To Start a Willow Farm

The glorious story of how Herb and Opal's tranquil home came to be; how magical waters and the perfect mixture of precious stones and warm sunlight led to the breath of life for an otherwise somber being.

It started as many things do: small and fragile. A willow seed floated along a gentle summer breeze, the thick heat carrying it far. It floated over rivers and animals in habitats that speckle the earth, and across the snowy peaks of mountains. Curious fairies in their mossy homes peered out, unaccustomed to visitors. The small seed wafted until the density of tree cover lessened, and the land warmed where it was bathed in sunlight. It carried far, to where it seemed there were fewer birds singing and deer nesting, until a single river, Pearl River, remained.

Did you know that all rivers carry magic? Yes, they do, a magic of a very special sort. You can feel its purest touch upon your first splash into the waters, when the cool water gives your skin a jolt. It carries powers of energy and revitalization, and once you are more accustomed to the cold of it, the magic of a curious freedom presents itself to you. The river runs on in both directions, and there is a knowledge that you could swim in either direction for any length of time and never run out of water to swim in, although the scenery would change. There is magic in each of the fish, and the moss-softened bank, and each rock that finds itself laying on its silted bed. There, amidst the murk and wonder of the watery road, lies the magic.

Pearl River, however, held a different sort of magic than the normal sort - one that gave everything around it an unusual strength. One that was given by the stones from which the river earned its very name. Pearls, Opals, Peridots, Quartz, Amethyst, Citrine, Jade, cluttered Pearl River in brilliant hues, blinding from the lack of disturbance from any creature roaming the heavens or earths as of yet. Right here, right under our noses.

As soon as that small, floating, fragile willow seed made its graceful landing, it sunk through the doughy moss and soft dirt of the riverbank and started to grow not three seconds later.

It then became a sprout, feeble and mild, and grew like the beanstalk in Jack's magical tale. Its stem grew to a twig, then a stick, then a trunk to parallel those of the great old sequoias and redwoods in the most rainy, hydrated parts of the earth. Likewise, its leaves transformed from a shade of green so pale you might think it sickly, darkening into a shade of deep emerald. You see, this being that was slowly morphing into a willow tree was not like others that retain paleness through all its days, looking like it clings to its last breath and leaf with its whole will. This willow was vibrant, whole, and independent, with the strength to carry a whole ecosystem, a whole farm, on its shoulders.

But it wasn't done growing yet. She wasn't done growing yet. Pearl River wasn't done with her yet. The crystal waters, rejoicing at the chance to nurture something so innocent, so pure, leapt into her roots. As electricity crackles, so was the jolt of vitality in this seemingly insignificant willow seed. Flowing in and through her, the precious gems spun together a ruler, and a story of unabashed generosity. Their magic intertwining, the brilliantly bright waters became something else entirely, something purple and sparkling, thick and cloying as honey. Something that this gentle land had never seen before. Something like tangible, harness-able power.

Then, from the newly, richly grown leaves swinging nearest to her sturdy trunk, blossoms started to form. Blossoms which matched the royal purple coloration of the lifeblood that now flowed through her base. Spreading as fire does through dry grasslands, the flowers burst from each leaf of each hanging branch, each so close in proximity that the very gravity of earth could not hold her down. This willow was no more weeping tears of sadness, but those of joy and life. Those of a Wisteria.

When she was finished growing, opulent and unmovable in her cascading beauty and power, she settled into the ground, and all was still for a moment. And it seemed things would remain that serene, until hundreds of those purple blossoms came volleying from her branches, growing arms and legs and wings. Sprites, to be exact. As their human-likened features grew, their colors and shapes changed. And it was good, as a being somewhere, a long time ago once said.

Some of the propagating beings had sturdy legs, some muscular, and some slender. Some had wings that matched those of a butterfly, others that of various moths, dragonflies. The largest had wings that matched those of a bird, and the fairies they connected to found their bearings with more ease than other infant wings. Some bore gills, and webs between their feet, while others did not. Some had designs marking their bodies in intricate, iridescent patterns, and some did not. But what all bore in likeness with each other was a glorious head of hair (though varying in length and style) as brilliant in shade as the rocks that weaved their existence.

And they were pure. Profoundly naive. Unimaginably wise. Every idea our universe has ever had, up for grabs in a moment of unadulterated creation.

They stumbled along on rolls of wind and mist until they could fly of their own accord, and then as one, they turned to face the tree of their conception.

Mother Wisteria.

The phrase echoed through their minds collectively, all of the freshly made beings unsure whether they heard it said from the whispers of her very leaves, or if she had planted it inside them like seeds just before she sent them bursting from her branches.

And as one, the infant fairies dropped from their hovering flight to the lush soil, bowing to Mother Wisteria. Reverent and deep, she bowed back to them, their respect and admiration reflected in each bending branch. She loved all of them as her children, and they loved her in return as the mother she was.

In the rush of wind resulting from her adoring stoop, another substance floated off of her luscious leaves - more seeds like the one that proved her own conception fruitful. Though round and bulky, the seeds floated on that same heavy, intentional wind as the tree from which they came. All across the lush banks of Pearl River, and across the grasslands and flower fields reaching beyond the seeds flew, and took root as Mother Wisteria did. They grew as fast and as heartily as she did, blanketing the land in a lazily ethereal veil.

So off the sprites went, into trunks and riverbeds and poufs of clouds to make homes for the body, mind, and unique abilities each species possessed. And as long as Mother Wisteria stayed vibrant, so would they.