Once upon a time ...

There were three serpents who were born under a sun. One of the serpents ate a fish. The other, a bird. The other ate a small mammal, a rodent perhaps, very like a mouse. And these three snakes sat digesting these under the sun and then,

 to one’s surprise, 

three eggs were lain

 

The first egg hatched open into a swirling blossom filled with white flowers, 5-petaled leaves and swims of air.

 

The second egg hatched and fell into pieces, and who knows where it went off to,,,

 

and the third egg hatched open and water poured out, water that at first ran clear and then dark into deep mud red colors, seeping into the soil of the world.

 

 

 

From the earth then came a man, walking freely with feathers at his ankles, playing at his fingers a harp magicked into the air with bits of his hair intertwined with the very particles of the wind itself, it was a fine song. Gold spun, he began to sing along the way.

 

Also then came the sea, at first a drop and soon a few droplets congealed, the tiny microcosms of creation spiraling into themselves in tune with the rhythmic pattern of droplets, flowerings  and other offerings… the water trickled through space and time until it made its way into a stream, and that stream, played out into the channels into a river which was so grand that it could hold and carry objects within it, and could bear them along the river, which sidled and moved pathways of stone into real mountains and canyons and fjords, flowing and dispersing and building and channelling, a torrent, a waterfall, a flood… until at last it all settled out into a sea. A sea, encased by mountains, sending rivers down and out into the world.

 

And the last, which had come out of the egg, fell to the very depths of the void itself, and became an ocean.

 

 

Where the shores of the ocean world met the invented land, a horse a rider traced their steps along the wash of the sea. The shoreline whispers, the sea moves in, the tide goes out. 

The rider is unusually pale. He wears an armor of green leaves, which glitter in the faint moonlight. 

His mount, a tall and ghostly steed, steps gently on the red sand. The tide, blue turquoise like the color of the first flutter of a feather , of a bird taking wing, winks back at him. 

He is uncertain of where he is going. In one hand, he holds a sword. It is a long sword, deftly sharpened and glinting at its edge, and inscription near the pommel reads “memento mori”. In his other hand, he cradles the bloom of a white rose. It sits there quietly, five petals splayed expectantly towards the moonlight.

Above them the black sail ripples in the wind.