Spirit Island
by: Zanzibar

Jasper continued paddling, and the river opened suddenly into a large lake, crowned by mountains, the images of which shimmered slightly ahead of the prow of the boat. In the center of the lake there was an island, inhabited by a dark copse of tall evergreens which stood out sharply against the dazzling background of the early mountain fall.
Spirit Island. He repeated the name to Dakar, who bowed very deeply to the old trees, his wings deflected and their tips dragging gently in the water.
"Why do you bow?" Jasper asked.
"I show respect to the spirits of your ancestors," Dakar replied uncertainly.
"Oh, my ancestors aren't here," Jasper explained, "Nobody in my family has ever been here but me. I just come here to think sometimes. It's restful for my mind and I usually think of whatever I need."
"But who delivers the answers you seek? What spirits live here? Not your ancestors?"
Jasper shook his head. "I think of the answers on my own. Sometimes your mind just needs a quiet place. They just call it Spirit Island because it sounds nice. I think maybe the name was passed down from the ancient people who lived here before my race came."
He paused, looking up at the trees as they whispered together in the dying light.

"If there are spirits here," he said slowly, "Then they must be very old indeed."