Beyond the reaches of human sight, yet not above its mind and imagination there floats a forest in the sky. A mass of earth and tangled roots, its canopy stretches out for as far as the eye can see, an endless continuum of green plants filled with the voices of nature, and through the center runs a river winding and bending as clear as crystal and glittering like shards of broken glass. Every morning as the sun breaks the shadows of darkness, its rays first fall upon the east side of this celestial forest. Here the trees are tall, yet bent, and gnarled from age and the elements. These trees are ancient, and with their age they hold a wisdom that seems to equal the age of time itself, for it was here that the forest began and it is here where it also begins to end. Every spring fewer and fewer of these monuments bud, yet even the dead stand tall as monoliths to the past, their strength, a strength of ages. As the sun continues its life giving journey, its light continues progresses from the ancient to the old and the old to the young. Everywhere there is life, a cycle of birth to death.
It was in this pasture of life that a clearing dwelt along the stream, the only reprieve from what appeared to be a dense unending flow of trees. It is to this clearing, surrounded by young fruit trees and grape vines, that we will take our story, for it is here where man dwelt. Well, to be more specific an old man, kind, wise, yet well past his prime, and a young boy, innocent and full of promise and imagination…
Outside the cabin and beside the river, a fire crackled. The sun had given the day to night and the lone light of the fire cast lonely shadows upon the treeless ground. Though summer’s warmth had drawn to a close and the cold wind of winter had begun to blow, the two figures around the fire felt no cold. One, a small boy, held two articles in his hands, a block of wood from a neighboring tree and a metal carving knife. Atop his hands, two old hands, gnarled with age and dirt from eons of work, gently guided the motions of the knife slowly changing the block of wood into a piece of beauty. Upon these hands lay two sets of eyes, the boy’s, innocent and full of imagination, and the old man’s, as deep as the heavens and full of wisdom and sorrow. The two worked into the night until the boy’s head came to rest on the shoulder of the man. At this point, the old man covered the fire and carefully carried the child with care into the cabin.
During the day the boy frolicked in the clearing, picking fruit and nuts for his hunger and playing with the animals for his entertainment. But sometimes the boy would sit, and watch. He would watch the sun crawl across the sky, a swallow building its nest or his grandfather tending to the garden or the fruit trees. Through this observation the boy learned many things and grew in many ways. And every night, without fail, he would find himself back around the fire, knife in hand. Some nights the blade would slip and cut his hand. The old man would then take him to the river, the same river allowing the life of the forest, and carefully they would wash and bind the wound. Other nights, the wood would splinter under the learning strokes of a child. As the days shortened with the coming winter and lengthened with the arrival of spring, the cycles of life continued and the boy grew.
As he matured so too did his knowledge of craftsmanship, and after sometime the only assistance the boy required in the nightly sessions was the presence of the old man, a hand on his shoulder. More time passed and our boy grew out of childhood to fit a better description of a young man and our old man grew even older. Slowly, slowly, bit by bit, the young man found himself working more and more around the patch in caring for the garden and the maturing fruit trees. And eventually, all the chores fell to him. Yet, his years of observation and dutiful help had prepared him for this moment. Beyond this, his life remained constant, and every night, even without the old man, the boy carved, and life continued.
It was around this time that the old man disappeared. The bed where he once lay no longer contained what appeared to be a feeble frame, no covers stirred nor candles burning. In desperation the boy searched for the man, looking through the grove of trees and exploring deeper into the forest then he had ever dared to travel before. Yet, there was no sign of the old man. On his return to the clearing, the boy sat down upon the bank of the river. His tears streamed down his face, a torrent of sorrow that could not be slowed. Yet, slowly this flow froze to ice. Where the hole of sorrow once lay, now, there was a knife of betrayal. How could the old man leave him? How dare he? His anger blossomed into rage and in his fury the young man began to build a fire. Into this rage he cast the knife and carvings along with all the article of the old man. The fire burned high in the night air, yet eventually nothing was left but a heap of ash. As the fire fell so too did the young man, shuddering and alone with his hands covered in the ash of the fire.
The following days brought no reprieve from the young man’s sorrow, yet, slowly as time passed doubt crept into his mind. Had the old man ever been with him? Had he really ever existed? Before long, these thought had exchanged place with reality and he became almost doubtless of his folly. A week passed and the man had all but forgotten the old man, until he found himself sitting at the foot of the fire pit, still covered in ashes from his late rage for he had not touched the area, as a part of his denial. For if the pile did not exist, then neither did the old man. Similarly, he had likewise ignored the black marks left around the cabin from his soot covered hands. Yet, it, along with the prints, remained. These marks stood as black spots on his reason (or lack of such). Thus, he realized that confrontation with reality was inevitable. And so, with trembling hands her reached down and sifted through the ash. The fire had proven its fury in completely destroying everything tossed into the fire except one piece. The small knife, though blackened and buried under mounds of ash, remained intact. Even the wooden handle had miraculously refused to burn. And here, that the charades ended. Staring down at the knife, tears began flowing once again. Pure sorrow, these tears accented the loneliness the man felt. Yet, despite the pain, he realized that these emotions were real. No fabrication tainted their existence. Standing, he proceeded to the river in order to wash his hands of the blackening soot. Upon completion, using the water from the river, he attempted to remove the ashen hand prints that he had left in the prior week. Some, with care, were removed, while others remained as marks of the past. With his task complete, and his tears still flowing, he rested in the sheltering arms of the cabin, the only remaining connection had to the old man. Throughout the day and night, the man remained in the cabin, still in sorrow and where time had dried his external tears, the internal sorrow still stung like an open wound. The man could have remained here in the cabin, an enslaved subject of a melancholy state, for all of eternity. Yet, his physical needs would not allow his mind this damnation. And so, the man got up and life went on.
The battered carving knife was eventually resharpened and put back to use, and soon, the cabin was once again filled with carvings, a tribute to the old man.
Every spring, after the winter thaw cleared the snow, the man would venture out into the forest, searching and hoping to find his long lost friend. And though he almost never found him, in the heart felt silence of the forest, he felt that he could hear the voice of the old man. Many years passed and the man slowly grew older until he too was well passed his prime. One winter while drawing water from the river beside the cabin, he lay, surrounded by the old trees of the forest, never to rise again.

There is a forest…