As soon as he could walk, his nose was pointed South; as soon as he could talk, he spoke of distant tidings. As soon as he could run, he was running. He chased the green water, the movements of the moon - and, always, a shadow, a comforting bulk, that promised all would end well. He ran.
He made quick work of desert sands - desert sands he was used to, long, cool stretches under the stars, cactuses that quenched occasional thirst. He ran till he ran out of desert sands - and that was when he discovered grass. Grass was strange to him at first, it bent underfoot, and tickled. It amused him, and, over time, up and down, with grass came shadows - flesh, not shadows, laughing cousins who felt strangely familiar, and they too amused him. He dallied, but still his nose was pointed South, and when one proposed, why don't I run with you?, he was on his way again. They ran.
Grass was easy, they made quick work of grass - wide fields, lush and green till they turned brown and brittle and trampled dry into hard dirt. Hard dirt was easy, packed, beat-pounding, till it muddled into...mud. And that was when they discovered the wet. It was everywhere, the ground, the air, it clung like a coat and shimmered. That too, amused him, and more shadows came, different, but almost the same, and they too amused him. He dallied - there was much to dally for, the wet swelled all things and gave them life - but still his nose was pointed South. His companion from the Plains bade farewell, she had her own dream to chase, where the water was grey; he was on his way again. He ran.
There was much to run through, there was much he saw: all manners of cousins, both strange and home to him, and all amusing. He danced, and laughed, and riddled, and sang, and amused them in turn, and still he was running. He ran, he ran, and then he stopped - for he could suddenly taste it, suddenly real: salt. Salt on his tongue.
But it was yet still faint; the waters were yet still brown.
So still his nose was pointed South. Shadows lived here too, a band of them, merry, surrounded by salt-stained food, some of which the wet did not touch; they too amused him. Stay a night, their leader smiled: there was a fire, and he danced, and laughed, and riddled, and sand, and amused them in turn, till they heard he chased the green water, and the leader said, It is a hard journey to the sea; bring us some salt if you travel this way back: I'll teach you how.
I won't be travelling back, he gaily cried, but still he learnt how, for it too amused him, and when the fire dulled, he slept a little sleep, and then he was on his way again. He ran.
He ran. He ran faster. The taste of salt was sharper, sharper; the mud turned hard, turned dirt, turned slowly into sand. He could feel it - closer, closer, all he had ever dreamed of -
- and there it was.
The sea.
The wind whipped fresh salt.
He knew it was home.
The green water soared.
He knew it was home.
The shadow.
The shadow.
Wasn't there.
And his heart knew it wasn't. Yet. Home.
He had come a far way; it had felt easy. He had danced, and laughed, and riddled, and sang, a far way. And so the young buck learned: if it felt too good to be true...it probably was.
Slowly, so slowly, dragging his limbs like the shambling creak of a corpse's, he started seeking the vessels needed to make salt. Above him, only a lone bird called.
But then, this was only the beginning of his journey into mystery...
END