The Creek where Illyria settled

She lay there on a lilypad in the middle of a creek. Feeling the wet slippery surface on her back. Gleaming as beads of water sprayed above her. It was the little pond dragons again. Carymites she called them. They’d often come near and play around her. Diving into the water to fly just over her ankles. They didn’t have any scales but an oily iridescent skin. Moving so fast she never quite got a clear picture of what they looked like, except for their emerald eyes that cut through the sunlight with snarling smiles.

This was a place to get lost in, full of natural distractions. The Poet returned as often as Great Ma let her. It was quiet, in terms of the usual husoul tremor, but buzzing with natural delight. Ferrakins rustling in the forest behind her. Dust bunnies giggled as they collected in the house behind.

She never remembered their names. But that was probably best, she wasn’t all too good with names. 

She tugged on the vine that she’d left to rest over her shoulder. It pulled her slowly back to the dock. The Carymites came along cackling, all excitable, to help lift her up. As The Poet climbed onto the wooden dock a sudden squark came from above. Jolting, her head darted upwards. The nerves settled when she realised it was only the headless bird again. Slowly walking towards the house she let the creek water drip down her and onto her bare feet that gripped the grooves beneath. Reaching up to the side of the wooden house she began to climb the pitons she’d drilled in, then onto the roof. There was a door small enough for her body on the crown of her house. 

She had built this place a long time ago with these travelling artists from Yamato. What a time. No nails. Simple cuts and joins. Magically assembled. said Self.

Opening the door with her toes she then jumped with precision from the roof onto the wooden ceiling beams. Swung across to the other side of the house. Dangling for a moment with her arms fully stretched out. She stopped right above her bed. Waiting until they became too weak to hold on anymore. Tucked her knees in and let go of the beam. Falling towards the bed watching her curly Moorish hair trail behind. 

Her back hit the bed but she didn’t feel a thing. 

She slept on a cloud. 

The forest friends came to greet her. Brackle was the first. The newborn deer she’d rescued from the hunters trap in the forest. Brackle was one of those berry deers. Off the end of her antlers grew the tiniest berries that changed with the season. If you only picked a few, the antlers would never be bare. 

She picked three from the top as Brackle trotted over and rubbed her head against her leg. She tickled her chin and felt that warmth that was throughout her dwelling. So focused on the berries she didn’t even see the boom birds playing hide and seek behind Brackle’s ear. They appeared echoing sounds reminiscent of Harlem streets and Kentish towns. It was a sound she’d never heard before. But she recognized the words and drums of water dragons. That was the thing with these boom birds. They held the sounds within them from many lifetimes ago. You’d never know the sound but deep down it resonated. It was something new each day. That was if they chose to grace you with their presence. They were the most muted looking creatures on the outside, but what was on the inside was more colourful than the whole universe.

~ Illyria reaching for Brackle’s berries ~

With the three berries in her hand, she walked over to her mandrake cup on the other side of the room. It was made from the wood of one of the oldest trees in the land. Carved by a local Wu. With each drink it grew in wisdom. She blew a breath of intent towards the glass beaker on the window sill. The sunlight hit it and it began to boil. Whilst she waited, she dropped the berries in the cup and went to squat on the dock outside. Sitting in her silence. Slowly scanning around the beauty that was home. The occasional ripples that collaborated with each other on the lake. The wind blowing through the trees. The sound of rustling leaves. The sight of the lily lotus passing from bank to bank. Her breathing was natural and calm. Picking up a stone on the edge of the dock, she played with it in her fingers for a bit and rolled it in her palm. It’s cold smooth texture absorbed in her sensitive pores. She threw it into the creek just to watch it skip. It left forty three ripples, hit the edge of the bank and flew into the sun. When it disappeared from sight she went back inside.

She used one of the large broad leaves from the pot plant on the counter to carry the beaker. The clear steaming water poured in and she watched steadfast as the grey berries produced the most vibrant purple tea. She carried the cup back over to the bed holding the twig handle. This tiny branch could hold the weight of the world. Brackle and the birds had nestled around the bed. She picked up the book left open on the side from last night and plopped it on the bed. The creatures watched with wide eyes as the origami butterflies flew out of the pages as it landed. This was a weird book. She’d found it on her travels up the snowy mountain, the highest one in her land.

It had taken her a whole week to reach the top. But she was in no rush so that might have been why. Stopping to take note of all the new plants and mountain beings she came across. She hadn’t seen another husoul in a couple days, until she was about halfway up the mountain. You could tell because of the fire buffalo that grazed in the heath just below. That was as high as their bodies allowed them to go before their fur distinguished. Whilst taking a break on the side of a snowy path one walked past. She was squatting next to a tree dropping walnuts from her hand into her mouth. It was the perfect angle for the lapping flames of its fur to create beautiful shadows and forms on the entrance of a cave opposite. Curiosity stood up and followed the shadows. 

As she stepped in it was magically silent. All she could hear was the careful tearing of folded paper behind the first corner. Squatted on the floor was a small old man in front of a pile of books. What calls a man to the mountains alone? She walked up not saying a word and squatted next to him watching the care and poise it took to thread a needle with spider silk. What seemed like paper was actually planks of wood that the man could tear with ease. He noticed her but didn’t break his flow. The smell of the purple berry tea came back again. She could feel it roaring around him. She understood and watched.

Once all the thin slats were stacked together, he held them gently and dropped them from his grip onto the floor to line them up. Behind him in between the pillars of books was a rock dragon blending into the wall. The man, holding the slabs, mindfully passed the stack over to the dragon who opened its jaw. It fit perfectly and the dragon's teeth managed to hold it in place without puncturing it at all. Coming out of his squat he crawled on all fours over to the pyramid stack of spider silk thread. He plucked free the top end and pulled the thread over to the slab stack. She watched as the pyramid turned and a deep blue glow emerged. The dragon held the stack flat. He stood in a slightly knee-bent stance. He is the mountain. Unmovable. 

He knocked four holes through the spine of the stack. The purple glow disappeared, she could smell the silence, and it began to emanate from his fingertips. She shuffled around and watched as he dangled the silk over one of the holes. Something shifted in her belly. She felt the cave walls get darker and the only light beaming was from the man. He took one deep breath that seemed to come from the depths of the mountain. A gust of wind passed through the cave and almost knocked her over. From the silence came electricity. He dropped the silk with complete accuracy; it passed through the first hole and he caught it on the underside. Pulled it round and gave a sharp whistle and the dragon rotated its jaw 180 degrees. He dropped the thread again and it fell through perfectly. With each drop he’d give the thread a slight tug, it would pull the stack snuggly together. Caught in a trance from his eight arm dance she didn’t even notice he’d finished binding. He used the razor edge of the dragon's tail to cut the thread and it recoiled. Returning to his squat, he dipped the two ends of thread in a small vile attached to his belt. Pushing the two ends together, sparks bounced off and with one magnetic swoosh they became one. The dragon opened its jaws and the bound book fell into his palms. He caught it by the bound edge and let the pages flop and fall. The wooden pages had turned into a water like substance in his grip. He followed the gravity of the book's movement until it came to a dead hang. He held it there for a few seconds as the pages blew in the gentle breeze coming from the entrance. He smiled, closed his eyes and bowed his head. 

The book mirrored the movement of the trees that swayed outside. When the Poet returned her gaze from the leaves she saw he had his hands held out with the book in them stretched towards her. She opened her palms and let the book fall in. It was weightless. Silence sang through the cave as their fingertips touched. With lips sealed he uttered the words she needed to hear. She nodded and slotted the book in her lilypad satchel.

Brackle nudged at her leg, waking her out of the inner world. She blew the dust off the book. Sitting there for a few moments. Simply breathing. The boom birds broke the silence with sounds from a land she recognised. Afu-ra. Sifting through her mind. She replayed and repeated the man’s words that echoed inside. 

This is a weird book. It had no words on the pages. It was yet to be written. Forms only formed from the world of Wu Wei. Gripping the bun on her head with her left hand she plucked free the brush that was holding it together. Extending her arm out over the page, she took in one deep breath and then let the air fall from her lips. When it felt right she dipped it in her mushroom ink on the side table. Hovered over the page. Focused on the breath. Closed her eyes.

Waiting. 

The creatures around the bed felt the same energy she felt with the enigmatic mountain man. The static returned. The stone she threw earlier appeared back in mind. Bouncing with ease. Loosening the grip of her brush she allowed it to fall and bounce off the page. The brush took charge and her eyes opened. These strokes and forms effortlessly emerged, becoming the nucleus for absolute attention. Swishing and swirling across the page. The pendulum fell back and forth. Slowing to almost a halt then regaining a venerated excitement that would dart across the page again. The tip of the brush would spritely kiss the fibres of the paper as it danced along its grain. This continued until a perfectly wonky line of kanji formed up the page. The excitement slowed. Illyria followed graciously.

As she felt the static die down, she lifted the brush and the boom birds sitting on top of Brackle started hopping up and down with excitement. She threw it up and one of them caught the brush in its slim heron-like beak and swallowed it whole. She blew a gentle breeze onto the ink, watching it dry instantly. Tracing the strokes with her finger replayed the man's voice in her head. The forms translated into pictures that painted the inside of her head. It echoed through until the 36mm roll was finished and she could find the words to comprehend. A silence boomed in the forest surrounding. The birds flew from the trees and frogs leaped out the creek.

The softest thing in the universe

Overcomes the hardest thing in the universe

That without substance can enter where there is no room  

Hence I know the value of wu wei

Teaching without words 

and work without doing

Are understood by very few