Date: Mon 17 Jul 89 22:12:38
From: Kihe Blackeagle (on 1:124/4214)
Subj: THE BIRTH OF WRITING

(a paraphrase of old tales)

When the world was young and young indeed, the Eldest Dragon had a 
marvelous cout of glossy scales. Irridescent colors played across them, 
never staying the same for any length of time, shifting with the light 
of Sun and Moon and Stars; dancing under the whispering breeze and 
scattering joyous sight wherever he went. The aeons passed. The Earth 
changed. The Eldest became known as "Yang", and he listened long and 
respectfully to the First-Born that he met, and his memory was honed by 
the sharpness of the Satyr's wit -- his ears were blessed by the first 
Nightingale -- his heart was purified by the wisdom of the Celestial 
Counselor (known later as the Ki-Rin) -- and his blood was stirred by 
the trumpetings of the Stag. And these were but a few of those with whom 
Yang spoke in the Time of the Dawning.

But then the world began to change, and Yang awoke one autumn morning 
before the time of Man's empires to realize that many of his first 
acquaintances were no longer to be found where once they had dwelt. A 
sudden pang rushed through him, for the Old One realized that these 
new-come creatures called "men" would never hear the wisdom or know the 
joy of the sights the other Elders could have brought to them. 

It was the second rush of fear that chilled Yang even more. He realized 
of a sudden that even he who had been there could not remember the 
*second* song of the Nightingale (no one would EVER forget the first -- 
or could they?).... The Satyr's last jest with him was also grown dim 
behind the veil of even the dragon's stupendous memory. As the Sun came 
from behind a cloud, he looked down at his own glittering scales and 
realized he, too, was not the same as he had been. The Past was being 
lost -- how could he save it for Man?

The Eldest moped around his remote mountain lair through the rest of 
that year, and most of the next, before he came upon the answer. Musing 
one day, he looked down at the floor of his nest-cave and saw several 
scales that he had shed recently. Each was marked by a peculiar yet 
differing pattern of color, fixed in time by the last shift before 
coming free of his skin. And on one or two he noted that the veinings 
resembled -- PICTURES! There, that one was a house, and here was a well, 
and over there: turn it upright, and the head and limbs of a Man could 
be guessed.

Another year passed, or maybe ten -- Yang never was good at keeping 
track of time -- before the Eldest Dragon invited the First Emperor and 
his Court into the mountain retreat. And there he presented them with 
the first scrolls, upon which were recorded all the wisdom and every 
tale which the Dragon Yang had been able to remember (and felt to be 
worthwhile in recording). The Emperor became greatly agitated as he saw 
the importance of this, for by this time the Man was far advanced in 
years and terrified that his people would forget what he had taught 
them. Reverently, he asked the dragon to join his court and record yet a 
little while longer, and teach the ministers and learned folk this new 
thing, this writing.

And it came to pass in the fullness of time that the Emperor died in 
bed, and Yang wept to see the gentleness of his spirit go. One last 
thing the dragon wrote, and that upon a tortoise's shell using his own 
blood for an ink and his own talon for a brush: the first written eulogy.

***************
Pax ... Kihe
--- TBBS v2.0
 * Origin: *Chrysalis*  Multi-User  (214) 519-0728  Dallas, Tx  (124/4214)