I find myself unable to sleep tonight, so I will share with you a story passed down by the mice.
In an age long past, many many mice ago, The Turnwood was a single woodland instead of the two it is today. It curled around the curved crag, like the spiral of a snail’s shell. At the very top lived Turnwood Heart, god crowned with mighty branches, and all the animals of the woods lived under its wide watch. That age ended when the Heart was slain by thunder and iron. None could have stopped it. None can stop Death, whether it falls shrieking or on silent wings – but neither can Death stop a god.
At the peak where Turnwood Heart fell, the very stone began to weep fresh water. From the angry sky above, rain lashed down to meet it. The stream grew as it carved its course through the woods, becoming a river. The raging torrent threatened to sweep away all in its path, and the animals had to choose which way to run. The bigger beasts fled to the other side, which we now call Great Turnwood. We little creatures found ourselves on an island, cradled in the river’s embrace. And that island is our home to this day, Turnwood Son.
The birds may fly back and forth as they choose, and none can stop Death that approaches from above. But as long as the river flows, we are safe from the jaws of the beasts in the Great Turnwood. That is the final blessing of Turnwood Heart.
… Let us pay no mind to the twittering tales of the songbirds, who say they have seen a crowned spirit in Great Turnwood. It is probably a delusion brought on by flying too high in the summer heat.
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