Long, long ago, before mighty rivers shifted their courses and valleys stretched into vast plains, there was a peculiar and ancient village hidden among rocky mountains and glowing swamps. In this village lived a unique tribe, devoted to hunting giant beasts, tending to crackling fires at night, and telling stories under the light of the moon. Their days were a mix of danger and marvels, surrounded by creatures we would now call impossible: mammoths with colorful tusks, woolly rhinos that sang at dawn, and, high in the clouds, giant birds that glided like living carpets over the world.
At the heart of this village was a boy named Wokan. He was just seven or maybe eight winters old, with messy hair and a face always smudged with ash and dirt. Wokan had grown up here, thinking this extraordinary life was the most ordinary thing in the world. His first words were spoken amidst the roars of enormous animals, his first steps dodged glowing puddles and giant crabs that scuttled up walls, and his dreams were filled with the songs his elders sang. Wokan was observant, yet so used to his surroundings that nothing amazed him anymore.
“Look, Wokan, look at that centipede with glowing eyes,” his mother would sometimes say, pointing to a fantastic creature climbing a rock at sunset.
Wokan would glance at it without much interest, shrug, and reply, “Yeah, it’s the same one as always. It’s lived there since I was born.”
To him, everything was perfectly normal: the shimmering ground that hummed at dusk, the carnivorous flowers that danced to the hunters’ drumbeats, or the vibrant feathered snakes weaving nests in the crowns of giant trees. None of it inspired fear or wonder anymore.
One evening, as the village lit its fires and the air filled with the scent of burning bark and herbs, a traveler arrived in the valley. He was a very old man, thin and quiet, dressed in gray furs and carrying a staff carved with strange figures. Without a word, the village elders invited him to sit by the main fire. No one knew where this man with moonlit eyes had come from or why he had journeyed so far to reach them. The children darted around him, watching with curiosity or caution. Wokan, of course, also approached, though without much excitement. He didn’t think the old man could surprise him. What story could this traveler possibly tell that could surpass the wonders of the valley?
As the stillness of night deepened, the traveler began to speak in a deep, deliberate voice. His words were slow, as if savoring each sound:
“I have walked on lands as smooth as the surface of a pond. I’ve seen beasts with a thousand legs and flowers taller than a person. I’ve heard rivers that speak, stones that sing, and clouds that draw pictures to tell stories. I’ve climbed mountains of fire, ventured into forests full of glowing worms, and slept beneath trees that whispered my name.”
As he spoke, his eyes glimmered, and the villagers listened with an almost sacred reverence. Slowly, the old man rose within his own story, painting an invisible map with his words.
At first, Wokan listened with indifference. But when the traveler described a small pond he had encountered, Wokan’s curiosity stirred. The man spoke of tiny, round, transparent creatures that floated motionlessly on the pond’s surface. At night, he said, these creatures glowed from within, each one a different color, and watching them made you feel as if you were floating alongside them. He confessed that this moment had been one of the most magical of his journey, and he would give almost anything to relive the wonder of seeing them for the first time.
Wokan frowned. What a strange thing to say, he thought. How could something so simple seem so extraordinary to the traveler? Wokan lived surrounded by fantastical creatures and plants that seemed plucked from impossible dreams. How could this old man captivate everyone with something so… plain?
That night, Wokan couldn’t sleep. He tossed and turned under his bear-skin blanket, imagining the traveler gazing at those glowing creatures. Was it truly so wondrous?
The next morning, the village looked as it always did. The sun rose behind the tooth-shaped mountain, hunters prepared to track giant beasts, children played, and some carnivorous flowers began their slow morning dances. But for the first time, Wokan felt a peculiar question stirring in him: Could all of this I see every day really be amazing?
He decided to find out.
That day, Wokan silently followed the hunters, hiding behind rocks and watching their chase. He saw them sprint after a mammoth with pink tusks, heard the wind whistle as the beast fled, leaving sparkles in the air. He smelled the deep scent of grass crushed under massive feet and noticed glowing mushrooms growing on the mammoth’s fur—something he’d never observed before. How many other things have I missed out of habit? he wondered.
Later, he visited the pond near the village, where giant frogs wove carpets of leaves. He sat quietly, watching as the frogs used their elastic tongues to gather plant fibers and, with patience, wove them into intricate patterns. To him, they had always been just frogs, but now he realized they were creating living works of art. Wasn’t that worth marveling at?
Wokan spent the whole day wandering the valley, trying to see with fresh eyes the things he had long ignored. On the mountainside, he discovered singing lichens; in the northern forest, a tree whose fruits rang like bells when they fell. By a clear stream, he found tiny glowing insects, their tails blinking in time with the dripping water. Every scene, creature, and corner of the valley held a secret—a spark of wonder waiting to be noticed.
By sunset, as the sky turned orange, the old traveler was preparing to leave. The tribe gave him dried fruits and carved bones as gifts, and he smiled gratefully. Before he departed, Wokan approached him for the first time.
“Why did you find the creatures in the pond so wonderful?” Wokan asked.
The old man gazed at him for a long moment with wise eyes and answered, unhurried:
“Because I saw them with curious eyes. I didn’t know they existed until I found them, and when I saw them for the first time, I felt the world was bigger than I had imagined.”
Wokan nodded silently. Now he understood. His world was enormous too—he had simply forgotten. He had wandered through its wonders without truly seeing them.
That night, as he watched the traveler disappear into the distance, Wokan felt a renewed joy. He knew that, with the next sunrise, he would wake to a universe full of details waiting to be discovered. All he needed was to look with intent, to open his eyes and heart, and realize that life, with all its strange beauty, was brimming with secrets even in the most familiar places.
When darkness blanketed the valley, Wokan returned to his hut. His mother asked if everything was all right, and he smiled. Yes, everything was fine—better than fine. He felt like an explorer in his own home, an adventurer in his own village. From that day forward, Wokan lived with the certainty that every corner of the valley, every animal, flower, and stone, held a story waiting to be told. All it took was pausing to listen.