This story will be told to Slide's future children by Meets-the-Sea.
Walks Without Rhythm regarded the gathering before him with some consternation: they had, to a one, banded together while he was out and had somehow come up with the idea that he would tell them a story. Nevermind the fact that the buck was laconic, rarely spoke; nevermind that he usually preferred to communicate by grunting -- each of the foals and fillies had turned the full force of their charm on him (blinking their big, long-lashed eyes, many of which were just as blue as his own) and now sat in a ring around him -- conveniently between Slide and the mouth of the cave.
With their strategy duly noted -- it really was flawless -- Slide heaved a sigh, shaking his hair out of his face. Looking at them each in turn, he began:
Long long ago, the swamp was still flat -- because the swamp was at the bottom of a great and empty sea. Nothing swam within it, nothing flew overhead, and there were no flying or swimming or walking or crawling things -- none at all. The Motherfather was the only thing that existed, besides the great and empty sea below, and the great and empty sky overhead.
But if you have ever gone swimming, or run a long distance, for days at a time and without stopping, you know that it is tiring. Your legs grow weak, your breath grows deep. You wish only to sit and rest, in the shade. Perhaps you wish to have a cool drink of water and close your eyes. But if there is nothing -- nothing but the salt sea beneath, and the empty sky overhead -- how can you do anything but swim, swim, swim?
"Did the Motherfather really float on the sea?" piped one voice; Slide, shifting his weight, nodded. "Like a swan, if swans had existed. Now be quiet, and let me finish."
But eventually the Motherfather grew tired of floating in the salt sea. Even floating was very tiring work; the Motherfather's legs were getting tired of paddling. And her throat was very dry, because between the sea and the sky was nothing but wind, and it dried out her mouth.
Bored with the sea and sky, the Motherfather decided that she was going to create something more interesting. Perhaps something where she would not be the only thing existing. Perhaps a swamp, with hills and rivers, filled with things that swam and crawled and flew. And so she began, swimming down to the bottom of the ocean, where all was flat, and pulling up hills, pushing in valleys, and using her nose to make lakes and rivers. She stuck her thick tail hairs into the mud at the bottom, and those became trees. She chipped a hoof on a stone deep in the bottom of the ocean, and from that hoof came all of the stones and pebbles and mountains.
But it was very, very thirsty work. Soon the Motherfather had created the whole of the swamp, the mountains they say lie to the north, and the ocean to the west, where the land and sea meet and battle every day. She had done quite a lot of work, and she looked around for something to drink.
Before her lay the sea, or what was left of it. It did not matter that the sea was full of salt, for she was thirsty.
And so she drank.
She drank and drank, and drank some more. The sea began to shrink. It pulled away from the swamp, from the mountains and the western ocean. It shrank to the size of a lake, and then a puddle, and then just enough water remained for the Motherfather to dip the end of her tail in.
And she drank that too.
And when she looked up, finally finished and no longer thirsty, what lay before her was a surprise indeed: she had drank all of the water. She had even sucked the moisture out of the dirt at the bottom of the ocean. All that was left was sand.
The sand itself looked like an ocean: giant dunes heaped up here and there, like waves. And when the wind blew, the waves moved, blowing and reshaping themselves. And that, little ones, is how the desert was made: the Motherfather was very thirsty after creating the swamp.
And we know that things live under the sand, do we not?
The foals, as one, nodded 'yes.'
Those are the serpents and monsters from long ago, that had buried themselves in the mud on the sea floor. Now they are angry that their watery home is no more, Slide continued, taking a careful step forward and lowering his voice: now it was merely a husky sort of growl. He widened his eyes. And if we are not careful, they will rise up out of the sand with mouths big enough to swallow a buck and eat you in one gulp!
Perhaps this was hyperbole: but it was the image from his dream that he had had as a foal, still so very vivid in his mind. He lurched forward on the last word, growling and gnashing his teeth, and the little foals and fillies spilled out of the mouth of the cave, limbs all a-tangle, shrieking and yelling in glee.
Slide, in the shade, smiled.
