"They used to worship me,” I say to myself, looking down upon the island. 

 

For the past two years, I’ve made my home in the upper mountain, overlooking the forest and beach.  The wind is perilous, and the cold air chills my bones, but even that is not nearly as painful as weathering their hateful stares once again.

 

I look down on the island, and see my people.  One tribe has placed its village on the beach.  Boats go out every morning, returning at sunset laden with fish.  The waters around the island are plentiful, as the mists have gathered scarcely a mile off the shore.  Even the fish are smart enough to know that anything venturing into the mist never returns.  Their houses are made of bamboo and leaves, both of which grow in abundance near the shore.

 

The other tribe has made its home in the forests and lower slopes of the mountain.  A nomadic tribe, their homes are made out of animal skin and branches.  During the cold winter months, they seek shelter in the caves of the mountain.  The mountain provides them with stone and ore, which they have used to great benefit.  They have crafted magnificent tools, with which they hunt their prey.

 

The two tribes often come into conflict.  This island is not small, but neither is it large enough to give both tribes the room they desire.  At least once a year, they meet in battle.  A bloody conflict rages for weeks.  The woodland tribe wreaks havoc with their sharp metallic weapons.  The sea tribe takes to the water and launches volleys of arrows at the hapless people on shore.  No one truly ‘wins;' they just kill enough so that the island isn’t crowded anymore.  Then they each pull back to their village, rebuild, and wait until next year.

 

And it is all my fault.

 

I am a dreamer.  Did I mention that?

 

Once, there was only one tribe.  The tribe wintered in the caves, and spent its summers on the beach, sailing and gathering food for the long winter months.  Everything was happy and peaceful.  It was a communal society; everyone helped everyone else.  The old and infirm were well taken care of, and the children were watched over by everyone.

 

I had been born with bad eyesight, only able to see clearly a few feet in front of myself.  This deficiency was not a slight one in our society.  Without being able to see clearly, I could not aid in hunting.  I could not read signals from people on shore.  I could not serve many of the more useful functions in our society.  Our society cared for me, however, and I did my best to return that care.  I became the tribe’s Loremaster, keeping track of past stories and tales, and telling them to the generations to come after me.  Such work expanded my imagination, and I loved every moment of it.

 

Then, I began dreaming.

 

I learned wondrous things in the City.  I spoke with people from other lands, beyond the mists.  I learned their technology.  I told them of my island.  They referred to them as ‘shards,' the small sections of Cloudsbreak that had been divided by the mists.  My mind swelled with information, and I dutifully brought it all back to my people.

 

My people listened in amazement as I told them my findings.  I told them of wells, how one could dig deeply beneath the surface of the earth and find water, even far from the known rivers and streams.  I told them how some shards had found a way to use the stone and rocks in the mountain to create wonderful tools and devices that made our way of life much easier.  From a wizened old dreamer, I even learned the secrets of crafting glass using the sand along our beaches.

 

They also listened when I told them of the great wars that took place in the City.  They listened when I told them of rank and caste.  They listened when I told them how some of the dreamers acted only for themselves, with no concept of community.  They listened when I told them of houses hoarding talismans away from dreamers.  They listened when I told them of political intrigue and espionage.

 

The secrets of glass intrigued me, especially when the wizened one told me of how certain curvatures of glass could aid in eyesight.  I immediately set out to work.  Whenever I was not telling stories and tales to my tribe, I was out at the beach, building fires and attempting to craft glass.  I was so blinded by my desire to see, that I did not notice the changing attitudes of my people.

 

When I finally put on my glasses and saw the world clearly for the first time, it was only to see how far my people had fallen.  Where we had once been a peaceful and happy society, we were now torn by strife.  My people fought amongst themselves over which was better to live in, the mountains or the beach.  My people fought amongst themselves over how to raise their children, and care for their elders.  My people fought amongst themselves over how to distribute the food and goods created by their labors.

 

And whenever I looked at my people, I felt them stare at me with hatred, for bringing about these changes in their lives.  Each glare rankled my heart until I felt I could no longer bear the pain.  On that day, I packed my meager belongings and departed from the tribe, voyaging to the top of the mountain; the one place I knew I could live without further disrupting their society.

 

From up here, I sit and observe my people.  Every day, I watch the two tribes grow more and more distant and hateful toward each other.  Every day I watch, and remember that worms may infest even the sweetest fruits of knowledge.