Legend of the Forest Nymph

Stories are made from the same substance as the forest—bark, soil, leaves, curves, and jade jewels we mustn’t neglect. There is a palpable twisting in both. The best stories expand upon previously established boundaries, and the best forests ensnare stories within their fuzzy boundaries. The path of one leads to the mouth of another. Psyche and Physis. Enmeshed.

Within the bark of all twisting stories, within the nucleus of the saccharine sap, there is the legend of the one who came before Man. She lived deep in the woodland climes long before the advent of anthropomorphic memory. Her face, a maiden’s visage, was composed of rows of stoic trees. Her eyes…the verdant gleam. Thighs…oxbow rivers. She spoke in an ancient tongue as variegated as fall-time leaf-patterns strewn about the forest floor. When she rose from her sleep, the rhapsodic birds used to scatter in the mist.

The first man who saw her was of the shamanic type. Imperturbable and sensitive. A warrior who stood at the edge of language. The sound of the rattle took him to the gates of extrasensory perception, and his strong, adamant will pushed open the gates. I think he first caught sight of her hair. Or was it her attentive ears?

“You found my body,” she said in a hushed cadence of green. “A conscientious and noble effort, realm-walker. Now, listen carefully.”

With an ethereal and lilting tone she explicated many things to the be-feathered shaman. She explained how she came to be. She said her father was Psyche, and her Mother was Physis. Then her tone darkened. A prophecy was unleashed from her branching, bifurcating lips:

“A time will come when my body is at risk of decay. People from your future will threaten me with their machines. They will vilify and rape me. But then more people like you will come along. They will ethically defend my primordial position.”

Suddenly, the trance ended for the shaman. He was back amongst his people. They were quizzically staring at him. “What did you see?” asked a young girl. “What did you see?”

“I saw beauty,” he declared. “I saw the one who came before us, the voice of the forest. We must protect her. There is no other way.”

When the shaman died, he was taken to her breast and liberated by the black milk of her unremitting wisdom.