Once there lived a young man for whom a walk in the trees or a moment beside a stream was all he wished for, a wonderland no dream could conjure, the sky above as perfect as the earth below, every leaf and stone a universe.

  And there he would watch the world and the seasons turn in their ever-changing beauty, birth in spring, summer’s blossom and bloom, autumn harvest, and winter, when all would return to begin again.

  And on one of those winter days, when skies were overcast and the light dull, the man came upon a tree with a bright and beautiful mushroom on its trunk.  

  In all his years the man had never seen such a vivid colour and texture, orange pink with pale yellow gills, as large as his head, and he was drawn to it with great force.

  He looked and marvelled.  Then with a ravenous delight, he bit into its flesh, soft and aromatic, moisture droplets running on to his lips and chin.  

  The taste was delicate but delicious and he pulled at the fungus with his hands, feeding chunks to himself until he had devoured it all.  And then he slumped and rested at the foot of the tree, with fingers wet and a fullness inside, and closed his eyes.

 When he opened them again, the world was more vivid than he could ever remember.  As if in a dream, he felt the falling away of many things, until he was left with nothing that he recognised from before, all past knowledge no longer of use and without meaning.

  Now he sensed a greater spirit that perhaps had echoed since the dawn of all time, a primordial being born from universal dust.

  And with it he felt a yearning to return to the source, to eat again and wallow in the nectar.  But when he returned, he could find no more.  

  And so he walked deeper into the wild, not meaning to return until he had eaten once again.  And when he could walk no more, he rested beneath a tree and fell into a deep slumber.

 The next morning, awoken by the sounds of all the living kingdoms, he heard whispers in the wind.  And whilst he knew not what they said, he understood.  Above the rustle of leaves, he heard them speaking to one another.

  And from the depths of his being, he knew he was changed, for he could hear the true voices of all that lived.  The birdsong, the wind, the soil, the insects, he heard and knew them all now, as if the voices of long-lost friends.  And he listened, for there were no words,  only awe.

And after a long time, he knew that this was his home and that he could never leave.  So he built himself a simple dwelling of branches, hung between two trees, as a bear in his burrow, tall enough for a man to stand, small enough for warmth and sanctuary.  He placed moss around the floor and stones around its edge, and from a branch above the entrance he hung feathers gathered from the forest floor.

  And as days became seasons, the man lived a beautiful life in the company of all that lived, nourished and fed by the fruits of the forest, learning its language and speaking back in its own tongue.

  And on one auspicious day, the bonobo arrived.

  Gentle and inquisitive, she emerged from the canopy and descended to the ground a little way from where the man sat beside a fire.  

  She was young, perhaps only two or three years old, lost to the forest without mother or tribe, but here with him now.

At first, she sat and watched from a distance, cautiously observing him and his every move, as he poked the fire, or drank from his bowl.

 Then with a gentle gesture and a softly whisper, the man beckoned her to sit with him.   And when she sat, the man placed his hand against his chest and bowed his head and she touched her hand to her forehead.  And he understood her and she him, that they meant love and peace.

  That night they lay beneath the trees and slept beside the fire, until morning song awoke them and the first day of many together began.

 Soon they came to understand one another, with gestures for food or hunger, for fire, water, trees and more.  And sometimes they spoke, in clicks and sounds to give names to the many things they knew around them.

She would climb the tallest trees and bring him fruits at their ripest.  And he would teach her how to use tools.  After dark, they slept under the shelter, and when it rained, freshly fallen branches were picked, laid and woven into its walls to make them stronger.  And on warm summer nights, they would lay on their backs in the shady cool boughs of the trees and look through the leaves to the stars.

 All their days were spent exploring, playing, eating and resting, all living things their friend, their mother and child, for they cared for all life as if it was born of themselves and a very part of their being.

  And they cared for each other deeply.  When either might be hurt on a sharp branch, the other would dress the wound with healing leaves.  And when they wanted to express their deepest love and appreciation, they would hold up an open hand and the other would press theirs against it. 

  Then one day the man heard the drums.  At first only one, a slow deep sound in time to his heartbeat, but then another, then another, until a rhythm pulsated through him.

  Without thought, his hand began to tap against the tree beside him, in time to the beat.  And then his fingers, then both hands.  And as he played, the vibrations were carried outwards and animals began to come from the trees, the ground, the air, deer, mice, birds, butterflies, ants and many more.

  But when they came, the animals told him of destruction and devastation in the distance.  

  First the birds told of smoke high in the sky, then the insects told of the shaking earth.  And he knew that the heavy sound that he had heard deep within was earth crying out.

  The man climbed to the highest tree and looked to the horizon, where smoke and heat rippled up to the clouds and he could see that all they loved was in danger and it was time for them to leave.

 Then the animals told him of a far-off place, high in the hills, deep into the forest, where they would be safe.  And so they went, man, bonobo and all manner of winged and footed friend, away from the homes they had known.

  Finally, through densest forest, they came to a clearing with the gnarled and ghostly remains of a dead tree at the centre, and they stopped.  And the man and bonobo were again surrounded with all that was simple and beautiful.  Here they would build a new home.

After many more moons and seasons, the man’s beard had grown until all his hair was dark and matted, and the hairs on his body became thick and coarse, before one day he saw his reflection in a pool of water and could see that he had became as a bonobo.  The man found himself no longer, instead he saw himself as animal, an equal to bonobo.

  And on one overcast and dull winter morning, when they had both become old and grey, the bonobo found the man laying dead.  

  With understanding and tears of deepest loss, she stroked his hair and face and lay down beside him.  For three days and nights, she mourned and grieved, and did not eat.  And all the animals came to pay their respects, each bringing a stone, a feather or a twig.

  Finally, on the fourth day, she buried him beside the ghost tree, then with her hand one last time against her chest and head bowed, she walked off into the forest.

And beside where the man now lay entombed, on the trunk of the tree, a mushroom bloomed, pink and orange of great vividness.