Once upon a time, there was a vast land that was known far and wide as the Land of Sand. Now, it should certainly not be mistaken for a desert, for it wasn’t entirely made of heat and sand. In fact, the Land of Sand was very much like any other country around it. It had rivers and lakes brimming with fish, and giant mountains. It had all the four seasons; the cool breezes of spring and summer and the harsh autumn and winter storms were welcomed with cool indifference.
Only one thing set the Land of Sand apart from any other land, and that was it was devoid of plant-life. No trees clung to the rich soil with their gnarled roots; no reeds decked the riverbanks, the breeze made no flowers toss their perfumed heads to the wooing sun. The Land of Sand could almost not know the colour green, had it not been well supplied with fine, glittering sand of its very own. This sand formed beaches and roads and dunes all over the place. It was a curiously brilliant green, as if all the lost souls of plants that should have been disintegrated as soon as they burst out into the world.
Despite the abundance of this strange sand, there were still those who took a fancy to this land and made it their home. If the Arabs could call the barren deserts their Eden, why not this strange land with its green sand? That said, people worked and played and lived amongst the vivid emerald hills in peace. They were known as the Sand-dwellers, or the Sand-people, or simply the Sanders. They lived on a plentiful diet of fresh fish and water, with the occasional wild bird caught out of the sky. Life went on peacefully even if the land was empty of any treasure besides silver flesh and liquid turquoise. Of course, if one had never had something, one would never miss it. And that was exactly the case with the Sanders. So contented were they that they never wanted anything to change, never made any change, and life continued thus for as long as anyone cared to remember.
This story begins with a little boy who lived with his doting parents in a little cottage by the river. The boy’s father was a fisherman, his mother a housewife that kept the cottage spick and span by day and mended her husband’s nets by night. Life went on well for the little family, each tranquil day succeeding the other like waves lapping the riverbank.
But, of course, in the case of all stories, that was about to change.
The little boy was really quite strange by Sanders standards. He hardly ever talked, to begin with. This was odd, as the Sanders loved nothing more than a lively chat, from when the green hills twinkled gold until the moon drew her velvet cloak around the land. The little boy would be seen (or not seen) listening quietly to the lively chatter around him. He never joined the other boys in a rowdy game of football, never gossiped with the girls. Most of the time he would be sitting by the river all by himself, watching the river play its water games. Though he did very little with his hands, he made it up for what he did with his mind. Oh, yes, in the little boy’s mind was an infinite kaleidoscope of wild colours and dreams. He imagined lands other than his own; lands with creatures spouting crimson (his favourite colour) flames, brave heroes and beautiful damsels. He thought of new creatures and things, and gave them all names. The little boy loved naming things with a most precocious passion. To the Sanders, all rivers were known as ‘the river’, all mountains ‘the mountain’ and nothing more. The boy had named the river running by his home Orswan. In his mind’s eye, Orswan was a silvery-blue dragon, a mighty steed that only he could ride on. Together they would soar into the skies of his imagination, play catch with the clouds, and drop into great lands that were just as green as his own, but infinitely more so. No, the green in these magic lands would have forms. They would be huge giants, small enough to be a fairy’s tea set. And they wouldn’t be just green- they would have splashes of red, dotted with yellows and pinks and purples, supported by masses of wrinkled browns. Oh, the possibilities were endless for the little boy. He would spend many a happy hour all by himself, telling the river Orswan all about these lands, gazing far beyond his reflection in the dimpled waters.
One day, however, the boy’s mother chanced upon him muttering to himself by the river. She wasn’t the least bit pleased. Amongst the contented Sanders, silence and new thoughts were completely unacceptable. After all, silence brought on thinking, and new thoughts would evoke change. The last thing any of the Sanders wanted was their peaceful life be turned upside down and shaken inside out by the monster that was change.
The little boy was seriously reprimanded, and when he refused to take heed (despite harsh words and painful knocks), he was locked in his room until he promised to ‘behave like a normal little boy’. Under the hawkeye watch of his mother, he was only allowed out on brief, escorted visits to the toilet. His meals were pushed to him through a small flap in the door, as if he was a dangerous, caged animal. Still, he refused to give in to his parents’ wishes. The little boy could not understand how the people around him could be contented with so little. His young heart was astir with restlessness; his limbs tingled with energy to find a meaning to the dull life he was forced to be accustomed to. He wanted to climb higher, run faster, leap further. But trapped in his cold, dark room, he was unable to do anything but beat his fists against the rough door and beg to be let out. Soon he stopped eating altogether, losing flesh and the will to live in the process. Lying on his hard bed through the endless dark hours, he cried and wished he were dead.
On the seventh night of his imprisonment, the little boy lay sick and wasted upon his bed. His sunken eyes stared emotionlessly out into the dark night. His weakened ears trained to the sound of his dear friend Orswan, who had sang to him every hour of his confinement in ripples and gurgles. It was then that the monotonous song of the river transformed into a perfectly decipherable language, each teardrop note falling upon the boy’s ears in a voice of silver.
“Dear friend,” the ripples said. “There is no help for you if you continue as you do. No change will come unto you unless you come unto change. Now is the time to gather yourself; follow me and we shall be free!”
“Who are you?” Asked the little boy, his voice quivering in fear and weakness. “It is no use, no matter your identity. I am weak, I am but an ignorant young fool. I am powerless to opposition; how may these small hands change anything around them?” At that he held his hands to his face; a sorry sight of skin and bones on the verge of snapping into a thousand veined fragments.
“Little boy,” the voice rang out, even more silvery and smooth than before. “No matter how small your hands, how weak your form, it is your heart that counts. Inside you is a beat strong with need to change, and unless you heed its melody you will lose everything. Come, come to the window, climb astride my back, and together we shall take flight to the stars. It is I, Orswan, dear friend! Your heart and mind has breathed life into me, it is now my turn to return you yours!”
Trembling, the little boy pushed himself up with great difficulty. He took small, painful steps to the window, wheezing terribly. When he reached it, however, he was met with the most beautiful sight he was yet to behold. Hovering by his window was the long, sleek dragon of his imagination, unmistakably Orswan, only more so. The night breeze rippled through the silver threads of the creature’s luxuriant mane, and the scales of its body rippled as if they were the surface of the river on a windy day.
“Climb aboard, my friend and master,” Orswan gurgled. Its eyes were mismatched; one a puddle of sky and sun, the other a pool of midnight and moon. The little boy did not need to be called a fourth time. Heaving his emaciated frame through the window, he grasped the silky mane of Orswan and pulled himself astride, joints creaking painfully. No sooner was he seated Orswan took off into the dark sky, which suddenly seemed bursting with starlight. A loud roar of triumph escaped the dragon’s throat, sounding like the largest waterfall cascading onto a bed of ice white diamonds. Through the deep night they sped, Orswan singing all the while. He sang of green giants and violet fairies, of distant cousins that spouted crimson flames, of a land lush with fronds of change and foliage of variety. Its voice trickled into the boy’s ears and into his mouth and nose, so that he was filled with new energy and life, energy that swelled through his veins life a full-fed river.
And when Orswan burst through a final dark cloud into new light, so did the little boy burst through his own skin, casting away his old self so that he was completely washed anew, shining wet and fat as a trout.
“We are almost there, master!” Orswan sang, snaking in and out of peach-tinted clouds.
“Where are we going, Orswan?” the little boy cried over the whistle of the wind.
“Why, we are going to the Distant Land, master! To the land you dreamt for the both of us, the land we rode over in your imagination! We are going to- Paradise.”
The little boy could not believe his eyes. Before and below him, glowing in the pink of the rising sun, was the land of his dreams! There it was, all laid out for him! Orswan dipped into it now; they were gliding through an ocean of wrinkled brown columns- giants that held one another in green embraces high overhead. The dragon’s belly skimmed a green sea of silk, amply dotted with sweet-smelling fairies of yellows, blues, violets and pinks. The little boy held his hands out and as his fingertips brushed the dream that was now reality, names flooded into his new mind. Oak. Beech. Willow. Buttercup, bluebell, lavender, rose. He stretched out as far as he could to touch as much as he could. Faster and faster did the names come to in, rolling in never-ending waves. Seed. Leaf. Twig. Branch. Sapling. Trunk. Tree. Crocus, juniper, primrose, daisy, foxglove, mulberry, oleaster, poplarbougainvilleazaleacherryblossomsweetbriarbirchpoppymayflowerhazeldaffodilhollymaple. On and on they went through the land glittering in morning dew and crystal cobwebs. Colourful clouds danced by Orswan’s silver scales. The boy found them to be made out of hundreds of tiny winged beings. Butterflies, they whispered, and left his fingers powdered with the friendship of their iridescent wings. Above him, new songs answered Orswan’s rippling voice. Through the magnificent orchestra the boy picked out the names of the great composers. Finch, nightingale, lark, warbler, jay. He closed his eyes in ecstasy, basking in the glorious sounds and scents of the world he rightly belonged to. In this variety, in this growth, in this change, this, yes, this was home.
When he opened his eyes at last, he realized that Orswan had slowed to a complete stop in front of a great tree. He looked up at it, trying to see its peak, but so tall was it the end seemed to be lost in the pink clouds. He looked at his friend, and suddenly he knew what he had to do. This was the final obstacle he had to overcome in order to fully claim and be claimed by his land. He had to cast off every last bit of himself, let go of everything, so that he can be the change. Looking into Orswan’s mismatched eyes, he knew that he had to face this final journey alone. Only then would he be completely one with the land of his dreams.
Sliding gently off the dragon’s back, he grasped the great wrinkled trunk. Upwards he went, reaching for branches and groping for footholds in the bark. As he climbed he found sweet-smelling globes nestled in the glossy leaves. He tasted them, and their names slid sweetly down his throat. Apricot, pear, Satsuma, blackberry, plum, grape. Their enticing flavours gave him the strength he needed to climb higher and go further than anything he could dream of. In his ears the song of Orswan the river-dragon rang, growing louder as he neared the top. His limbs were tired, his eyelids felt heavy, yet he pushed on. It was so close, oh so close, just one branch more, one little step further…
In one final heave, the little boy caught hold of the last branch and pulled himself up. To his amazement, he could see the land- his land, for miles and miles around him, stretching into the infinite horizon. Orswan’s song and the land’s orchestra resonated in his heart, filling every inch of him so completely that he opened his mouth and gave a shout of joy, his breath leaving him in a rush of multi-coloured bubbles.
All of a sudden, all notes struck a single chord.
He was home!!!
* * *
The Sanders found the little boy’s body in the morning, floating in the river that ran by the cottage. His skinny frame was bloated; so full was he of the river that it took his father and two other men to haul the corpse out of the water and onto the green riverbank.
Despite the horror and grief, his parents were puzzled. For clutched in the poor boy’s swollen fingers was a paper-thin, green object. And when they touched it, an unfamiliar name came into their minds, like a final raindrop plopping into a drying, dying puddle.
Leaf.
