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I always thought my father as an unshakable old, gnarled oak whose voice held the weight of storms and whose silence was even heavier. His father had taught him everything: how to follow orders, how to hold a sword, how to watch the enemies moves so you could counter it, and how to store the best supplies. But even oaks eventually fall. It happened during the first day of summer. My father had gone into the woods alone to set a few traps for rabbits as he always did. When he did not return at nightfall, my mother set out with a lantern and a sinking feel. She found him by an old pebbled path, slumped over an old leaning birch tree where they had once carved their names. His breath was shallow. His skin, pale. He would not respond to her. A heart gives no warning when it finally goes out. My mother knelt beside him, just as the stars blinked in the sky. She held his hand, cold and rough with decades of sword work and military practices. She told me she looked him - no words, just the kind of look that carries everything you are feeling. He was gone. Like a wind blowing through the trees, never to return again. She stayed there until dawn. She could not move his body. She covered his body with her cape and sought me out in Buya. She eventually found me working on projects in the palace and had me hurry along to help with my father. On the way, she told me that he had passed and she could not give him the proper burial yet, let alone get him back to the village of Tok-Do. As we swiftly moved through the forest, I noticed that the birds were still singing, the trees still creaking in the breeze, and the nearby river could still be heard gurgling right along. The world continued, even though my heart was breaking. We eventually approached his cloaked body. I wiped away a tear and quickly got to work. I knew that we could not bring him back to the village without defiling his body - he had always told us that a dead body should not handled by us. That was the work of the shaman. I could not, however, leave him in this condition. Even though he disagreed with me becoming a druid, I knew that he would accept my actions. I quickly dug a pit that would fit his body. I gathered moss from the nearby trees and lined the pit with it. I whispered a prayer to the Dagda, encouraging him to accept my father into the winds. I passed my mother the cloak that was draped over my body and gently picked him up. As I did I heard "He returns to the earth. As all things do and will. Remember this but do not forget to grow." It was not necessarily a voice, but I knew it came from the forest. Or the Dagda. Or my inner self. I lowered my father into the grave. And gently tossed the dirt back into it. In the following weeks, I would return daily to the grave and slowly built up a small collection of stones on the grave. I would listen. To my emotions. To the trees. To whatever I could. And here I learned that death is not a punishment. It is a movement. A part of life. A gift back to the earth. My father is now in the roots - of the earth, of me, of the trees around where he lay. "My father didn't leave. He just changed shape. The forest holds him now. And so do I." Xenath, the Buffalo of the Mists | |