Long ago in the early days of the world there was a great huntsman. As a boy he honed his skill among the fields and the upon the rivers. In his youth he gained fame in the mountains and the valleys. As a man he ventured farther, hunting up the steep mountains and out into the vast endless sea.

The huntsman travelled far and his renown travelled farther still; in every village he was welcomed, in every city applauded. Only the animals, it seemed, were unaware of his comings and goings.

And yet, with all his skill and fame, the hunter had not set a single foot within the forest. Everyone at that time knew they were no place for man. Only the seldom creature from within that wandered without became fair prey.

The hunter aged and grew in his skill. He slew great leviathans of the deep and caught great birds who’s roosts approached the heavens. And yet, the hunter found himself unsatisfied. The world began to hold little wonder for him.

It was this, as he entered his fiftieth year, that motivated him to pick up his bow, put on his deerskin boots, dress in his brown hides and set out before any else had risen—not his sons, nor his wife, nor even the sun. He padded silently across the fields and the dells, stalked unseen past the first risers of the animal world. No single ear of hare rose at his passing, no bird took to wing.

Not until he reached the wall of deeper shadow amongst those great boles did he have to make a single mark upon the lands of men. But there, upon the threshold of those twilight lands, he had to draw forth his blade to put metal to holly bow and so make passage.

And so the great hunter tread lands unseen by human eye. He tracked new creatures large and small, entranced by their violent appetites and careful attentions. He learned how to adorn himself in cut flower and vine to pass uncontested. He did not know how many days it was, nor was he concerned for he could live off any land for as long as he cared to, even one such as this.

But one day, in the dappled shadow of the deep reaches he found something that disturbed him. The hunter thought by then that he had come to conquer this wooded land as he had all others. His self assurance kept leading him further into lands not meant for the eyes of men. When he saw this thing he felt as if he had suddenly awoken for a stupor of novelty and nostalgia both, and he made up his mind to return home.

His return took him many days, even with his great skill. The forests seemed to resist hurry, every path more winding than its predecessor. His knife, dull by now, made a mess of his cuttings and this too slowed his passage.

When finally he emerged, he could barely recognize his homeland. Its colors dull, its inhabitants slow and indistinct. He returned to his family, but they too were changed to him. His family was no longer the most beautiful thing he had witnessed.

He knew there was no longer any place for him, his own world no longer enough and that other land too much. Yet he still held some self assurance, he still was that great hunter. And so he set off back to the forest to try to live between the lands as long as he could manage.