myth for wasabi

The flowers who were once birds dreamed of mountains.

Though many of them had been mown down they dreamed together like an orchestra - some more strongly, some from this perspective or that, but they all vaguely shared this dream.

The mountains were darkened with forest, from which only a little sun pushed through. The trees kept a streambed moist and cool. The continual trickle sang idly against the lichen and then was swallowed by the moss, who also swallowed the water that hung so lovely in the air. The leaves were broad and green above. It was a beautiful place and yet there was nothing but darkness all around it. It stood on its own in all the universe like a forgotten moon. But the birds know wind and stone. They know how to follow the traces of metal emits through the soil and the water - the emits from the center of the earth like a halo. So they knew this place was part of earth - but barely.

Suddenally something moved in the stream. A shape that had once looked like a stump, half submerged in the water twisted. The birds could now see the shabby green dark clothing. The figure’s hands dug into the soil, grasping for something.

A rustle in the leaves and the creature jolted up. Eyes wide, dark, and frightened in this beautiful place. The being was aware of danger, and the birds could see from behind those eyes the way she was were preparing her position. This being had fought before. The figure in the stream stared at the dream birds, even though their long bodies could not have been visible. There was something stirring behind them.

As much as they wanted to the flower birds were rooted and could not fly to the being. Plants weep for lost companions. Birds usually follow the world to wherever they were trying to go, but these bird flowers could only raise their arms toward her, and they opened their beaks.

But before the birds could speak the sun woke them. The light was particularly sharp these days as it reflected off of the wheat. Who had abandoned this being, and who was returning to her, they wondered. And so the bird flowers began to whisper to one another, to the life in the soil about the moon where wasabi lived. Their voices were so soft they were nearly unheard, but they kept telling their story. Just in case.