There was once a river running through the mountains. None can say which river or which mountains, for this was so long ago that the land has rolled and shifted so as to become unrecognizable in the time since. The mountains were blanketed in a soft powder of white snow, and as the snow melted, it crept along the ground and joined together into streams of water, which trickled along the rocks and formed a river. And the river coursed down through a forest, emptying into the ocean. So it went for eons.
But then one day, the snow on the mountains had a thought. “Am I alike to the water in the streams?” And so also did the water in the river begin to wonder, “Am I alike to the roots of the trees?” They were curious, but it seemed that they would never know the answer, for just as the snow went to inspect the streams, it became the water, and just as the water went to inspect the trees, it became the roots. And so it went for eons.
Eventually, the Great Mother herself became aware of
these questions. Holding the world in her embrace, she
felt the curiosity of the elements rippling and vibrating
across its surface, anxious for answers. And so, she loosened her grip—just slightly. The rippling thoughts of the
snow and the waters and the rocks and the trees took
shape, and their shapes were beautiful, for they were
curiosity made manifest. These were the first nymphs.