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It began with a seed—as most things do.
For many years, the Jungle lived without a heart, alone and quiet, with nothing but the soil and the trees and the rivers to keep it company. Alas, the soil was barren and empty, no children to nurture, and the trees only grew so tall, no creatures to perch upon their branches, and the rivers sat still and stagnant, no heart to pump their waters through the veins of the Jungle. Every day, every night, spent in silence and solitude, until one day the earth beneath the Jungle shook with violent tremors.
As the soil and the trees and the rivers clung to one another, the heavens above split with a crack of thunder. Dark clouds wept a heavy downpour, but from the split sky something emerged—a golden brown seed, encased in a hardy shell. Toward the earth, it plummeted, and fell into the hollow crevice at the center of the Jungle. As the clouds wept, rainfall softened the soil, beckoning to welcome the child it longed to cradle. The soil spread itself over the seed, coaxing it deep into the earth, shielding it from the harsh rays of the sun and biting chill of the night.
The seed then took root. The rainfall had gifted the soil with fertile grains, and the seed thrived with such bountiful energy. Every grain carried the hope long since fostered by the Jungle. It inspired the seed to grow, its strong roots bursting through the hardy shell to burrow into the soft earth. The rainfall took its leave, dissipating back into the heavens, its gift and message delivered.
From root grew sapling, from sapling grew bole. Out from the soil the mighty bole arose, raising thick branches heavy with verdant boughs toward the sky. It was the largest tree the Jungle had ever come to grow, but within its trunk a steady rhythm began to beat, louder and louder, spreading to every corner of the Jungle, until the trees reached higher toward the sky and the rivers rushed toward the center of the Jungle to hear the song for themselves.
At long last, the Jungle had a heart. A mighty heart, sturdy and true, pumping starlight into the soil until new plants began to take root.
“O divine bole,” the Jungle sang, its boughs shimmering green and bright beneath the sun. “In return for the gift of our heart, what would you ask of us?”
The bole responded with a simple request, its voice sonorous and deep, yet kind like a gentle breath of wind upon your cheek. “I would have you become a home.”
“A home is all we have ever wished to be.”
“Then it shall be done.”
A tiny crack at the center of the bole began to grow. Its mighty trunk snapped and groaned as something burrowed out from within—a tall, slender figure with two arms and two legs, a mane of curled vines draping down a brown back. A pair of lush fronds perched atop their head, flicking up and down as they listened to the rush of a nearby stream. A layer of soft, thin moss grew over dark skin, leaving only palms and soles bare to kiss the gentle earth as they stepped out from the hollow bole and inhaled the first breath.
“I am the heart of the bole,” they spoke, their voice ringing throughout the trees like a song, “and the bole is the heart of the Jungle. Upon this fertile soil, life shall thrive and endure as steadfast as the rivers, unshaken as the trees. Lend to me your hope and I shall bring our dream to reality.”
“We give you our hope,” the Jungle whispered, leaves shifting above and soil turning beneath the heart’s feet. “Our dreams and our blood, our everything.”
“Then it shall be done.”
They cast their gaze toward the sky. Their eyes were misty pools of grey, shifting and wavering in the low light of the setting sun. As they touched their fingers to the ground and planted their feet firmly in the soft dirt, they whispered their name, drawing strength and hope from the Jungle through the roots that united them all.
“I am… Zajac.”
As the days passed, new life bloomed beneath the treetops of the Jungle. Colorful birds of various shapes and sizes flocked together, building nests atop sturdy branches and coloring the fading silence with their songs. Fish swam in droves through the rivers, and some even dared to leap over the falls into vibrant pools below. Beasts prowled the land on four legs in search of a hunt or a mate—whichever instinct called to them first. Even insects flittered about, tunneling beneath the soil, through aged trees, or tucked under the weight of a solid rock.
Wherever they walked, Zajac found life. They smiled, pleased with their handiwork so far, but they knew they could not have done it alone. Every night, they knelt before the mighty bole that had once been their body, and pressed their lips to the earth. It had been the hope of the Jungle itself that led to the creation of such bountiful life. Without such rich, pure energy, Zajac would have struggled to create even the smallest of birds with nothing but twigs and leaves.
“I think I shall give it a name,” they said one night, drifting their fingers through the soil. “This energy that has served us so well.”
“What would we call it?” the Jungle asked.
“The Mist,” Zajac answered, “for it drifts around us unseen, but we feel it all the same.” They rose from their nightly orison and wandered to the nearest stream, kneeling along the bank to gaze at their reflection in the water. The fronds atop their head had taken a different form over time—now they stood thicker, as if made from the hide and blood of beasts, with tufts of fur sprouting along the tips.
Even the thin, flat curls of their coiling vines had thickened into braids. Two mounds of soft, squishy flesh sat upon their chest, covered in the same thin moss that spawned over the rest of their body. Between their thighs, a crevice of skin had begun to form right beneath their navel.
“I have become more beast than bole,” Zajac mumbled, pressing curious fingertips to their face. The misty quality of their eyes remained. “Have I expended too much of myself, I wonder?”
The Jungle rustled its leaves. Crickets sung far off in the distance, and fireflies glittered in and out of the dark. “We believe you have become something more, something greater than beast or bole,” the Jungle spoke. “The winds whisper of other beings to the west—ones that walk upon two legs and shroud their bodies in strange fabrics. They speak a different tongue and follow a different path, but they have come to bend the world to their will, creating life from what was once hollow.”
“Others like me?” Zajac breathed, a glimmer of awe shining in their eyes.
“They are not nearly as mighty as you, for they must rely on one another to recreate their own image. But you, Zajac, you have mastered the Mist. You need only yourself to bring forth wonder into our world.”
“I do,” Zajac agreed. A shiver of delight passed through them, like a pebble dancing across the surface of a pond. They touched their own nose, their lips, even the hoods of their eyes, but then a thought crossed their mind and they shook their head. “...No. I cannot allow my whims to guide me. Every creature I have shaped from the bounty of the earth serves a purpose. Prey feed from the land so that it may always have room to grow. Predators feed upon prey so that they may not burden the land with far too many numbers. Even the insects play a part designed solely for them.”
They sighed. “As much as I desire to recreate my image, so that I may have an equal at my side, I fear I have no other purpose to give. I would threaten the balance if I were to let such a creature roam with such freedom.”
“Would serving as your companion not suffice?”
Zajac shook their head once more. “It would be a selfish demand. I would not dare impose that burden.”
The Jungle sighed, its breath stirring the river’s surface. “We understand. Although we cannot walk our land as you do, we are with you. You saved us from our solitude. We would return the same mercy.”
A weak smile tugged at Zajac’s lips. For all the Jungle’s kindness, it would never understand. It would never understand the hollow ache of walking the land alone, with only your own thoughts to accompany you, of speaking to the beasts in a tongue they did not speak, although you spoke theirs, of waking alone at night to the chill crawling through your body, the moss hardly enough to keep you warm.
Day in, day out, Zajac watched as the beasts found their mates and lived alongside each other. They held themself and wondered what it would be like to have someone that looked and walked and spoke like them. They did not want for a mate, no, for gods are not meant to entertain such sentiment, but they did want for a people. A people like them.
Still, they could not allow their selfish desire to take precedence over their duty. Nature had a balance. You never took more than you needed, you never gave more than you should. Every living, breathing creature—be it beast or bug or even a bole—had a part to play to ensure the world did not collapse into total chaos.
There was no need for another Zajac. The heavens had bestowed them a role only they could fulfill—to fill the Jungle with vibrant shades of life and to protect it.
Protect it…, their thoughts wandered, protect it from what?
The sky rumbled low. Above, thick clouds a sickly shade of grey packed together, blotting out the clear blue of the sky. A storm was on the horizon, but not the kind of storm that refilled the rivers and lakes with rainfall and nourished the saplings safely tucked away in the soil.
Uncertainty rippled across their skin like crawling insects. The moss coating their skin rose like the hackles of a beast on guard. The answer to their own question fell upon them in a quiet whisper.
Chaos.
The winds brought news of the war from the west—of creatures known as men turning against one another to lay claim to the world’s precious resources. They tore at one another with tools forged from metal, stole acres of land from the ones who already lived there, set flame to ways of life that dared to differ from theirs. Worst of all: the men labored to travel east in search of more, more, more .
Upon hearing the news, the Jungle raved with alarm. Birds chattered about taking flight to floating isles, away from the carnage. Beasts plotted to rend these men into shreds with which to feed their young in the coming spring. Even the trees wept as the winds detailed the fall of mighty forests, their bodies subject to the creation of more tools of death.
Zajac had little patience for such doom-saying. As the inhabitants of the Jungle congregated at the heart to discuss the invasion looming over their heads, panic taking root like some sort of rot, Zajac climbed onto the quiet bole that had once housed their body and cried out. “We are children of this land!” they declared, their sonorous voice climbing above the treetops. “We shall fight to protect our home no matter the cost. These men will not have what is ours, what has been given to us by the gods!” They curled their fingers into a tight fist. “Take heart, and have faith. It is hope that brought you into creation. It is hope that shall see our people endure.”
Our people. The phrase sat strange in their mouth. Indeed, the children of the Jungle were united in blood and breath, but none of them bore any resemblance to Zajac’s image. As their heart teetered along the edge of some deep loneliness, they wrested it tight, reminding themself of their role, their sole burden. They could not afford to trip into the same trap of avarice that no doubt befell these men.
The children of the Jungle braced themselves for war. Zajac led them through every effort, fortifying the land with the power of the Mist at their call. The valleys ran deeper. The mountains grew steeper. The rivers rushed faster and the falls fell with a crushing weight. Within a handful of days and nights, the beauty of the Jungle had been transformed into a dangerous landscape teeming with beasts of all kinds.
Prey and predator alike would stand firm in the face of these men. Zajac gifted the prey with horns and hooves and sturdy legs suitable for running long distances. They fashioned every predator with keener senses, augmenting their sense of smell and sound, and painted new patterns across their hides. Spots and stripes and colors of the earth to better blend into their surroundings.
When the men arrived in their ships with their metal tools and unusual gait, the Jungle held nothing back. The men encountered resistance with every step they took—they fell prey to beasts, they lost themselves within the deep brush, they succumbed to the poisons they devoured from brightly colored berries and leaves. Most of them fled, deeming the Jungle inhospitable, but the few stubborn souls pressed on, eager to claim the Jungle’s bounty no matter the cost.
Zajac faced those men themself. They fought with a fury unknown to them and the other children, with tools they forged from the gifts of the trees. Flexible bows and arrows, sturdy spears tipped with obsidian shards, hatches fashioned from vines and heavy rocks that glinted in the sunlight. For the first time, they felt the warm splatter of blood on their face—from creatures that looked so much like them.
They are not children of the Jungle, they reminded themself as they stood over the bodies of their foes. They have no place here.
Their heart twisted and sank with a peculiar weight. Fatigue, they realized. Grief, perhaps. Never in their existence had they killed. They were placed upon the world to create.
They wiped the blood from their face and stared down at their hand. The Jungle had survived. The men would not dare to venture within the wood again. All was won, and the children were free to resume their ordained roles. Zajac knew, however, that it was only a matter of time until war would shadow their doorstep again. You cannot kill chaos. You can only hope it bothers to grant you a moment of reprieve.
A realization dawned upon them as the sun climbed the sky into its throne.
I am not meant to carry this burden alone.
The next day, Zajac leapt about the Jungle, collecting materials here and there from every inhabitant eager to express their gratitude. By the end of the day, they had amassed a considerable amount of materials: soft, clean clay from the rivers, multicolored stones and pebbles from the fish, leafy fronds and vines and sturdy branches from the trees, and various types of teeth sharp and flat from the beasts.
With these gifts, they diligently crafted a set of dolls. They aligned the branches into the shapes and positions of their own bones, and slathered heaps of dark clay onto them to serve as flesh. They set out the incomplete dolls to bake under the scorch of the sun, waiting until the clay was hard enough to be handled without breakage. Then, they trimmed the fronds to match their own ears, but decided on a variety at the last second. They cut some of the fronds shorter, and snipped the others into different shapes. With fresh clay, they fastened a pair of fronds atop each doll head and let them bake once more under the sun.
They fashioned the vines and extra leaves into hair, but they made doubly sure that every doll had a unique style. They picked two stones for each of them, setting them into the heads as eyes. Some stones matched in colors. Others did not. They combined the sharp and flat teeth into sets of powerful jaws perfect for chewing plants and meat. These, too, they set into the heads where the mouths would be.
Once the dolls were complete, Zajac set them at the base of the sleeping bole and knelt. They pressed their hands into the soft soil and closed their eyes, directing every focus to the flow of the Mist running through every vein and root of the Jungle. Slowly, they lowered their head toward the earth and kissed the fine grains. They felt it—the Mist, invigorated by every living, breathing being, pure energy pulsating like the beat of a heart. Love and life flowed through the earth, and Zajac wanted nothing more than to ensure it would remain this way. Inhaling the Mist into their lungs, they took each doll one by one and breathed the Mist into them, filling the hollow cavities of their sun-baked chests.
“Be born of this land,” Zajac whispered. “Live among your brethren. Find your place in this world and let it be your own.”
One by one, the dolls took shape. Branches and roots became bones and veins. Clay and moss became skin and thin fur. Vines and leaves became thick manes of hair, and pebbles blinked into clear eyes. Even the fronds atop their heads became the selfsame ears Zajac wore proudly. They watched with tears in their eyes as their creations came to life—resembling them, yet standing unique and distinct to one another.
The dolls—no, the Rava, Zajac decided—rose to their feet and glanced about their surroundings. Zajac had made sure to breathe their own knowledge into them, but he knew they couldn’t help the curiosity that came with. “Welcome, my children,” they said. “I am the heart of the bole, and the bole is the heart of the Jungle. And you, all of you, are the guardians of this place we call home.”
The Rava looked at them, realization dawning on their faces. The tallest one stepped forward and bowed. “Then it shall be done.”
The others followed. Some bowed, others knelt, touching their hands or their feet to the soil.
Zajac exhaled with relief and newfound hope. “It shall be.”
In the years that followed, Zajac lived among the Rava, teaching them how to forge tools and construct homes and hunt without disrupting the careful balance of the Jungle. The Rava took quickly to the lessons and soon devised new concepts of their own. They fashioned clothing to better weather the shifts in climate, and took to artistry to decorate their homes. They never took more than they needed, they never gave more than they should.
They clothed Zajac in a long, flowing robe befitting of their divinity. They crowned them with a wreath of flowers and vines. They regarded them not just as a god, but also as a parent, a mentor—the living embodiment of their ideals. When the first of the Rava’s children were born and new names were spoken, they made sure to acquaint each child with Zajac. Their heart swelled with every new babe they held, each one different than the last. Their solitude had long since been silenced.
For hundreds of years they carried on this way. Zajac soon discovered their creations were not immortal, subject to return to the earth after three centuries of walking the land. They comforted their grief with the children that carried after their parents, and then their children, and theirs that followed. The balance cannot be maintained without death, Zajac reminded themself, but they wept for every one of their kin they buried.
The Rava soon grew from a handful to hundreds to thousands. They hunted alongside beasts. They leapt from tree to tree. They guarded against the waves of foreign men who would never learn from the mistakes of the past. From speech came script, from script came stories, and then music and dance and festivity and so much more. The Rava tended to crops and raised livestock and traded in goods, all in careful balance, never venturing beyond the threshold of the Jungle.
On the thousandth year, Zajac woke to the whispers of the sleeping bole. It was time, they realized. Their role had become obsolete over the years—the Rava did a fine job guarding the forest, and Zajac grew weary of their heavy bones and skin. They announced their return to the bole, and although the Rava wept, they knew that Zajac would forever watch over them as the true heart of the Jungle.
For seven days, the Rava celebrated in Zajac’s honor. Banquets of delicious fruits and meats filled the villages, children ran around with their faces painted in various colors, and dancers stomped about to the thrumming beat of drums. They sang and prayed and drank every night, and when the seventh evening fell upon them, they took turns kissing Zajac’s hands and wishing them a peaceful slumber.
“Honor the Mist and the Word of the Wood,” Zajac said to each of them as they departed. The Word of the Wood decreed what Zajac always upheld: never take more than needed, never give more than you should. Never allow the greed of the outside world stay you from your path.
“It shall be done,” they always replied.
At last, the hour came when Zajac rose from their makeshift throne and descended down a set of steps carved from polished stone. As the starlit night watched above, and the Rava sang together, Zajac walked along a path of azure petals. Every Rava, young and old, waved as they passed, the gold-embroidered hem of their robe trailing behind them in an elegant sweep. Some Rava were weeping. Others were praying. Around them, the Mist thickened.
All of this pure energy, flowing through the Jungle and its children… Zajac heaved a sigh of relief. Everything would be well in their absence. They had given the Rava tools to survive, to grow, and the fruits of their labor surrounded them as proof. With a smile, Zajac stopped in front of the sleeping bole and lay their hand on the firm wood. Hope, they reminded themself. Hope would always endure.
Slowly, the bole opened itself wide as Zajac shed their robe and stepped into the warm darkness. A wave of peace crashed over them. Sleep tugged at their eyelids and the last dregs of doubt slipped out with a final exhale.
The bole closed its trunk around them. Into a deep slumber, Zajac fell, comforted by dreams of a bright future awaiting the Jungle and all of their children. Around them, the bole pulsed in rhythm to their own heartbeat.
I am the heart of the Jungle, the breath of this land, I am life and love and all that is creation.