#prologue
PROLOGUE
No noise ... No presence was felt in the darkness.
The moment of birth has not come yet. Only eternity knows when, and how will the birth.
For a short moment, eternal peace is self-sufficient. All that could have been, all that could become, is not, or remains in the hope of becoming that depends only on a will.
But to whom or to what should this will be attributed?
It is at this moment of history that the enigma takes all its strength.
And this first enigma remains, and will remain the moment of this birth.
Before beginning my story, I tell you that this story I must tell the story for the children of the times to come. You, the children who listen to me on this day, it is at the request that you made me, that I tell you this wonderful story arrived at a man, whom I once knew.
It was in these terms that an old man was talking in front of a meeting of children. It was in a small mountain village, lost far from this civilization that had just died out.
Dawn had been rising for some time already. The sun shone its rays on the tops of the trees that stood on the opposite side of the mountain. The few clouds that roamed the sky, to the rhythm of a tiny bise, foreshadowed a beautiful summer day. It's that kind of day, where children like to run in the grass, to play all the games, the nature of which would be the perfect ground. But this day should not be a day like the others. The children of this village had to learn another game. This game would keep intact a memory. The memory of a wonderful story. But for this kind of game, it was necessary to find a person who knows the rules. To do this, all that remained was the still intact memory of an old man. Theodore, guardian and tutor, for some time again, children who were to revive the world.
The fabulous story he was about to tell had nothing in common with the tales of yesteryear. Only the reality of a story, pictured here and there as symbols, for form.
The children had to be attentive to this tale. Did they feel the need to know? Did they want to live the dream of life? Did they look for an answer? The storyteller did not care about that. He had a story to tell. Old debt he owed to a friend gone. Had not he sworn to him that his story would not be lost?
Theodore had gathered all the children in the village square.
The few houses still standing, adorned with their yellow ocher stones, gave the impression that they were daughters of the sun, so much the brilliancy of gold that they spread throughout the village was intense.
Still damp with the few drops of dew, the slate tiles shone like polished steel.
Under the sun, there was only the small square of the village that was spared.
Throwing majestically their branches towards the sky, a small group of trees, in the fragrant shade, sat enthroned on the square. It was like a kind of natural house, a shelter for talking, thinking, exchanging ideas. It was this privileged place that Theodore had chosen to tell his story.
The children had gathered in an arc around him.
What was striking was the age of these children. It was from the toddler to the teenager. But, everyone could be sure that the story told would have an impact on his personality. At any level.
Thus, in the morning of this day, as the sun began to illuminate the summit of the surrounding mountains, the story of the Great Dreamer would finally become a reality for future generations.
Theodore took a deep breath. He let himself be invaded by the force of his mind ... Then, still doubtful, caressing his long white beard, he glanced mischievously at one of the children. As if it were to give him a signal.
All the big eyes were open, ears outstretched. None of Theodore's words were to be lost in the immensity of the air. They had to listen because nobody would take notes about this story. It should pass the generations on the air, hoping not to be transformed by the vagaries of time.
The few childish murmurs faded. Even the birds stopped chatting for a moment. As if they held their breath. The bise was still twirling volutes of dust, giving the place a wonderful aspect of a theater, where the play of light accompanied the rhythm of sounds. Light, linked to speech, the music of words through the glittering sunlight, where insects and grains of dust lost their vile nature to become the moment of the show, sparkling diamonds. And then, as if an order had come from nowhere, the wind fell, letting the dust rest on the arid soil. What mattered the light, what mattered the development of the dust, since such was not the spectacle. Everything happened as if nature herself was listening to this story.
The whole village was in great peace. Listening to the world, listening to another world that once had to exist. The three strokes of the performance could be struck. The actors were all in place in Theodore's memory. He could start.