Journey 1- The beginning

The waves crashed against the cliffs that here and there jutted out over the feathery sea.
The old man, gray with years, with a coat of an uncertain color, just as old, hanging on him, a coat that served as a bedding and a covering now that the winter's storm was falling on the haze of shelter where he rested his bones, walked slowly dragging behind him a piece of wood gnawed by the waters. He had enough to build a fire in the little godin in the middle of the room.
          He was happy. He was glad he could, for how many times, serve man. The flames will help him reach heaven. To the heaven towards which long ago, many decades ago, or perhaps even more than a century ago, he had lifted his phantom crown. To the sky where he will kiss the rain to come back to earth and give birth to new life.
          He forgot nothing. He didn't forget when he was a seed that came from above, from the sky, or perhaps from the tall fir tree where he spent his childhood. He did not forget the day in spring when, not more than a limp and, for the first time, from beneath the blanket that kept him warm all winter, he lifted his tip toward the light of the holy life-giving sun.
          Not many winters and summers had passed since the cruel passage of time, when it was his turn to protect. It was late in the fall when a large family of kestrels nestled beneath its branches close to the ground, protected from the frost.
          Thus he met for the first time the one in whose service he knew he was and would be together with all his people, man. A band of little gnomes took to the mountain slopes in search of the goodies hidden beneath the firs. Next to him, a little boy and a little girl quarreled about whether the beetles under his branches - they called them opintics - were good or poisonous. Their quarrel was broken off by a little girl who showed them the difference between poisonous and good to eat. The ones under our little tree were only good for the jar.
          Years have passed. By now he was used to man wandering through the forest in search of hoopoes, hoopoes, grouse or grouse crest. Seldom did he see the hunters looking for special trophies of deer or bear.
          He was well off the ground. He was a lad. A new winter came. A band of men dressed in green set out to round up his age. They bypassed him. He was destined for a different fate. Later he learned that his brothers were taken to people's houses where they were adorned and held in high honor. He might have liked it too, but...
          And he grew big. He was among the most handsome of his kind.
          He was accustomed in early spring to see the bear he knew from years past, with one or two cubs, teaching them to gorge themselves on the gifts of the earth, and later to hunt. It was already customary that on its branches, towards the end of Marksmas, the grouse would roost and caw and caw and caw and caw, circling in the conquest of favorite hens. It was customary for the acrobat of the forest, the red squirrel, to roost among the branches, nibbling nuts or even seeds from its cones. He was accustomed to the mournful, mournful cawing of the deer in the fall as they fought fierce battles for the conquest of the thickets. He was accustomed to hear the sound of the wood, the drum, calling the faithful to prayer from the monastery across the mountain. And Lord, how the bells rang on feast days, as if you could hear: Stefan Voda, Stefan Voda...

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