There is a story told to the children. The mother cradles the child in their blanketing arms. The adolescent wiggles and twists. Anxious to run and play. The mother smiles tenderly. Then leans down low and softly tell the story of creation.

Of life.

The Great Creator created the world. With trees and with shimmering skies. Then the Great Creator formed the world below the ground. The world of Rocks and caves. The world of darkness and silence.

Of beautiful mysteries.

The Great Creator wanted others to know of these stunning mysteries. So It created the People. But the People were baffled and confused. They were not adapted enough to solve such puzzles. They gave up and left for the surface. So the Creator created another race.

The Shadow People.

They were gorgeous. But none could see their beauty in the unending darkness. The moved through the Rocks like the People could not. Their fingers lacing every curve and every crack. Their eyes saw the darkness. As the People saw the light.

Discovering the delightful mysteries.

The child by now is half asleep. Their eyes are fluttering candles in a breeze. Ready to go out. The mother tilts her head further and murmurs quietly. They still thrive. They never went away. And late at night they sneak into your bed.

And speak gently.

To hear such things is a wondrous experience. Your dreams interweave with their poetic words. Making impossible images. Impossible feelings. For the things that they see in the darkness. Is more beautiful than any thing we can imagine.

Incomprehensible.

She was not human. Or that is what she believed. She had no memory of a mother or family. No warm arms encircling her. No long fingers to trace her fair face. All she remembered was the cold stillness around her.

The Rocks.

I had known the Rocks my whole life. I lived beside them. I thrived beside them. They were always near by. But I was never one of the Rocks. They were never my home.

Just my surroundings.

She was different. She lived in the silence of the caves. She crawled through the Rocks with such grace. With such love. Only the sight of a husband and wife embracing could ever compare to such a view. The Rocks spoke to her. Whispering things she could never tell me.

She whispered back.

She never lived with the People. She could hardly speak to me. Her language was different than mine. It was spoken with feelings. Instead of words. I could never understand. No person ever could.

But I didn’t need to understand.

Her words were pure and untainted. They left strange disturbances that would tug relentlessly on your memory. A thought just out of reach. I tried to speak such a language. But my words were hollow and cold. She would stretch one of her arms to me. Her icy fingers would seem to spell out her words.

Her words of love and peace.

Her hair was of gleaming silver. It rippled over the Rocks. Like divine hands stroking death. And making life from ashes. Once I saw her features in a candle’s dim glow. Her skin was milky and frail. As if one touch would shatter it. Her eyes were wide. They could see everything.

She could see the darkness.

The rain was falling relentlessly. The old wise ones proclaimed it was from the Creator. Because we were sinners. The clouds blocked the sun. Shutting out its sweet rays. The caves soon soaked up the water. Releasing the People from the deadly floods. Every creature that dwelled within the caves fled. Ran towards the surface.

Except her.

I went to her. I found her. She was near the surface. So near that the Rocks had ended long ago. Replaced by soil and pebbles. She was battered. Her delicate skin bruised and cut. Her long hair tangled and disordered. I had never seen her this way. So imperfect.

So human.

She held out her hands and I quickly grasped them. I urgently sputtered to her. I had to get her out. I had to save her life. She smiled weakly. Her weak fingers moved within mine.

She did not believe me.

She had no life above the ground. The endless skies and long fields were unreal to her. As her words were to me. The Rocks were everything to her. It was all she had ever known. The caves were the womb she was conceived in. The Rocks were her mother. To leave would be unreal.

Impossible.

I would believe the impossible. I held her close to me and picked her up. Her body was so light. I assumed that if I dropped her. She would merely float toward the ground. Like the dead leaves when the air grows cold.

She would not die.

I carefully wrapped her in layers of cotton and animal pelts. The rain pelted us with fury and hate. She hid her face in my chest. I could feel her soft weeping against my heart.

I swallowed her pain.

I took her to my home. The place where I grew. The place I loved. I kept her there while the rains fell unending. But she would not heal. Her wounds remained. Her hair would not untangle.

Her eyes could no longer see.

No one believed she would live. I spent all of my time by her. Helping her. Encouraging her. Her silver hair turned dull. Her skin shriveled and wrinkled. Yet her heart was weak.

Broken.

The rains wearied and departed. For the first time there was pure light. It traveled shyly from the clouds. And crept softly onto my face. It then journeyed into my home and slowly kissed her features. But she could not feel it.

She was lifeless.

The water retreated to the lakes and oceans. Abandoning the People in our victory. Everyone sang their songs. They raised their hands. Greedily capturing the small rays of light. I carried her dead body into the caves.

The Rocks.

The darkness greeted us in silence. I could feel it pressing against me. Its eyes peered at us closely. Its cold wet arms encircled me and her. I felt her body lift from my arms. My limbs became empty. Vacant.

As the shadows claimed her.

I felt hollow and frozen. I wanted to hear her words. My own rain leaked from my eyes. It could not stop. I fell to the stiff ground and pressed my face to it. Like a child to a mother.

I whispered to it.

For the first time I could speak her words. My numb fingers moved over the rocks. Tracing ever blemish and crack. With my words. With her words. But all I could say. All I could ever say. Was grief.

A voice spoke back to me.

It was soft at first. Weak and fatigued. But it grew strong. With every word. Its soft tones soothed me. Its timbre warmed me. It held my heart tenderly in its long fingers. I didn’t want it to leave.

It was her.

But she was different now. The Rocks had become one with her. Her silver hair turned into long, sweeping fractures. Her fingers the cool soil below me. Her face the prominent rocks above me. No longer alive. But never dead. Immortal.

She whispered things to me.

To hear such things was wondrous experience. My thoughts interwove with her poetic words. Making impossible images. Impossible feelings. For the things that they see in the darkness.

Are more beautiful than any thing I can ever imagine.