THE TRAVELLERS

IT WAS A day of beginnings, a fair myriad of onsets. Indeed, Life's palette was dotted with a great many hues, ranging from an array of lively pinks to several somber, splotches of burrowing black. Within that spectrum, there were numerous yellows, whites, greens, browns, reds, even purples and oranges, varied, much like the season at hand, for it was Spring. Visible through the compass—the horizontal disk that encircles each viewer—blossoms were at their peak. A vast multitude of pretty pastels and fair fragrances—enchanting to the eye, enthralling to the nose—ornamented the vernal scene. Lodged in the leaving hardwoods, or the minty tangle of evergreens, birds were singing about their new homes, while beginning to curtail that day's slate of frequent trips to feed their ever-hungry young, for Evening's soft shadows were starting to encroach, Her brief, daily reign beginning. In still another time-honored tradition, the other animals were introducing their newborns to the world—nurturing the Future in the Present with the ways of the Past—the cycle of life. So another fragrant evening of high Spring was falling on the northern slopes of the Hydronacks. It was a time of new life, a season filled with the joyful promise of those many beginnings, just then softened by day's last light, by the onset of Evening, which should have enchanted the moment even more for the Royal Lass quietly observing all of that. Yet, such a time is a poor season for the furtherance of human vanity, but when, dear reader, is vanity ever in season? When are we ever truly honored by arrogance or by another's want for more? Neither really furthers the peace and harmony that most of us prefer; neither could be called humane. Of course, the arrogant are the ones who think self-importance is always in season, and if such a person is endowed with a streak of cruelty, even a measure of power, then it is very easy for those affected by such cruelty and vanity to find no joy in any of the seasons, much less the vernal one. Spring, like Dawn, is about promise—the promise of what might be; the promise inherent in beginnings; the promise that arises not long after the tears of the night have dried. Yet, if a people suffer under the darkness of a cruel tyrant, how can they know much, if any, promise? Where is their peace? Thus, we begin in the season of birth. It was ever meant to be so, just like much of what is to follow. Yet, as you will discover, we begin at this point for still other reasons, as well. So sip your tea, caress the cat curled on your lap, and read on.