shhistory1

Shinobiashi Youjibara

The Tale of the White Fox

    Such tales are written in the rings of the trees, kept safe for all time in our memories, and in the memories of those who can read what we have to offer.
     This tale belongs to the Rose Oak, a great and noble tree so called for the blood red roses that cling gently to her branches.

     Many seasons have gone by, turning again and again in the way of all things, and stories come and go on the breath of the wind. Trees such as we have little care for such things, have ever had little care for the world of animals.
     But I, called Rose Oak by the humans, have changed now, and am no longer the tree that I once was. And this story, as I hold within, begins seasons ago, long before the slow change that has taken us all in this forest.
     There was a girl who used to come here, a gentle soul who loved the forest and all that was within. She loved especially the white fox that lived within our boundaries, and he loved her as much.
     In the turning of the seasons and the natural way of things, there was concieved between them a child. Though the two were happy, however, the girl's family thought that their love was unnatural, and the child doubly so.
     The girl's father and brothers came into the forest then, and hunted the white fox that the girl loved so much. They went back to her with his blood on her hands, and took her child as well, telling her that the babe was dead.
     Our mother told us then that this child, left beneath my branches, was deserving of life and purpose, and bid us to care for him.
     He was a lovely child, and I felt more tender for him than I ever had for my own seedlings. He grew quickly, nourished by the milk of the animals and protected by the aumbrella of my branches. I didn't mind setting aside my winters for a time, as he was a joyful child, and would croon in response to my lullaby.
     Seasons turned, as they were meant to, and he crawled, walked, ran, and climbed among my branches. He was a fit, if small, sapling, when mother explained to us that he would need to be clothed as humans were. It took her long to explain this to us, but it took longer to explain it to him, a sapling that did not yet know the difference between plant and animal.
     We taught him the arts of the forest while he played, taught him to heal animals and himself with the fruits of our growing, to heal us with the strength of his spirit, and to speak to us in the language of the trees.
     Despite all that we taught him, it was humans that fascinated him. He could ever be found watching their camps, and brought back with him many items that he would study for hours.
     His favorite of these things was something that the humans called "flute," and he would play with it for hours, listening to and arranging the sounds that it made until they were pleasing to him. His songs were eerie and lovely, and the willows would sing softly in chorus with him, their sounds floating through the forest like a breeze and a winter dream.
     Perhaps the most difficult time for me was when he asked me the meaning of the word name. Among us, he had never needed a name, and did not have one, but of course he wanted to know what his name was.
     An oak never lies, cannot lie, but how was I to tell him, who we all loved so, that he did not have a name? It is an important thing among those that are animal, and he alone, it seemed, had none.
     It was the roses that whispered that we could give him a name, and the wise rowan who broke the chatter to say that it was "mother" who named the young among the animals. And since I was the one he called mother, the naming of him fell to me.
     Shinobiashi, for indeed his steps were the softest of all, and Youjibara, for he was as my son...my first son, my only son...and all called him "Child of Rose."
     And since I told him this, and was as his mother, it was the truth.
     Our mother had told us that he could not remain forever, that there were things he needed that were not here, and purposes that he needed to fulfill, but we were all very sad when his curiousity took him away from us.
     Even now the willows weep when they think they hear the sound of his flute on the wind...