Seed and Fate

Seed and Fate

“Your words become thoughts, thoughts become feelings, feelings become actions, actions become fate. Everything begins with a seed.”

– A timeless proverb

The forest was silent, but my heart flickered like embers in the wind. Those who could not think freely, who slumbered in others’ shadows yet claimed their own light, stirred a quiet ache in me. Accusations stripped of reason, morality, or justice choked my breath.

To calm my mind, I trudged to the forest’s heart, where the waterfall sang. My thoughts danced, restless. I yearned to flee. But to where?

At the waterfall, its cascade promised peace. I closed my eyes, seeking stillness. But my mind churned. The clash with King Lion’s son cut like a thorn. He had warped the festival—meant to bind the forest—into a mirror of his pride: extravagant feasts, empty displays. When I offered ideas, his eyes flared. “A turtle dares advise a king?” he bellowed. The forest folk, tethered by fear or habit, echoed: “The king’s son decrees, and so it is!”

“Friends,” I said, “where is reason, justice, wisdom? Why is questioning a crime?”

“Questioning?” they jeered. “The king knows all. Defiance is treason!”

“Where is freedom?” I pressed. “Where is the courage to seek truth? Injustice will haunt you too.”

Silence. Some eyes wavered, but no one spoke. I turned away. For years, I had gathered knowledge, holding it close. Yet the forest dozed under the king’s yoke. By the waterfall, I fought the storm within me.

A voice pierced the air:

“Fools think they cradle the world,

Knowledge wilts in their grasp.

Fear not—truth blooms in quiet.”

– An ancient sage

I scanned the clearing. Empty. “Above!” the voice called. An Eagle perched on a pine, wings glinting. It swooped beside me. “From on high, truth shines,” it said. “Walk its lonely path over silence for love.”

The Eagle spoke: “My father was a king. When he died, my brother stole the throne with lies. I fled for peace, not war. My father said, ‘Reason and honesty are noble, but peace is all.’ Yet without justice, peace is a husk.”

We sat in stillness. Then the Eagle shared a tale:

Mitolok’s Path

In Perthland, Ruler Mahmadov cherished a monkey, Mitolok, whose wit eclipsed the court’s sages. Mitolok’s son, gentle and keen, was his light. The ruler adored them. Mitolok’s son played with the ruler’s heir in the palace gardens. But the heir, bloated by his father’s name, sneered at the young monkey’s ideas. “Silence—you know nothing!” Wounded but kind, the boy held his tongue.

One day, they played chess. The young monkey won. The heir’s pride shattered. “You cannot best me!” he roared, throttling the boy. The little one died. When Mitolok learned of his son’s murder, sorrow ignited fury. In the night, he found the heir and exacted justice. Then he scaled the palace tower.

The ruler, heartbroken, hid his rage. “Mitolok, descend. You’re safe.” The crowd below bayed for blood.

“Evil reaps evil,” Mitolok said. “Your son stole my child; I took his life.”

“Let us mend this,” the ruler urged.

Mitolok shook his head. “Do your people question their past? They cling to falsehoods. A sage said, ‘Ignorance of the past traps you in its shade.’ I seek the light.”

“You cannot forsake us,” the ruler said. A voice jeered, “Go, with your grievances!”

“Your words are hollow,” Mitolok replied. “Justice is blind here. Ruler, your loss clouds my pain. Your people bow to you; knowledge bends to your will. If I stay, you’ll judge me.”

Mitolok looked at the crowd and slipped into the forest.

The Waterfall’s Call

The Eagle fell silent. The waterfall’s song cradled us. “Ignorance binds Perthland and this forest alike,” I said. “But Mitolok’s courage taught me loneliness is a price for truth.”

The Eagle’s eyes gleamed. “See from above, Turtle. Loneliness is a seed. It blooms in time. Hold your knowledge; it carves your fate.”

The waterfall’s mist cooled my fire. Knowledge, morality, justice—they were my stars.

A Seed Takes Root

Mitolok’s courage haunted me. I could not hoard knowledge; I had to share it. But could a turtle, slow and small, stir a forest’s heart? In a realm under the king’s sway, who would hear?

One dawn, by the waterfall, a young squirrel scampered near. “Turtle, why alone? They say you defied the king’s son. Are you right?”

“Truth is my guide,” I said. “Does the festival unite us?”

She paused. “It’s joyful, but… hollow.”

“Questioning is freedom,” I said. “Know Mitolok?”

I shared his tale. Her eyes grew wide. “How did he stand alone?”

“One listener sparks change,” I said. “You’re listening.”

She left, pensive. A seed was sown.

The waterfall became our haven. The squirrel brought a rabbit and a timid fawn, all tired of the king’s rule. “Knowledge thrives when shared,” I said. “Justice begins with one.”

We gathered at dusk. The rabbit asked, “Why is the festival unchanging?” The fawn murmured, “Why are we unheard?” The squirrel said, “We could speak!”

Storm and Festival

One night, a fox spied us. “What’s this?” he hissed.

“We dream of a just forest,” I said.

“The king’s son will scorn this,” he said, vanishing.

His words were a warning. The king’s son grew sterner, guards prowling. The squirrel whispered, “Will we suffer?”

“Perhaps,” I said. “But Mitolok’s fearlessness won justice.”

The festival dawned, the forest aglow. The king’s son lounged on his throne. The feast began. The squirrel stepped forward. “Sir, if all voices are heard, the forest will flourish.”

He glared. “You dare speak?”

“We are the forest,” I said. “Justice binds us.”

Murmurs stirred. The king’s son roared, “Treason!” A guard advanced, paw on spear, then froze as the fawn spoke. “Not treason,” she said. “Love. For our forest.”

Her voice, soft as dawn, swayed the crowd. Whispers grew loud. The king’s son’s eyes flickered—fear of a fading crown. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll hear you. Once.”

A New Forest

We cracked open a door. The king’s son took some ideas: fair shares, every voice. The festival became ours.

The waterfall drew more. Knowledge spread. Mitolok’s fire and the Eagle’s wisdom fueled us. The king’s son bristled, but change was a tide.

One dusk, the Eagle returned. “Your seeds bloom,” it said. “You’ve grown a forest.”

“A beginning,” I said. “Justice is a seed, but it builds a forest.”

The waterfall sang of free thoughts. My fate was the forest’s.