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For all my life I’ve had but one home: The Sky. She follows me no matter where I travel the purity of her infinity breaths life into the world. This place, my resting place will aid me in my explorations of new places, but I cannot call it my home. I am inspired by the smallest flowers growing in the grass as well as the ever-lasting stars that I yearn to grasp. Alas, my life is as meaningless as the many words I speak; my only hope to be like the sky, the wind, and the stars is to tell stories, write them, speak them, dance them, so that I may live on in them as my mother does, and her mother before her. Divine powers enchant my path making plants grow and seasons change, I care not to know why these things happen as they do, I care only to know why the oppression of women is as deeply embedded in the human tradition as the need for water. I speak out, whatever the risk, and when I fear for my life I move on. Persistence being my dominating quality sets the stage for the excessive paradoxical personality within. Docile and fierce, deafening and silent, genius but overzealous, my very being struggles to make every step I take. For every step leads somewhere and standing still lets things move around you. Since I have always been the leader of my family, and an extremely independent person, I choose where I go, instead of letting things pass by me. Enjoy this place; leave a message so that I might exercise my most favorite talent of writing to you as well. The following is one of my favorite tales:
Long ago, it is said that a girl lived who was more beautiful and talented than any; and although her parents died soon after her birth, and although she was nothing more than dirty young human on the street she managed to work her way to high society and eventually the village adopted her as their head priestess. The young lady had a pure heart and loved her village very much. She was the one who cared for lost children, led ritual ceremonies and kept tabs on events that were of community interest. So when rumors began that a devil-creature had moved into the nearby forest, she became worried and even fell ill to the anxiety. Stealing and destroying things left and right, the devil was mysterious as was loathed because of his skill at sneaking around the villagers. Forced to lie in bed all day, the young woman spent days and nights learning how to play a very delicate and complicated instrument. Excelling at the well respected craft, she took comfort in knowing that her music could take the people’s minds of their fears, even if only for a small time. One night as she slowly made her way to the balcony to practice, she heard a noise and found that a long letter had been left for her. Taking the parchment in her trembling hands she noticed the beautiful scrawl in which the poetic word were written. The next morning she sought council from the wisest man in the village who she had always looked to as a father. She relayed the information in the letter to him. The letter had stated that the demon who lurked in the forest had no intention of leaving until he received exactly what he wanted. Revealed in the letter was the fact that the evil creature had been watching the town and especially the young woman for quite some time, and wished to have her beautiful music near him at all times. He promised he could both protect the village and cure the girl of her illness if she would give up her life as a priestess and live with him in the forest. The wise man was very troubled by this, and became very worried when the young woman told him that at the end of the letter was a threat that if she refused to live with him, the illness would surely kill her and he would make sure that the disease infected the children and hospital. Such a terrible creature could surely not be dealt with lightly and the wise man thought the best course of action to be consulting with others before he made his advice to the woman. Throughout the day he spoke with many friends and received many ideas as to the correct course of action, but in the evening when he returned to the woman’s household, he knew that only one path was true in his heart. He confronted the beauty with his plan; having her best interests in mind, as well as those of the village, he advised her to go before the horrible man and kill herself as a sign of purity to both him and the Gods. The woman had little time to think this over before she was forced to make her decision. In the waning light of sunset, she made her way to the edge of the forest with her instrument in hand, as well as a bag full of clothes hiding a lethal dagger. No villager dared look on her as she killed herself for them, and none dared risk their lives by seeing the demon. The instant her foot touched the warm soil of the forest, she felt her entire being lifted by magic, and her illness wiped away. A soft hand suddenly rested on her shoulder and a voice whispered in her ear, ‘you won’t be needing this,’ he reasoned, pulling away her bag and concealed dagger and tossing it to the side. He ushered her into deep into the forest that he had made his home, and when he finally sat her down in a grassy clearing, she was exhausted. Sitting in front of her, the creature spoke softly and slowly, with a very thick accent that turned his words to song in her ears. “Your name is now Delyia, and you are a creature of the forest.” As though his very will controlled her body, without even being asked, she took her instrument and plucked a tune for her new friend and master. Only a few days later, Delyia found herself enjoying his company, and finding pleasure in playing for him; before she knew it, she was traveling with him and had completely forgotten about her once beloved city. No longer did emotions swirl within her like a hurricane that tore the very life from her passionate self, like a mindless puppet, she had become a slave to joy and unrestrained creativity. Following faithfully and blindly time passed and Delyia became more and more devil-like herself, taking pleasure in others’ pain and spending all her time playing for the enjoyment of her protector. Having become so talented with her instrument, Delyia never said a word to her master, using only notes sounding her vocabulary. Since ecstasy was the only emotion she felt in his company, Delyia soon was distracting villagers to help him, and playing for ship captains to gain passage across seas. His magic released her from the needs to eat and sleep, furthering her transformation to a demonic state. Relying completely on the spells of the darkling for survival, Delyia merely floated from place to place, every action merely the result of a whim of her master’s. After a very long while, Delyia was clearly nothing more than a shell of a person, filled with only hollow glee and the urge to continue playing her instrument; one sunny day, the village Delyia had one called home was celebrating a festival they had begun every solstice in honor of the woman who sacrificed herself for them. The bustling town had become the demon’s next target for destruction. As Delyia walked into the place she had once loved dearly, the sun shone on magically changed hair the color of the deepest maroon flowers in the field and the ripest red berries in the forest. The appearance of a stranger caught the attention of the celebrating villagers and the crowded around her as she tip-toed through the soft grass toward the center of the town. Delyia’s unwavering, dark, glazed over eyes gazed forward with determination until she finally reached a small bench where children would play. From her back she took her instrument, worn to perfection over the many solstices she had tuned and played the delicately crafted wooden thing. Gently drawing from the strings a tune, the music seemed to almost throw the young ones from the bench so that Delyia could sit down. The crowd’s first reaction was enchantment, appreciation and wonder, but when Delyia began a different song, and the people realized how very long she had been gone, they became suspicious and afraid. Finally the demon sprung forth from the forest and began using his magic to tear apart the town, his fun giving Delyia greater delight. A traveling monk had been staying in the town at the time, to provide entertainment for the celebration. Famous for his magic, the man was rumored to have more power than demons and he knew that the time had come for his power to be tested. Delyia played a melody so quick and sharp that one could not tell if the destruction was causing her to play, or if her music was causing the demon to destroy. Knowing that the terrible creature would be very protective of Delyia, the monk decided to be very careful about how he rescued her from the terrible mindless fate. He walked up very carefully behind her and placed his hand above her head, quickly chanting a spell he had learned to expel evil forces. Immediately Delyia’s body collapsed and she nearly crushed her beloved instrument in the fall. Suddenly the entire world seemed quiet to those in the village, only the sound of crackling fire could be heard as the demon looked over to see who had committed the most treacherous crime. Like a bolt of lightening, the demon dove at Delyia’s fallen body, but the monk had already created a magical protective shield, turning the devil’s charge into nothing but smoke. All who breathed in the smoke fell asleep instantly, including the demon; giving the clever monk a chance to lift Delyia’s frail body and priceless instrument to one of the few homes untouched by the demon’s wrath. Once inside he quickly preformed spells to revive Delyia’s soul which had been expelled by the demon; miraculously her hair swiftly turned to a soft golden brown, and bountiful tenderness became apparent in her eyes, no longer glazed by the enjoyment of evil. Unfortunately, just as she was beginning to understand where she was and what had happened, the demon awoke and began systematically ripping houses apart to find her. The monk knew that after using so much of his magic to help the woman, he would never have enough to fight the demon, so after quickly forming a plan, he whispered his idea to the reformed Delyia hoping that she had regained enough of her old self to understand and carry out the attack. Hiding in a corner, the monk witnessed his idea coming to awful fruition. First Delyia took up her instrument and stood on unsteady, feeble legs; but before she could even step out of the hut, the entire front wall and ceiling were torn away by the demon. With a smile, he attempted to overpower her with his dark magic once again, her hair turning color at the roots and tips, but before the transformation was complete, she began playing a slow refrain, causing the demon to stop and listen. The wild fury that had been so fierce in his eyes only moments ago softened and as the tune slowed down, his eyes began to close, but his magic had been able to take some hold of her, and when Delyia saw her master begin to lose balance, she rushed to his side, playing a quicker tune to wake him up. From the corner the monk did his best to work pure magic back into her heart, showing clearly in her hair, slowly regaining a natural luster. When the demon noticed that other magic was working on her, he threw all he had into keeping her, his power fueled by her song. Stuck between the two men like a doll between foolish children, the fight began taking a toll on Delyia and she could no longer keep up a fast paced harmony. As each note was painfully torn from the strings the demon weakened slightly. After only a moment, both Delyia and the monk realized what was happening, and the monk released her as much as he felt was safe. Inner despair grasped Delyia, continuing her sad, slow pace while she realized that if she wished to kill the demon, she would have to play her song slower and slower until she too were dead, and she was weakening quickly. Shaking notes mimicked the girl’s fragile being, trembling like a stone about to fall from a cliff; one final note echoed for what seemed to the monk like an eternity as both Delyia and the terrible demon fell upon the ash-covered ground. While the rest of the people rushed about putting out fires and saving loved-ones from fallen rubble, the monk could do nothing but walk to Delyia and stand near her fallen body. The strain of the magic had colored her hair black, and her eyes were shut gently as though she were still listening to a sweet lullaby, but the monk knew that she could not be revived again. The monk still heard her last note, and the soft sound of her body hitting the harsh ground; he knew he could never forget, and that he could never let anyone else forget the woman who gave her life to kill the one she had been dependent upon. After a turn of the moon, the monk left the place which was nearly repaired, and spent the rest of his life retelling her story to anyone who would listen, knowing that in some way she was now dependent on him for survival. When he grew old his hair was whiter than the clouds, he came to me so that I could keep her alive forever and when i leave this relm, another will, in this way, she shall forever be alive.
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