Journey 1- The beginning

The waves broke against the rocks that here and there jutted out over the feathery sea.
The old man, wrinkled with years, with a coat of an uncertain colour, just as old, hanging on him, a coat that served as bedding and covering now that the winter's storm was falling on the shelter where he rested his bones, walked slowly dragging behind him a piece of wood gnawed by the waters. He had something to build a fire with tonight, too, in the gully in the middle of the room.
He was happy. He was glad that he could, for the umpteenth time, serve man. The flames would help him reach heaven. To the heaven to which long ago, many decades ago, or perhaps even well over a century ago, he had raised his phallic crown. To the sky where he will kiss the rain to reach the earth again and give birth to new life.
He didn't forget anything. Nor did he forget when he was a seed from above, from the heavens, or perhaps from the tall fir tree where he spent his childhood. Nor did he forget the spring day when, no older than a limping girl, he first reached out from under the damp that had kept him warm through the winter to the light of the holy life-giving sun.
Not many winters and summers have passed since the crossroads of time when it was his turn to protect. It was late autumn when a large family of geese nestled under its branches close to the ground, sheltering from the frost.
Thus he met for the first time the one in whose service he knew he was and would be with all his nation, the man. A band of nuthatches tramped up the mountainside in search of the goodies sheltered beneath the foothills. Beside him, a little boy and a little girl quarreled about whether the geese under his branches - they called them opintics - were good or poisonous. Their argument was broken up by a more enlightened girl who showed them the difference between poisonous and good to eat. The ones under the notru bush were only good to put in the jar.
Years have passed. By now he was accustomed to the man scouring the forest for bramble, hulub, henbit or rooster's crest. Rarely did he see the hunters looking for the 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 gather those his age. They went around 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 it grew big. He was among the most fallible of his kind.
He was accustomed in the early spring to see the bear he knew from years past, along with a cub or two, teaching them to feast on the bounty of the land, and later to hunt. It was already customary for the grouse on its branches, towards the end of March, to purr and twitter as it circled in conquest of its favourite hens. It was customary for the acrobat of the forest, the red-headed squirrel, to perch among the branches, nibbling nuts or even seeds from its cones. He was accustomed to the mournful cackle that the deer made in autumn when they fought fierce battles for the thickets. He was accustomed to hearing the sound of the wood, the drum, calling the faithful to prayer from over the mountain, from the monastery. And Lord, how the tolling of the bells on feast days, as if you could hear : Stefan Voda, Stefan Voda...

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