Atop the hill.
At the foot of a hill, beneath a great oak tree, across the babbling brook from the pixie villages, there lived an ogre.
He had lived there for many years, in a quiet, simple, solitary way. During the day, when the sun shone brightest, he would rest in the shade of the oak tree. At night, by the light of the moon, he would gather berries and fruit, and fill a barrel with cold water to sip during the day. When he was done, he would sit on a rock by the brook and listen to the pixie music flowing down from the villages atop the hill, and dream of the beautiful pixies that danced and sang.
Then one night, as he was filling his barrel with water, he heard a voice, and looked up to see a pixie standing across the brook.
The ogre paused, and felt great fear. The pixies had never before come to the brook. The ogre knew that if the pixies saw him, they would drive him from his tree, and send him back to the desolate, barren land of the ogres. He stood still, and hoped that the pixie would leave him in peace.
But the pixie did not leave. It stood, and watched, and smiled at the ogre. After a time, it stepped across the brook, skipping from stone to stone, and lighted beside him. The ogre did not move, held still by fear at being discovered, and awe at the pixie's beauty.
The pixie moved closer to the ogre, humming a pixie tune. It looked into the ogre's eyes, and saw what the ogre was, and who. It saw the fear, and the loneliness, and the awe, and the ogre closed his eyes in shame. But then the pixie began to sing.
It was a song of friendship and trust, welcome and wonder. It began softly and sweetly. Then it grew, and changed, and became strong and triumphant. It flowed, mellifluous and true, across the brook to the pixie villages, where the other pixies heard it, and understood it, and wove it into the tapestry of songs that blanketed the night.
When the ogre finally opened his eyes, the pixie was gone. The song--the song for the ogre--continued to be sung, across the brook, at the top of the hill. And the ogre knew that he had been wrong; that his life was not as it should be, and that he was not where he ought to be. The time had come for him to leave his home beneath the oak tree. And so he did.
He had lived there for many years, in a quiet, simple, solitary way. During the day, when the sun shone brightest, he would rest in the shade of the oak tree. At night, by the light of the moon, he would gather berries and fruit, and fill a barrel with cold water to sip during the day. When he was done, he would sit on a rock by the brook and listen to the pixie music flowing down from the villages atop the hill, and dream of the beautiful pixies that danced and sang.
Then one night, as he was filling his barrel with water, he heard a voice, and looked up to see a pixie standing across the brook.
The ogre paused, and felt great fear. The pixies had never before come to the brook. The ogre knew that if the pixies saw him, they would drive him from his tree, and send him back to the desolate, barren land of the ogres. He stood still, and hoped that the pixie would leave him in peace.
But the pixie did not leave. It stood, and watched, and smiled at the ogre. After a time, it stepped across the brook, skipping from stone to stone, and lighted beside him. The ogre did not move, held still by fear at being discovered, and awe at the pixie's beauty.
The pixie moved closer to the ogre, humming a pixie tune. It looked into the ogre's eyes, and saw what the ogre was, and who. It saw the fear, and the loneliness, and the awe, and the ogre closed his eyes in shame. But then the pixie began to sing.
It was a song of friendship and trust, welcome and wonder. It began softly and sweetly. Then it grew, and changed, and became strong and triumphant. It flowed, mellifluous and true, across the brook to the pixie villages, where the other pixies heard it, and understood it, and wove it into the tapestry of songs that blanketed the night.
When the ogre finally opened his eyes, the pixie was gone. The song--the song for the ogre--continued to be sung, across the brook, at the top of the hill. And the ogre knew that he had been wrong; that his life was not as it should be, and that he was not where he ought to be. The time had come for him to leave his home beneath the oak tree. And so he did.