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To all the “Caleb’s” of my life. ~E.A.F

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Preludium:

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Imagine a land so far away, that even if you travelled for millions of ages, you would never reach it.

But let’s say that you could...

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through the darkest and deepest regions of space you would have to roam, where in some places

not a star can be seen.

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He is wearing worn clothing that seems very old fashioned––rough brown

pants, a crudely buttoned and frayed vest, and a light tunic. But as the toymaker gets closer, you sense something…different about him.

You lock eyes, and stare for a few seconds into his gleaming irises. Are they

green? Or blue? Or multicolored? Every time you look again, they are slightly different––or is it the light of the sun creating this illusion? There are wrinkles on the man’s face––just a few slight creases around his cheeks that seem to whisper of old stories just longing to emerge from his warm smile. So he isn’t young? But he seems young? You can no longer tell what age he is.

Finally, he is right next to you. He walks with ease, his leather boots knit

together by thick cords, making almost no noise as they touch the ground. You see his arms and hands, tough, muscular, slightly tanned, and covered in tufts of wispy hair; there are scars and marks all over them that speak of a lifetime of creating. Strange and unfamiliar crafting tools clink against one another as they hang from his belt.

When he passes, he looks you in the eyes again, nods, and keeps walking. For just a moment as those friendly eyes locked with yours, you felt a strong bit of warmth seep through your heart. Was that only your reaction you felt, or was it something more otherworldly…something magical? You turn around to say something to him. And then you see his ears. His pointed ears. But before you can ask him any questions, he has disappeared around the corner, headed for the small wooden shop where he lives.

You might be wondering that if this toymaker was the only human in his entire

world, who would he have made toys for, and why? Well, it’s simple: he made them

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for himself—it was the passion of his life to make. He spent his days crafting complex cloth or tin creatures that could move on their own and even hold a conversation with their creator. He breathed life into them with ancient songs, and sometimes with the notes of an obsidian flute that he had carved himself. You could often find him, sitting on the porch of his workshop in a snug wooden chair with a seat made of reeds, contemplating what he would make next.

It was one day as he was doing this that an idea bigger and grander than all his

previous creations sparked in his mind.

He decided to create 9

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an entire world.

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