The forest of Hatuga is intentioned. Every miracle in nature is a precise mathematical equation – observable but beyond our own computations. Regardless, we can appreciate how these miracles affect us, move us, imbibe us with our own paths forward in a world where a meaning made to last is sometimes rarer than a miracle.
One miracle, felt by Hatugan Forest-Peoples of all directions, was a song. A song born of a fiddle, soft and bright, arriving with the dewdrops of a rainy noon as the heavens pour on cloudless days. This phenomenon happens once every lunar cycle, and has been deemed as a holiday of rest, to enjoy the comforting melody as it wafts through the trees. Every Hatugan near to the sound would stop their work, and prepare themselves for the rejuvenating strings – for rejuvenation takes a surprising amount of concentration. Faint and far away the song might seem, but, listen closely enough, and you would notice how every intricate note, plain as day, was playing inside your own mind.
One young man did not seek rejuvenation at this point in the lunar cycle. He sought inspiration; what was the secret of that song from the forest that made it so deserved in the minds and hearts of his fellow Hatugan? And why was his heart more moved to sing than to listen? To follow these questions, the young man pursued them into the depths of the forest, seeking out that isolated, intimate source.
Three days into his journey, some of which was comprised of beautiful, pointless circles, the young man happened upon another young man. They shared a good-natured talk, shallow perhaps, but still extending all the cordial respects granted to those with shared values, then continued on their separate ways. They soon realized their separate ways were not separate at all, not even vaguely similar, but very much exactly the same. And, as they glared at each other as if owed an explanation, they saw that another had joined their party, who was just as disappointingly confused to see his party-of-one expanding. And expanding, as more were tallied to the group, until they numbered seven in total.
The fifty-ton gator in the room finally had to be addressed, leading to volatile responses all around. The majority consensus was that each individual believed they had been called by the song, and it was their personally handpicked destiny to uncover its secrets. To what end? Well, some claimed they knew, and the rest deferred the question back to their destiny. But one thing they all knew: that their pursuit was their own, and no one else was entitled to take it away from them. Even if that meant taking away someone else’s pursuit instead.
Hatugans are not prone to inciting physical violence, and so the fire that raged from the sparks of iron clashing exploded into most inflammatory bickering. Underneath the cover of enormous radiant spores, argument after argument was jabbed between the fellow dreamers. They tried to outreason their opponents with their own reasoning, only to be reasoned away by another’s – so on and so long until the stars were even hiding until the differences in their similarities were resolved. Or, at least, they tired themselves out, which was even less likely.
Melting points had begun to spill over, mixing with other metals, but the sound had changed. Over the cacophony of frustration and bitterness, the mysterious song, for the first time in its history they were sure, began to play for the second time in one month. But, this time, it was next to them – still faint, but now spirited gracefully between them by a figure blithely fiddling on an ancient instrument, root and vine harnessed together by animal hair. It looked like it shouldn’t be able to make a noise at all, but the elegant figure, four heads taller than the tallest wanderer there, was extracting from that earthen fiddle the genuine melody that had inspired them all to venture into the depths of the forest in the first place.
“You argue about which of you is best equipped to learn this song,” said the figure in a melodic voice, now taking clearer shape as a pale greenish lady of elvish descent clothed in all the fineries of the fungal canopy above, “But you forget to ask three questions. Can it be taught?”
She struck a sharp chord with her bow. Immediately, the song seemed to be called from whichever far away recess it had been bouncing about in, like a bleating sheep called down from the mountains, into the grove. All were calmed as, for the first time in their experience as the audience, they felt the song right there next to them. Not within them, or far away without, but at their right side.
“At the same time you play, can you listen?” The elven lady moved her bow in rapid, staccatoed motions that shouldn’t have produced the song that was currently playing. But it was playing nonetheless, bouncing around behind her like an obedient puppy with a pulsating glow. The wanderers were mesmerized, and might have felt like joining in the dance had they not understood that to do so at that exact moment would provide an obvious no to the second question.
“And, lastly, why does it matter?” The sprite began to sing. Never in the song had they heard a voice before, now realizing that these notes were meant to compliment and enhance the sound of the fiddle, rather than offer its own tangent of cluttered meter and notes. Her long willow hair swept around each dreamer individually, spreading a warmth among the party as they realized that each one of them had been graced with the secret of the song. Almost unconcerned, or perhaps trusting that the song was now with them and she no longer needed to be there, the sprite and her fiddle disappeared between the mushrooms, slowly rising until the song had spread across the germinating flora above them and absorbed by the dark of the forest.
The wanderers split up. Each returned to their home, almost in a trance. The productive kind.
For three months, nothing seemed to come of this encounter, and the lunar holiday continued on time after that abnormal encore that was the talk of the towns for a time. Then, rumors spread throughout Hatuga, that one young woman was promising that she had, in fact, discovered the secret of the song. Those rumors turned into advertisements, for this young woman had gathered a band together, which would be performing her own reinvented interpretations on the original song for a live audience.
The first few shows were sold out, and the tour was a raving success for fifteen days. But fatigue set in, and the young woman became unsure that she could reach these same highs if she tried to pull off the same event again. Moreover, her songs were extremely difficult to write, originality always clashing with popularity, and the pressures of expectation were mounting. After the tour, content with a pseudo-satisfaction that she could claim to have been a great artist at some moment or other while reminiscing on her past success, the young woman retired from the music business to focus a little bit more on herself.
The rest of the wanderers were not so visible to the public eye as they wrestled with the secret of the song. The second wanderer had become jealous, having put all of his advertisements for the same sort of event the young woman was throwing in all of the wrong places, and so his concert never really picked up at all. Another wanderer became daunted by the task put before her, and decided that criticizing the song was cathartically quicker and expended less effort than trying to build or improve it. These two linked arms, and devoted their time to tearing down the systems that valued the song of the sprite – even going so far in their bitter exclusion to lobby in public for the lunar holiday to be scrubbed from their calendar.
The fourth wanderer dove into a focused study and appreciation of the things that had been revealed to him. In fact, he became so focused, so studious, that nobody in Hatuga could really tell you what those revelations were. He would always assure you, when asked, that he was improving the formulas, heightening the notes, drawing power from words unspoken except by the heart. And, if you asked him to elaborate, he would dance around the subject like the elven sprite, now a faded image in his mind, and never really give you anything tangible to understand or appreciate. But he seemed satisfied in his studies, so perhaps there was some meaning to it, and perhaps he would arrive at a shareable conclusion one day.
The fifth wanderer became a menace. Not intentionally, but their shared love of the song and themselves merged to create a sort of monster that could only be satiated by sharing both with the world. The collective groan of Hatugans everywhere as she would arrive, from nowhere to right in the middle of a private interaction, would send Hatugans fleeing in all directions. She played her version of the song with no rhyme or reason to it being played, except that she liked to hear herself playing it, and hardly wondered why her audience couldn’t sit still for one second longer to share in the joys that had been revealed to her.
The sixth wanderer thought on his experience, appreciated it, and started a family. He enjoyed recounting the story to his children, to inspire them and fill them with wonder and an appreciation for purpose. But it was in the higher sphere of spirituality that the song belonged, not in his practical life. And so he kept it at arm’s length while focusing his efforts on things that were kept only at a finger’s length. He found satisfaction in this, as did his family, and it heightened their appreciation of the lunar holiday more than most of their Hatugan neighbors.
For a year, no one heard or saw the seventh wanderer. He seemed to disappear from community altogether, and the villagefolk were genuinely curious what had happened to him. Then, one lunar holiday at the start of a new year, everyone became aware of a change in the song. It was natural, beautiful, somehow deeper and more complex, but still filled with all the subtle magic in the original. This did not start off as the public perception, however, as many insisted it was still just the same old song, just with the added effect of ambient noise that didn’t fully recognize the lunar holiday or appreciation the purity of the song.
But, over time, more and more became aware of this change. It did not replace the song they had grown up with, but enhanced it, grew with it, and gave a little more spirit to the lunar holiday than a mere day of rest and rejuvenation. It became a day of inspiration, filling them with hope for their individual pursuits, and reminding them to let the day pass through them, rather than just pass through the day. And, while everyone knew this new song to be the seventh wanderer’s work, especially those close to him, no one quite understand how he got there, or where he had gone. But since they were filled with the inspiration, it was a blessing every lunar holiday to remember, deep down, that they could find out, too.
Morning's Early Dark 