Kotori

Woodland Voice

Philosophers of all stripes have tried to describe nature’s voice. The commanding shout of a thunderclap, the murmur of wind in the leaves. The laughter of rivers over the stones, and the weeping of falling rain. Something so close, yet so incomprehensible, words of familiarity used to describe the alien. What does the cloud think when it disperses rain? What does the rock feel, as his skin stripped by the waters? What is the message that nature tries to say?

The humble hermit, he who straddles the line of dragon and nature, tries to answer.

He is born of nature, his home a shack of curling wood. His bread is of the undergrowth, flour from powdered sweet potatoes and roots. Far away he lies, sleeping in a nest of feathers and leaves. The drop of sun, and the rising silver eye of the moon is his clock, as he walks where civilization fears to tread, his eyes peering through the shadowed underbrush. Some dragons fear him, for like nature, they do not understand. The thought of living alone, only accompanied by the bugs and the wind seems unthinkable. He seems to be the savage, eccentric in his backward ways. Some entered, trying to ‘civilise’ him, and claim his wood for their own. None have returned. Such is the nature of the hermit.

Yet, for even a life spent in the woods and trees, there is still the desire to hear another’s voice. Through a fractured eye, nature takes a different form. The abstract becomes familiar, and with that crucial shift, he can hear them speak. The trees are patient, nurturing with their gentle tones. The dandelions are excitable, riding on the winds to new sights and sounds. The stones are wise, long and knowledgeable of what they have witnessed. Nature laughs, and it cries, but most crucially, it embraces. From the smallest blade of grass to the oldest pine, the listening hermit was taken into their fold. Even nature desires company.

Sometimes, there are those who visit. Wanderers, large and small, young and old, who come to marvel at the natural beauty. The flowers and spirits of the wood adore the attention, and flaunt themselves for all to see. They shout, and yell, their invisible forms twisting themselves in front of the spectators. They are always ignored. Some become furious, others pine for their guests to stay, another day, another week, another lifetime. All of them want to claim a friend for their own, taking those dragons into themselves, never to leave.

The hermit is the one who intervenes. With a staff lit by glowing fruit, he guides the wanderers, away from the snares and traps of the woods. He negotiates, speaking to the unseen figures, soothing the pain of their isolation. He makes the tributes and gestures to soothe their anger, to make his appreciation known. It is for him that the leaves and vines part, and reveal the path to return. With a gentle voice, he consoles the lost, and leads them home. Sometimes, one might see him smile. At the edge, when they are free of the wood, the visitor might turn back. Yet the hermit will have gone, vanished back into the grasping woods.

A force of nature has no need to tolerate visitors. An ordinary dragon has no need to listen to the voice of the woods. That is why Kotori calls himself Hermit, for he is born of both. Perhaps one day, dragons will hear, and nature will be able to speak the familiar tongue. Until then, he will be its voice, to cross worlds, his home made in the space in the gap.