Once upon a time a long time ago, the Creator of Worlds looked upon his lands and thought how sad it would be to have no living thing inhabiting the wild places. It was a wondrous place to behold, high reaching peaks or granite stone that kissed the sky with their cold snow-capped tops and deep, bottomless oceans of blue where dark and beautiful beings lived in peace.

The fields of the west were fertile for plant-life, Wheatfield's stretching as far as the eyes could behold, shining as gold as the mineral rocks rooted up from the hearts of cavernous mine shafts. It was a beauty untouched by want, or greed, but so very silent. For nothing yet lived beyond the plants which spoke only through the whisper of the wind as it blew through the branches of the willow tree, or the silent exaltation of the rocky crags when sunlight touched their uppermost peaks. It was a silent world he had created. He desired to hear the song of life in all its many guises so he created the birds, white doves, small, round blue-birds, and the sharp eyed, brown-backed hawks to soar through the wide expanse of blue skies.

He paused to listen, the soft co-coo of nesting doves gentle and lilting in the morning hours, the cheerful chirruping of blue-birds fluttering to and fro in a mad rush to build their spring-time nests, and the strong whoosh of the Lords of the Sky as they plucked salmon from the river. This was all good and proper but he wanted to hear something more; there was an unvoiced music echoing in the quiet recess of his heart but he had not heard it yet for it was not a song that lived in the hearts of man or to be found between the soft, rhythmic beats of a little birds breast.

It was something else, a distinctly otherworldly melody that lived on the forest edges betwixt and between the shadow and the light. It was not yet born into the nighttime hours when all the world lay sleeping but it would be, he was sure of it.

The summer days, long and hot, were for the merry-making of birds, the soft thudding of the white harts hoofs impressed upon the dirt and the innocent laughter of children echoing in the green dells of the lowlands.

No, this was not that sound. Each had their place of pride in the land; the bright, warm and cheering songs of the daylight hours and the soft, sleep-songs of night. Peering inwards, deep into the soul of himself the Creator observed the unwritten melody that hummed an ancient tune to his beating heart and with hands grasping it tight he pulled the song out of the dark, quiet places of primordial origin and began to hum aloud.

Louder and louder he hummed until his crescendo hit a feverish pitch - all the world was silent, watching this new act of creation with bated breath. Sweat beading on his brow the Creator gently folded the music of his heart into a tangible thing, glowing like incandescent fire magic between his hands.

Finally he ceased humming and into the silence commanded. "Live."