Peep told many stories: on cold days and warm days, in every season, when the sun was asleep and awake. She had many eager ears and stories were always fun to spin. Mostly they were adventures. Heroes saving their true love from disaster, tales of far off lands where kin had wings and always there was a happy end.

Tonight was different. She wasn’t sure where she’d heard this story before but she held it close to her heart. So as she spoke on this chilly night, those who listened fell silent and pricked up their ears. Her voice was soft but all who crowded around could still hear.

“A long time ago when the Swamp was new, the MotherFather took the form of a crane and laid five eggs. This we all know. From those eggs came all the kin, born new into the world, one of each gender. As they opened their eyes and stepped forth into the Swamp, they understood their names and praised the MotherFather for giving them life.

Our MotherFather is the first creator but she is the not the mother I spin this story for, for back in those old days, our kin who roamed the land in pairs, could not become parents. They were the favourite children of the MotherFather and as such they did not age. Without time to change their bodies, they could not get pregnant and give birth. They were all that there would ever be.

For a time they basked in this attention but in this unchanging Swamp, one grew discontent. The female Kimeti watched the other beasts. She watched them go through their life stages. From birth to death. She watched as they sought mates to procreate, to carry on their bloodline. She watched the lynx and the foxbun; the crane and the songbird. She watched as they loved and protected their offspring.

Her discontent became an ache.

It settled in her belly like a heavy rock and soon she refused to eat or drink, and so her life slowly withered away.

‘MotherFather,’ she cried from where she was crumbled upon the earth, ‘please-‘ but she never finished her plea, for darkness swam across her vision and the last she knew was the rush of wings in her ears.

She slept and dreams wrapped around her.

The MotherFather stalked through them like a shadow, leaving visions in her path. The Swamp heaved and constricted, whispered secrets. In her dreams an offer was made. It showed her the sacrifice. She witnessed her death; old age creeping across her and weighing her down. She felt the chill of it on her limbs, the quivering of her bones. The last breath in her body set free.

Then she looked up and there stood her descendants. That one with her eyes, that one with her shape of her ears. That splotch of red upon her nose mirrored on a male face. These were the children she would have and then their children and on and on it would go, a never-ending spiral. For them to exist; she would have to give up eternity.

And this doe wanted it without question.

But it could not be so.

Not until she had convinced her mate of the same fate.

The doe ran in her dreams and took the form of many beasts but soon enough she was the Foxbun and a Kimeti and when she awoke she was both.

With new strength she sought her mate and she explained all that the MotherFather had shown her. When he saw the gift she had been given and understood her request, he agreed. Day after day, forever the same, it was tiring business. If he could give new life and one day become part of the Swamp, it was not such a sacrifice.

The doe blessed herself and as the days passed felt her belly swell with life. She rejoiced and cared not that one day she would die when she smiled down at her sweet foals.

Her siblings; the Acha, the Totoma, the Kiokote, the Zikwa. They had taken different names, for they were different in temperament and appearance, eventually wanted the same thing. But their deal was different. The MotherFather would give them what they wanted but only if they left, travelled far from their homeland; to the desert, the plains, the mountains and the earth. That was where they were meant to belong, that was where they would stay until she bid them to return.

This they accepted and for a very, very long time they would be gone, until their names were just whispers on the wind.

Eventually the first doe that had traded eternity for her children died. Around her stood her family, proud and watchful, they who would carry on her line and her memory. Perhaps the MotherFather had planned it all along, for the name they whispered in farewell was First Mother.’