The Elders track their history back only a few hundred years, infant time in the longer history of the Stone People. Even so, these human Elders who call themselves simply “The Storytellers” have held the stories from all time and understand that all stories arise from Still Mountain as naturally as rain flows down its slopes. Their early prophets saw a time when stories themselves would be threatened by a too-rapidly changing world. Their mission was to preserve not only the Story Board game, but the generative nature of stories themselves. They saw this generative quality as the primary force of the creative universe. Without it, all of earth would wither and die.

None of the current Elders, except perhaps Simon, knew the exact origins of the Story Board. An earlier version of the board was preserved under glass and is thought to be a thousand years old. Its images, drawn on a tanned hide, were so beautiful that sometimes Simon did his morning prayers before the glass case trying to feel in his own fingers the energy of the one who had drawn such images.

he tanned hide traced a trail of spaces around and around in an ever-tightening spiral toward the center where Still Mountain was drawn. The green of the forests was a fresh, spring green, the white of The Great Desert of Lost Ideas as white as bone, and the dusty brown of Still Mountain itself looked as if the hand that had painted it had just put his brush down that morning.

Simon was the Master Storyteller and the grandfather of Still Mountain Camp. Simon knew that when the maker came for him (should that time ever arrive, he was unsure) his only regret would be that he must leave this game board behind for yet larger game boards as yet unknown.

Reflection
What is something you tend quietly, knowing it matters more than you can explain?

Still Mountain keeps its distance from the larger range of mountains forming a ridge from east to west. It is not stand-offish, this mountain, but rather preserves its solitude and its silence for a very special purpose. It can tolerate no interference from the younger mountain ranges with their deep rumbles and grumbles as they still react to whatever ancient upheaval disturbed their own flat quietude.

Still Mountain is not high, less than five-thousand feet above sea level, but it has stood unmoving for millions of years while the wind and rain soothed all of its sharp edges to soft curves and valleys. Many ancient races have occupied the place behind Still Mountain; animals and plants, the people and, of course, the first occupants which are the mountain itself—the Stone Family.

It makes sense that all legends have declared Still Mountain as the birthplace of story. It also makes sense that the human Elders, in their effort to preserve the storytelling tradition, would locate their main encampment and training school there. Their village is on the north side of the mountain hidden entirely from the eyes of all the other villages that dot the valley between Still Mountain and the Southern Range.

The Elders track their history back only a few hundred years, infant time in the longer history of the Stone People. Even so, these human Elders who call themselves simply “The Storytellers” have held the stories from all time and understand that all stories arise from Still Mountain as naturally as rain flows down its slopes.

Reflection
Notice what holds still beneath everything that moves.

Simon leaned his back against the cool wall of the cavern and meditated quietly for awhile. Finally, when his mind had cleared of all worries and concerns, he got up and lit a lamp and wound his way through the tunnels to the very back room of the cavern. There was a small chamber at the end of a long tunnel and in it was a Storyboard Game even older than the one under glass. It was painted on a skin and he kept it rolled, tied, and stored in the little chamber.

The game pieces were all carved from turquoise, tourmaline, and other natural stones, each one crudely shaped into animal forms—a bear, a dog, a tortoise. He unrolled the hide and smoothed it out on the floor of the chamber and put the lamp nearby so he could see the beautiful images, faded over time but still clear to the eye.

He picked up the small bear and a delicate little bird and placed them at the starting place. “Marcus,” he said aloud as he placed the bear. “Elsinor,” he said as he placed the bird. He threw the tile and began.

A quiet reflection
When you place the pieces of a story on the board, do you believe you are choosing—or remembering?