"The Sky Woman's Shattered Bones."
Long before the memory of the oldest trees, in a realm far above the one we know, lived Sky Woman. Her world was a place of ethereal beauty, bathed in a perpetual soft light, where the air hummed with a gentle harmony and the beings who dwelled there lived in a state of peaceful equilibrium. In the center of this celestial realm grew a magnificent Great Tree, its roots reaching deep into the fabric of the upper world, its branches adorned with fruits of luminous colours and untold nourishment. Sky Woman, a being of grace and gentle spirit, held a deep connection to this tree, tending to it with reverence and care, understanding its vital role in the balance of their world.
One day, a profound unease stirred within Sky Woman's husband. Consumed by a longing he could not explain, he demanded that Sky Woman fetch him the root of a particular celestial plant, a root said to possess potent, though perhaps volatile, energies. Sky Woman, her heart troubled by his unusual request and sensing a disruption in the harmony of their world, nonetheless obeyed. As she attempted to uproot the celestial plant, a great chasm opened beneath her feet, a gaping void that revealed nothing but endless darkness. Terrified and caught off balance, Sky Woman plummeted through the opening, falling from the serene upper world into the vast, unknown emptiness below.
As she fell, Sky Woman clutched at the life-giving seeds of various plants from her celestial garden, instinctively understanding the potential for life even in the desolate expanse beneath. The journey was long and terrifying, the gentle light of her former world fading into an absolute, chilling darkness. Finally, she reached the watery realm that lay below, a vast and turbulent expanse devoid of land.
Witnessing her descent, the creatures of this primordial water – the great turtles, the swift fish, the soaring birds – were filled with both wonder and concern. Muskrat, brave and determined, dove deep into the dark waters, finally returning with a small clod of earth clutched in his tiny paws. This precious bit of soil was placed upon the back of the largest turtle, and through Sky Woman's gentle touch and the life-giving seeds she scattered, the earth began to grow and expand, forming the land we now know as Turtle Island.
Sky Woman, though having survived her perilous fall, was forever changed. The shock of the descent, the trauma of leaving her celestial home, and the arduous task of nurturing a new world had taken their toll. Though she walked upon the burgeoning land, a part of her remained tethered to the broken harmony of the upper world, a subtle sorrow lingering in her eyes.
But the impact of her fall had not been limited to her own being and the creation of the earth. The very fabric between the upper world and the one below had been fractured. The force of her descent, the sheer magnitude of her displacement, had cracked the very foundations of existence, leaving fissures in the spiritual realm. Through these cracks, something ancient and restless began to stir.
In the years that followed, as Sky Woman's descendants populated Turtle Island, they began to experience unsettling phenomena. Whispers on the wind that carried no earthly voice, fleeting shadows that danced at the edges of their vision, a pervasive sense of unease that settled over certain places, particularly those where the earth seemed most scarred or the veil between worlds felt thin.
Among the first to experience these unsettling occurrences was a young hunter named Hiawatha. He was known for his keen senses and his deep respect for the natural world. One evening, while tracking deer near a ravine formed by a particularly violent tremor in the earth – a tremor the elders whispered might have been a lingering echo of Sky Woman's fall – Hiawatha felt a sudden chill in the air, despite the warmth of the setting sun. The familiar sounds of the forest – the chirping of crickets, the rustling of leaves – seemed to fade, replaced by a faint, almost inaudible sighing, a sound that carried a profound sense of sorrow and unrest.
He turned slowly, his hand instinctively reaching for his bow, his senses on high alert. At the edge of his vision, he saw a fleeting form, translucent and indistinct, like a wisp of smoke given a vaguely human shape. It seemed to shimmer and fade in the twilight, leaving behind only a lingering sense of coldness and sorrow.
As time went on, these sightings became more frequent, more tangible. Others in the community began to report similar experiences – the feeling of icy fingers brushing their skin in empty spaces, the sound of soft weeping carried on the night winds, the fleeting glimpses of sorrowful, indistinct figures that seemed to drift through the shadows. The elders, their faces etched with concern, spoke of the fractured connection between worlds, of the energies released by Sky Woman's fall, and of the possibility that something was being drawn through the cracks.
One of the most affected was a young woman named Onawa, known for her sensitivity to the spiritual realm. She began to have vivid dreams filled with fragmented images of a serene world shattered, of a gentle being falling into darkness, and of shadowy figures rising from the cracked earth, their forms writhing with a silent sorrow. In her waking hours, she would often feel an overwhelming sense of sadness, a weight of sorrow that did not seem to originate from her own experiences.
Old Nokomis, the wisest of the grandmothers, her eyes holding the deep knowledge of generations, listened to Onawa's troubled accounts with a grave expression. "The fall of Sky Woman," she said, her voice low and resonant, "it was a great sundering, a wound upon the fabric of existence. Her bones, scattered across the newly formed earth, they hold the echoes of that shattering. And those echoes… they can call to the restless spirits, the wraiths that linger between worlds, drawn by the pain of the fracture."
Nokomis explained that the force of Sky Woman's fall, the breaking of the celestial realm, had released a tremendous amount of spiritual energy. This energy, infused with the trauma of the event, had seeped into the very earth, particularly in places where the impact was most profound – the deep valleys, the fractured ravines. These places, she said, acted as conduits, drawing to them spirits that were themselves fractured or lost, their own passing marked by unresolved sorrow or unfinished business.
The wraiths, Nokomis explained, were not necessarily malevolent, but they were beings of profound unrest, their existence tethered to the pain of the sundering. Their sorrowful presence could seep into the living, causing feelings of inexplicable sadness, anxiety, and a sense of being haunted by a grief that was not their own. The fleeting glimpses, the icy touches, the mournful whispers – these were the manifestations of their lingering pain, their silent cries echoing through the fractured veil between worlds.
As the unsettling occurrences continued, the villagers grew increasingly fearful. The joy of their daily lives was often overshadowed by a pervasive sense of unease, a feeling that they were sharing their world with unseen, sorrowful beings. The laughter of children would sometimes be abruptly silenced by a sudden chill in the air, and the comforting warmth of their hearth fires could not entirely dispel the icy touch of the unseen.
Hiawatha, troubled by the growing fear in his community, sought out Nokomis again. "Grandmother," he said, his voice filled with concern, "these… these shadows, these wraiths. Are they here to harm us? Will they ever find peace?"
Nokomis sighed, her gaze distant, as if looking into the mists of time. "They are drawn by the pain of the shattering, Hiawatha. Their unrest is a reflection of the great fall. Harm is not necessarily their intent, but their sorrow can weigh heavily upon the living, their presence a constant reminder of the broken harmony."
She explained that the bones of Sky Woman, scattered across Turtle Island as the earth took shape, were not just physical remnants. They held a spiritual resonance, a lingering echo of the celestial realm and the trauma of its breaking. In places where these echoes were strongest, the veil between worlds was thin, allowing the wraiths to manifest.
One particularly unsettling incident occurred near a deep ravine, a place the elders believed was formed by a direct impact of a fragment from the upper world during Sky Woman's fall. A young child, playing near the ravine, began to speak of seeing a sad woman with empty eyes who would whisper to him in the wind, her voice filled with an inconsolable sorrow. The child grew withdrawn and fearful, his bright spirit dimmed by the constant presence of the unseen sorrow.
The villagers knew they had to find a way to appease these restless spirits, to mend the fractured connection between worlds, to bring peace to the lingering echoes of Sky Woman's fall. The shattered bones of the Sky Woman had cracked not only the earth but also the delicate balance between the living and the spectral, and her sorrowful descent continued to haunt the generations that followed. The wraiths, drawn by the pain of that ancient fall, were a constant reminder of the great sundering and the enduring consequences of a world broken. The task now was to heal that wound, to soothe the unrest of the spirits, and to restore harmony to their world.