Chapter 1:
The Forgotten Valley
The valley had no name. At least, none that the outside world knew. It was hidden deep within a cradle of mountains, where mist slithered between the peaks like old spirits reluctant to leave the earth. The people who lived there had no need to name it; they had always been there, just as the trees had always lined the slopes and the rivers had always cut their paths through stone.
They were not special, not in the way stories tell of lost tribes with golden idols and magic incantations. No, the people of the valley were simply that—people. They hunted, they farmed, they raised their children, and they buried their dead. They did not know they were forgotten. How could they? They had never known anything else.
The People
Their lives followed the rhythms of the land. The men hunted deer in the thick forests, their arrows sharp and true. The women wove cloth from fibers stripped from the tall valley grasses, their hands moving with effortless skill. Children ran through the fields, their laughter echoing against the mountains like the calls of birds.
At night, they gathered around fires, not out of some ceremonial duty, but simply because the night was dark and the fire was warm. They told stories, though none of them were myths of gods or heroes. Instead, they spoke of their grandfathers' hunts, of the river's course changing after the great storm, of the old man who had once climbed the highest peak and claimed he had seen the sea.
No one knew if the sea was real. It did not matter. What mattered was the hunt, the harvest, the changing seasons that determined their simple lives.
The Outsider:
One autumn evening, a man came from beyond the mountains. He arrived at dusk, his feet dragging, his face streaked with sweat and grime. His clothing was odd—stitched in ways unfamiliar to the valley folk, made from materials they did not weave. His eyes were wild, scanning the huts, the people, the fires.
The people did not panic. They did not see him as a threat, nor as a prophecy fulfilled. He was simply there, and that was that. The elders, their faces lined with years, stepped forward. They did not ask him why he was there. They did not ask if he was lost. They only asked, "Are you hungry?"
The man nodded.
And so, he was given food—thick stew in a wooden bowl, bread made from grain ground by the village women. He ate in silence while the valley folk watched, neither wary nor welcoming. He was something new, but not something frightening.
When he finished, the elder spoke again. "Where do you come from?"
The man hesitated. "Far," he said finally. "Beyond the mountains."
The elder nodded as if this were enough. "Then you are tired. Rest."
And so, the man rested.
A Different World
Days passed. The outsider, whose name was Errin, did not speak much at first. He watched. He saw how the valley people lived, how they did not bow to kings or give homage to anyone,they never carved symbols into stone to remember their dead. They simply lived, each day the same as the one before.
They were not ignorant. They knew there was aworld different and frightening outside their valley. They had found strange metal tools washed down the river from the mountains. They had seen birds with bands on their legs, marked by distant hands. They knew that, beyond their land, there was something else.
But they did not care.
Errin could not understand this. He had come from a modern world of impossible rulers, a world where battles were fought for honor, family and land. He had crossed the mountains seeking something—refuge, perhaps, or discovery. He had imagined a lost civilization, a forgotten kingdom of wealth and power.
Instead, he had found this.
One evening, as the fire crackled and children dozed in their mothers' laps, Errin spoke. "Why have you never left the valley?"
The elder raised an eyebrow. "Why would we?"
"There is more beyond the mountains," Errin insisted. "More land, more people. More to see."
The elder shrugged. "And?"
Errin faltered. He had no answer. He had always assumed that people sought more—that it was in their nature to conquer, to explore, to claim. But these people… they were content. Not because they had never known anything else, but because they did not need to know anything else.
"You could be kings," he said finally. "You could rule."
The elder laughed, a deep, rich sound. "Rule what? The trees? The river? The deer?"
"The world," Errin said.
"We have no need for the world."
The Mountains Are High
Winter came, and with it, the snows. The mountains closed in, their passes buried under ice. Errin could not leave. The valley people welcomed him without question. They taught him to set traps for hares, to mend the thatched roofs, to listen to the wind as it whispered through the pines.
He learned their ways, not because they demanded it, but because it was the only way to live in the valley. He stopped wondering about the outside world. He stopped thinking of Money,gold and kings.
When spring arrived, the snows melted. The passes reopened. The elder found Errin sitting by the river, staring at the rushing water.
"You can leave now," the elder said.
Errin did not answer.
The elder sat beside him. "The mountains are high," he said. "But not so high that you cannot cross them again."
Errin nodded. "I know."
"Will you?"
He did not know how to answer. He thought of the world beyond—the cities, the battles, the endless search for more. And then he thought of the valley, the people who asked no more of life than what it gave them.
At last, he spoke.
"No."
The elder smiled. "Then come. The fishing is good today."
And that was that.
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