldn't have broken it. It was too strong. Too strong for Broken Horn, but not for this crane, it seemed. Broken Horn was convinced he had seen a miracle.
So he followed the bird. He followed it south, and it flew straight as an arrow, pausing only occasionally to allow it's ground-bound companion to rest his weary hooves, which Broken Horn did with much complaining, as he was old and his bones ached.
He followed the bird for many days, into the deepest heart of the swamp, from which no kimeti ever returned, for Broken Horn believed he followed the spirit of Matope itself, in the form of a white crane. He had many adventures, crossing treacherous quicksand and escaping a horde of crocodiles, but those are stories for another day.
At the end of his journey, Broken Horn came to a strange, eerie place. The air smelled odd, and the air was hot- baking hot as Matope never became, even in the midst of high summer! No trees grew here, only blackened remnants poking above the mud and muck. There were no animals, not even insects in this stillness.
Tiny lights danced over the surface of the swamp, like feathers or flowers, but luminous like the eyes of the kimeti. Yellow, orange, and blue they were. He put his nose down to sniff one and had to draw his head back sharply. They were hot! Hot enough to hurt.
"Crane," said Broken Horn. "What horrible place have you led me to? What am I meant to learn here?"
The crane, which had perched delicately on one of the broken, charred stumps, flapped it's wing and a single white feather touched one of the orange ones. It vanished, and there was a terrible smell. Still, Broken Horn did not understand.
"Crane, what am I to do with these strange flowers that hurt to touch, and bloom without a plant to nourish them?"
The crane, somewhat exasperated, grabbed a slightly-less-charred stick out of the mud and stuck it in the strange flower. It sputtered and popped, and after a moment there was a new flower (that flickered and moved very oddly for a plant) on the end of the stick, and it seemed to be eating the stick! Now, finally, Broken Horn understood. This could cleanse the swamp of old, dead wood!
The bird flapped over to Broken Horn with the stick in it's beak and he took the stick. Such was his excitement that the old buck forgot even to thank the crane, but perhaps it knew his heart anyway.
He ran as he had never run before, but the stick burned away, crumbling to ash in his jaws. The heat was beginning to hurt his face. He ran faster, trying to outrun the burning brand. He ran and ran without stopping, until he felt his heart would burst. Finally, when the pain of the flower became unbearable, he reached the place where he had started following the crane.
The snag was back, as if it had never been touched!
He dropped the stick into the snag, and the flower spread, crackling happily through all the dead wood.
They say that kimeti all over the swamp heard the joyous call of a crane, and that bucks and does came for miles to see the strange new miracle. After that day, fire came to the swamp at Matope's behest, to bless us and warm us. They say that Broken Horn was never, ever seen again.
Some say he died, being so old to have run so hard. Some say the fire consumed him too. Some say he followed the crane back into the swamp, preferring its company to his fellows.
I don't know, but I like to think the fire that comes with the festival is Matope's gift for Broken Horn's faithfulness and devotion.
Amaranth Dusk smiled again to see all the nodding heads around him. It had been a rather long tale, and it was very late. "To sleep with you," he said gently, ushering them off back to their warm grass nests. "Sweet dreams, and a bright morning."
