It has been said that a story repeated is never the same, that a story invented is never new, that any story, no matter how accurate, is never quite true.  Time not only erodes manuscripts, but memories, beginning mere moments after their formation, and the human mind will surely corrupt them, however unknowingly, twisting the facts to suit the thinker’s preconceived notions.  Before long, even the most truthful tale will become mostly fiction.  Give it long enough, and it will only bear traces of reality.

                The tale of Reymu dates from over two thousand seven hundred years ago.  It has kept well, considering its age, and there are few in the northwestern corner of the globe that do not know its basic elements.  But still, the story has changed.

                I endeavor now to tell the tale as it was, all those many decades in the past.

                How, you ask?  Why should I be trusted any more than any other source?  How would I know which version is more accurate?  It took place, after all, hundreds of generations ago.

                The answer is simple, young one:  I was there.

                And my memory is impeccable.

The End

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