Page Title

Prolog

I know you. I know you like none other. I alone have touched your darkest thoughts. I feel those things you keep locked inside, for it is I who has travelled through the drifting shadows of dreams whilst you slept in the dead of night and tread the unguarded paths therein. My spider web touch has brushed your soul and in doing I have bathed in your fears and drunk deep your tears so full of sorrow. I know you, as I have known those before you and those yet to come.

It is I who dwells near that fleeting flicker of motion at the corner of one's eye; a presence felt yet never quite seen. Wherever nervous, glancing sight might fall, there was I but a sliver of heartbeat before. As illusive as will 'o the wisp am I and as pervasive as life's breath.

Who am I? Can you not fathom?

Who am I indeed?

Not easily answered for I change like the tides, besides, what good are names conceived by the likes of I to you, who's kind give them so little deliberation, knowing not their true power. No, to you my name is but a word and would reveal naught of what I really am. Time wasted think I-better spent on revelation.

I am old; older than the first mountains, more ancient than the primordial seas, there is not a rock or hilltop, meadow, forest or valley that has not felt my footfall, not an ocean or river have I yet to cross. I have seen all things and known their names, felt the birth of stars and witnessed the very scream of existence erupt from a lifeless void. I am that which makes a thought leap to mind, that which ignites the precious spark of an idea. I coax men to wonder about the nature of inspiration and ask in reverence- what truly is the mother of invention?

Pray tell, have you ever wondered what makes a man stand as a giant amongst his fellow men in terms of words or deed? Is he gifted in conception, moulded by events and circumstance, or might his life perhaps be shaped by those such as I?

Who knows? Why, he who keeps secrets knows.

Marvel you not at the myriad of newborn inklings brought forth by every secret set free? You see thought beget thoughts and they cluster like moths around candlelight and grow like the dawning sun. And secrets bare more secrets, terrible and true and within these truths creation is shaped. That, my child, is the way of things-the simple wisdom of ages, unchanging from before the dawn of time, enduring 'til the end of days.

There was a time when I basked in the wisdom of ages but now I all but wear it as a shroud. My immortal eyes are tired and greying and the beauty of life, to me has lost much of its lustre. How I yearn to look at the world again through new eyes and feel the wonder of innocence once more. Alas that now is but a dream to one such as I for I have come to the end of days. All that is left now to do is tell a simple tale before I take my leave.

'Tis a tale of great secrets and of their timeless custodian.

It is a tale of a keeper.

A Keeper of Secrets.

Chapter 1: Dawn

Morning had come none too soon, chasing the night halfway across the world. The day promised to be bright and crisp, with a blustery breeze to dance with leaf and branch in playful abandon. Bright rays of weak, spring sunlight had woken him from his dark and dreamless sleep and with dour resignation he slowly forced his eyes open to confront another dreary day. Not that the day was at all dreary, in retrospect 'twas a glorious morning. A fledgling spring had emerged from its long dark, slumber, giving birth to a great surge of life that splashed its vibrant pearl moistened colours over the awakening green forest around him. It clawed from the earth with wordless intent, twisting and stretching for all its worth, hungry for the nourishing gaze of mother sun. Oblivious to this, he stretched his arms over his head, easing the stiffness from his muscles and felt them yield like fresh green saplings.

With a sweep of his cloak he stood, scattering a blanket of green leaves from him, to glide gently to the forest floor, far below the wide branch that was his bed that night, like many before. Yawning, he slowly looked around him, surveying all he saw with blank indifference. From his vantage point high in the lofty branches of the giant oak he took in his familiar surroundings. Tall trees of immense size loomed seemingly to the heavens themselves, their sprawling branches thick with green foliage and bright, blossoming wildflowers. Amongst these mighty Oak grew Yew, Venoth, Ash and Birch, all lending their flowing shape and mergence of colour to the living tapestry of the woods. Below, the ground was carpeted by earth hugging forest plants, fungi, lichen and moss grew in abundance in the cool shade of the trees and amongst them sprung the wide, glossy leafed Moonfoil flowers, the shape of spearheads and the spiralling Yorril buds the colour of dried blood. The thaw had summoned this sylvan realm from earthly slumber with promise of flowing bounty in stream, pool and rushing river and tendril, root and sapling new, reached for such lifeblood ribbons and laid open themselves to the great ranging sky above.

Wiping the dew from his narrow face, he dropped silently from his treetop perch, landing cat-like in a low crouch. Slowly rising, he pushed back his dark cloak to bathe in the brilliant shafts of sunlight that pierced the thick canopy above. He closed his eyes and raised his head skywards as he stretched, letting the wisps of pollen that travelled the forest breeze dance lazily around him. For long moments he stood motionless, listening to the sounds of the forest. He stilled his mind and slowly began to separate the individual sounds of nature's intricate melody: the chirping, high pitched chorus of the brotherhood of birds complimenting the sharp, deep croak of bullfrogs by the brook's edge; the constant, babbling rush of water from the ribbon streams mingled in synchronised rhythm with the chattering of spindly insects in the tall grass and the hollow knocking of woodpeckers searching for grubs in tree bark.

A scowl passed silently over him, gliding on wide, leathery wings. It's long, reptilian neck swaying from side to side as its keen eyes searched for prey. He could sense it, felt its unblinking gaze coolly survey him then the tiny vole scurrying alone the tree root. In a blur the scowl had swooped and torn the little rodent from the forest floor, grasping it tightly in its jagged beak. It spiralled upwards in a lazy arc towards a group of hungry, expectant young, nesting high in the treetops. He stared at the tree root, scarred by the sharp talons of the fling reptile. He watched as the little clump of brown fur rippled in the breeze then toppled to be lost from sight amidst the plants of the earth.

He gently cocked his head to the sky and then he was gone, off and running, as fast and agile as a deer streaking into the deep forest. With great bounds he skipped the many fallen trees and hidden roots that littered the woodland floor and on and on he ran, filling his lungs with fresh, morning air. With one mighty leap he spanned a wide gorge hidden in the dense foliage. Twisting in mid air, he glanced off a tree, caught an overhanging branch and spun to the ground, his step never faltering as he raced amongst the dark shadows and bright sunlit pools of light. He had covered the best part of a league in a handful of moments, tearing effortlessly through the dense forest, every footfall urging on the next in one breathless rush. And all the while he laughed aloud as he ran, launching himself with wild abandon over ravine and stream, springing from branch to rock in graceful fluidity, never slowing, never tiring. In those blurred moments he was as the wolf, fleet of foot and cunning and as he rose high into the air, his mind took on the aspect of the eagle, the lord of the skies who knew no boundaries and had no master. Yet in truth he was of the woods and of the earth, and never had he belonged more than in this vibrant realm he called home.