Wild Hearts

Long, long ago, in a space where time had not yet existed, there stood in the middle of a lake of crystal purity an enormous mountain. The mountain's roots extended to the very center of the earth, drawing sustenance from the planet's core.

Neither beasts nor birds dared to approach it; such power flowed through the mountain's energy. It knew not the touch of animal paws, fur, feathers, or tongues. The earth beneath it remained unfamiliar with the taste of blood. Its forests never echoed with the rustle of wings or the chirps of newborns creatures.

Life and Death played out somewhere on the other shores—close enough to be observed but not close enough to feel a part of their dance.

For thousands of years, the mountain stood surrounded by the mirror of the icy lake. For millenia it observed the changes of the other shores, witnessing one generation succeeding another. And then, one day, people appeared on those distance shores—a whole tribe, from newborns to the elderly, with one person standing out among them.
A woman.

For many hours the woman stood on the lake shore, gazing at the mountain, and the mountain gazed back at her. This woman was unique; people frequently visited her tent made of animal skins, sometimes bringing their sick children and elderly. They left on their own. People of the tribe brought her offerings: animals skins, meat, berries, leather, stones.

There were times when the woman secluded herself in her tent for many days. During those days, the mountain began to feel the woman within itself—in its forests, meadows, among its rocks, inside its rivers. In those meetings, the mountain began to feel itself.

The mountain cherished the woman's presence—the scent of the tribe's mother, the strength of a shaman and a healer, the throaty songs, the gentle, noiseless footsteps, the tender touch of human hands.
After a few such encounters, the mountain began to long for the woman.

The mountain pleaded—from the core of the planet to the diamond stars. And in response to its plea, a storm came. The sky darkened.

Hurricane winds tore forests and grasses from the mountain. Torrential rain washed away its rivers. Lightning strucked its lands and rocks. And on the last day of the storm, a massive ball of blinding light fell from the sky straight into the mountain...

When the survived people emerged from their tents the next morning, they witnessed an unprecedented sight. A miraculous one. Rising from the water of the lake was a colossal stone hand—such had become the once great mountain. The shaman woman from the tribe stepped forward, took her bag of herbs and animal skins, got into a boat, and paddled with an oar.

She stepped onto the hand-mountain, knelt, and wept all day. She mourned what was lost. At sunset, she built a fire from branches of fallen trees, adorned herself in animal hide, and danced around the colorful flames all night, beating a drum. She welcomed the one who was born.

And so it continued from that day forth.
Special people, with wild hearts and pagan souls —shamanic people who could hear, see, and know — came from all around to the hand-mountain. They stepped onto its firmness and performed their animalistic rituals, dancing all night until dawn around the huge colorful fire.
There was nothing more frightening and beautiful than the spectacle of their rituals and wild dances.