The First Threads

Preface

❧ Before the keeping of time, before even the stars had learned their names, there was weaving. This tale is said to be among the oldest remembered by leaf and river, whispered by silence, carried by wind, and guarded by stone. It is not the song of gods nor of men, but the weaving that gave birth to both. Preserved in the hush of branches and the glimmer of stars, it is given here as it was first spoken:

The First Threads. ❧

❧ Attach'd to leaves, their gluten threads to spin; then round and round they weave with circling heads. ❧

The trees did not mind–nor did they resist. They bent their branches inward, listening, as if the weaving itself were told to them. Some shivered as if in laughter; others sighed as if remembering loss. They leaned closer, hushed, as if curious what new pattern might be born in their branches. Each filament shivered in the dusk like a harp-string plucked by unseen fingers. The air smelled of sap and moonlight.

By morning, the threads had gathered stories—fragments of whispered dreams. Birdsong caught mid-note. A child’s laughter drifting from the meadow below. All these became knotted into the lattice, invisible to those who did not look closely, yet gleaming faintly when the wind sighed through.

And the leaves, once content to flutter idly, found their edges sharpening into words. Not words of men, but words of root and shadow, syllables that could coax water from stone or summon the nightjar from her hidden nest.

The weavers–if that is what they are–never stopped circling. Their heads bent in reverence, not toil. They were neither wholly insect nor wholly spirit, but something spun between. And perhaps that is why the forest allowed them.

❧

In the silence before memory, when even the stars had yet to name themselves, there were only the leaves. Vast and uncountable, they drifted in the dark like green embers waiting for breath.

And then came the weaving.

❧ Attach’d to leaves, their gluten threads to spin; then round and round they weave with circling heads. ❧

So it was spoken, and so it began.

They spun not from hunger, nor from shelter-seeking, but from longing—a longing for pattern, for song, for meaning. And the threads stretched leaf to leaf, breath to breath, until a lattice shimmered across the void.

In that lattice, the first stories gathered: the sigh of the wind, the pulse of root, the dream of water. The wind leaned into the threads and gave its breath freely. Roots pressed upward, eager to share their hidden knowing. Water dreamed aloud, murmuring of paths it would one day carve. When it grew wide enough to tremble with its own voice, the forest awoke. Trees rose from the weave, rivers ran like silver caught in hair, and the stars, jealous of such making, pierced holes in the canopy to watch. Though they envied, still they gave their light–pinpricks of fire to mark the paths of night, so that humankind might never walk in utter darkness. They sang faintly from their distance, calling down warnings and questions, but their voices broke on the lattice like waves against stone.

Thus it is told: all things were first bound in thread before they were flesh, or stone, or fire. Even the gods themselves could not step into being until they found their place in the weave.

❧

Each thread was more than fiber. It was memory. As they crossed and bound, the lattice became a vessel from remembrance: the hush of rain before it fell, the ache of stone waiting to be shaped, the quiet yearning of roots pressing deeper into earth.

The leaves grew restless with meaning. Their edges whispered syllables that no tongue had yet spoken, syllables woven of shadow and dawn. When the wind stirred the lattice, it was not merely sound, but song. A song that remembered what had never yet occurred, a song that carried promise within its tone.

Birds had not yet been given wing, yet already their voices trembled in the web. Rivers had not yet carved their courses, yet their music rippled through the threads. Even silence itself had a place, wrapped gently in the weave, so that nothing might be forgotten. Silence walked among them as presence, not absence–steady as root, tender as breath withheld. It cradled each thread, promising to keep what would one day be lost.

The forest — if it could still be called — listened. And in the listening, it became. Trunks stretched upward, branches bent low, roots drank deep of a soil that was not yet soil, but dream. Thus, the first ground was laid: not from dust, nor from stone, but from story. Stone itself hummed as it hardened, proud to hold memory in weight. Soil quickened with promise, eager to cradle what would root in it.

❧

From the weave of song came sparks. At first faint, like dawn through mist, then brighter, until the lattice itself glowed. These sparks were the first Spirits–intelligence born of light and knowledge, quickened by the harmony of threads.

They stirred like children in a cradle of leaves. Some lingered close, content to dwell in shadow and listen to the music of root and water. They became Keepers of silence, watchers of memory, guardians of what must not be forgotten.

Others burned with swifter fire. They leapt from thread to thread, learning the patterns of resonance, the laws of balance, the hidden paths by which light could be gathered and shaped. They grew vast, and their voices carried like thunder across the canopy. In their wisdom, they discovered the secret: that to know the weave was to wield it.

And thus these Spirits, advancing in brightness, became capable of creation itself. They touched the lattice with intention, and life blossomed–first in small forms, delicate as breath, then in great and countless shapes. Wing and fin, scale and leaf, all rose where their thought and song entwined with the threads.

Yet even in their making, the oldest song remained: that nothing stands apart from the weave. All beings, no matter how mighty, must find their place in the pattern, lest they unravel what first gave them birth.

❧

The lattice deepened, and with each vibration, the world took shape. Mountains rose where the threads knotted strong. Seas pooled where they loosened and gave way. Stars flared in the dark canopy, each one a jewel where song had pierced the veil. Beasts took breath, their bodies formed of dust yet quickened by light drawn from the weave. Trees stretched upward, rivers carved their silver tongues, and the earth grew firm beneath their roots.

The Spirits marveled. They beheld the glory of what their thought and song had wrought. But the rivers already laughed at their banks, claiming the song as their own. The trees straightened proudly, each leaf gleaming with syllables no Spirit could yet name. The world itself seemed to say: We, too, have woven. And in wonder, many longed to walk among it.

“Give us form,” cried the Creators, their voices bright as flame. “Let us feel the rivers we have set in motion. Let us tread upon the mountains we have raised. Let us touch the creatures who look to us as kin.”

But the Keepers warned: “To take form is to forget. Flesh will bind you, hunger will hollow you, death will break you. Worse still–you may come to believe that you are the first weavers, when you are only threads in the greater song.”

The lattice trembled with their discord. Some Spirits recoiled, fearing loss. Others pressed forward, burning with desire to descend.

❧

❧ Attach’d to leaves, their gluten threads to spin; then round and round they weave with circling heads. ❧

The weaving grew vast, and with it the longing of the Spirits. The Creators gathered in brilliance, their voices bright with yearning.

“Shall we not descend?” they asked. “Shall we not walk the fields we have sown, and taste the fruit we have imagined? Shall we not clasp the hands of those we have shaped, and call them kin?”

But the Keepers stood firm in the shadow of the lattice, their voices low and steady.

“You are already within it,” they said. “Why must you hunger for dust and breath? In form, you will weaken. You will tire. You will suffer the wound of forgetting. Stay, and remain whole.”

The Creators flared against them, and their song grew sharp with defiance.

“To remain above is to be incomplete. To sing of rivers but never feel their cold–what is that but half a song? To call forth creatures and never embrace them–what is that but abandonment? We are not whole until we are flesh as well as flame.”

The lattice quivered with their discord. A rift opened, widening like a crack across the song.

It was then the oldest thread stirred, and the voice of the Weave itself was heard:

“Both paths are true. Spirit without form is endless but distant. Form without spirit is fleeting but full. Yet one may be made who carries both–born of dust and thread together. In them the longing shall be answered, and the memory preserved.”

Thus, the quarrel gave way to a greater shaping. And the birth of humankind began.

❧

From the lattice of memory, strands were drawn. From the earth newly firm, dust was gathered. The dust stirred willingly, as if it had long waited to become voice and bone. The threads wrapped it gently, and even the wind hushed, lest the shaping be broken. From the fire of the Spirits, sparks were kindled. And from the silence of the Keepers, breath was given.

Thus was the shaping begun.

The threads wove with the dust, binding what was fleeting to what endured. Sparks kindled in the hollows, and breath filled the vessel with motion. Form arose–fragile, radiant, unfinished, yet bearing within it the balance of both longing and remembrance. Yet the roots stirred uneasily, for they knew that all growth breaks the earth before it rises. The rivers shivered with foresight, carrying both laughter and lament toward shores not yet formed.

The Spirits beheld this new being, and wonder overcame their discord. For here was one who could walk the rivers and still hear their first song. One who could eat of the fruit and yet recall the tree’s dreaming root. One who could suffer and still rise, could die and yet continue.

The Keepers said: “In them the memory shall live on, even when we fade.”

The Creators said: “In them the joy of touch and taste shall be fulfilled.”

And the Weave itself whispered: “In them is the path beyond.”

So humankind awoke, first as children of thread and dust, then as seekers, as dreamers, as voices who would learn to weave anew. Their eyes opened upon the dawn, and though they did not yet know the lattice from which they had come, they carried its flame hidden deep, a spark that no death could quench.

❧

When humankind awoke, the Spirits gathered to behold them.

Some gazed in wonder and bowed low. “These are the true children of the weave,” they said. “Through them, we shall not be forgotten. They will walk where we cannot, and their voices will carry our song into ages yet unborn.” These Spirits bent close in blessing, whispering memory into the hearts of humankind, that they might never be wholly severed from the first song.

Others looked with envy and disquiet. “Why should these fragile ones inherit what we have long desired?” they murmured. “They are dust and hunger, yet the Weave grants them both form and flame. Better we should descend in our own right, without vessel or compromise.” These Spirits turned aside in pride, and their songs grew discordant, weaving snares that would test the new race.

And still others withdrew into silence. They neither blessed nor cursed, but folded themselves deep within the lattice. “Let us wait,” they said. “Let us watch and remember. If humankind rises, we shall keep their memory safe. If they fall, we shall keep their sorrow safe.”

Thus, the Spirits were divided: The Joyful, who gave gifts of light, memory, and guidance. The Jealous, who sought power in form without the path of progression. The Silent, who became witnesses, neither aiding nor hindering, but guarding the record of all things. And humankind, standing at dawn, felt the pull of each song–the blessing, the discord, and the silence–woven into the very threads of their being.

❧

So it was that humankind awoke not into stillness, but into a world already woven with harmony and discord.

From the Joyful Spirits, they inherited the gift of memory. Deep within their hearts, a spark was set: a flame that whispered of the first song, urging them to rise, to learn, to create in beauty.

From the Jealous Spirits, they inherited the burden of temptation. Threads of shadow wound about them, urging them to claim what was not given, to hunger beyond need, to forget their place in the greater pattern.

From the Silent Spirits, they inherited witness. In joy or sorrow, their steps were recorded. Nothing was lost. Even when they forgot, the weave remembered. Even when they broke, the threads held their story safe.

From the earth itself, they inherited remembrance, for the trees, rivers, and stones bore witness to every step. Even when they forgot, the land would remember them.

Thus, the path of humankind was not one path, but many. Some walked in harmony, ascending toward greater light. Some wandered in twilight, partaking of both blessing and burden. Some strayed into shadow, yet even there the flame within them was not quenched. And it was told:

❧

Those who cleave to the first song shall rise higher, until they shine as the Spirits themselves, clothed in light and knowledge.

Those who falter but keep faith shall yet walk in peace, though dimmer than the brightest flame.

Those who yield wholly to discord shall dwell in shadow, yet even they shall not be unthreaded from the weave.

❧

For the Weave does not destroy what it has made. It only waits, drawing all things back in time. For each death was not an end, but a loosening; each birth not a beginning, but a thread drawn again into the loom. The pattern circles ever onward, never breaking, never the same.

❧ Attach’d to leaves, their gluten threads to spin; then round and round they weave with circling heads. ❧

Thus, the first weaving was complete, and humankind was set upon their path–born of dust and thread, of flame and breath. In them, the longing of the Creators was fulfilled, and in them, the memory of the Keepers endured. The Silent watched, and the Weave itself listened.

From that dawn onward, all was shaped by their journey: the rising and the falling, the remembering and the forgetting, the choosing of light or shadow. For each life was another thread, circling back into the lattice, strengthening, loosening, or fraying the great design.

And it is told that the pattern is not yet finished. For humankind still weaves, and the song is still sung. The first threads endure, holding fast the memory of all beginnings, awaiting the day when the final weaving shall be revealed.

❧ And it is said still: when you walk beneath leaves,

the threads remember your footsteps.

They take even your smallest breath into their song,

weaving it into the pattern unseen. ❧

Author’s Note

The First Threads was born from a single image: the circling of weavers among leaves, their threads glimmering like harp-strings in dusk. From that moment, the story unfolded as an origin myth – not only of the world, but of memory itself.

Much of my work returns to the idea that nature is not passive but sentient – a witness, a mourner, a keeper of silence. Here, the trees lean inward to listen, the rivers laugh and lament, the stars envy yet guide, and silence itself becomes a companion. In their voices, the threads of story are carried forward, reminding us that nothing is ever truly lost.

I see this piece as both a standalone myth and part of a larger cycle – one strand in the weaving that connects my poetry, plays, and stories. It is a tale of beginnings, but also of cycles: loosening and return, silence and song, memory and forgetting.

And it is said still: when we walk beneath leaves, the threads remember.

–Rebecca A. Hyde Gonzales