The morning mist rolled coolly over the green glades. The birds chirped and chattered in their many fluttery languages. The sun hid behind the edge of the world, not yet ready to give its light to the world. A soft breeze carried the loose grass on its back, taking it to far away and strange places.
It seemed a morning like any other on the rolling glades that stretched just beyond the Green Village. The world was not disturbed. Not by the wind, nor the sun, nor the mist, nor the fluttering birds. Not even by the Man and the Boy wandering to find rest under the old, lone-oak- tree that lay quietly in the field. They were silent as they waded through the mist; the moist grass barely squeaked under their feet. The Man gripped the boy’s hand lightly, leading him to the oak tree. The Man and the Boy sat, resting their backs against the tree. They spoke quietly, looking forward to the open range. No one could tell all that they said then, and I suspect no one will ever know. It is best left alone. For that is not the point. Not the main event. What I am here to begin; what I am here to tell is much greater than a few words whispered under a lone-oak-tree.
It is the tale of the Boy. The Boy sitting under the oak tree is what’s important; and the journal with old, yellow pages that the man gives the Boy is even more so. For without the yellowed journal, I would have nothing to give. The valuable tale that the Boy and I tell together through his book and my own memory would not be. But I have kept it all these many years for a reason. The yellowed, dusty book with its many adventures, strange tales, and words of wisdom is a gift. I beg that you listen.
Open your ears and widen your gaze….
- Eli
