My parents and I were close while they were alive. They loved me more then anything in the world. I was there only child see, although two had died before me. We lived on the edge of the Mhojave desert, by the Dakhota hills. A spring that was our lifeline trickled a quarter of a days walk from our dwelling. And whenever my pa went to fetch the water, he would pick me up and say, "My little Saris, do you wish to hear a story?" I would always shout yes at the top of my lungs and on the way beg him to tell me the story of the cactus weed. Twas my favorite story, you see, and I loved to hear him tell it. It was his favorite thing to do; making up stories to quench my never ending questions. One day, I just happened to ask him, "Who found out about the catcus weed, papa?" And that had been the beginning of it all. Even though I loved the cactus weed story , I'd ask him more questions when he finished his tale. like, "Why is the sky is blue?" or "Why is it that the stream is cold?" I was meybe about si
I never failed to tell her about the cactus weed.
"Mum! I want to tell you a story! Tis about a very interesting plant, you know those prickly things papa always goes to harvest?
"Well, once, a long time ago, a man named Cackdus was a explorin' and he happened to find his way into the sand! (Twas my child name for the desert.) He walked an' walked an' he grew mighty tired. So he decided to find a nice place to sleep til morn' as he had lotsa water and food.
"Now this man was a bit strange in the head, and he decided he must light a fire to keep 'emself warm through the night, So he collected some big prickly plants! Weeds, they were back then, considered a nuisance to all who went through the desert always pricking you and sticking to your clothes, and he knew he t'would not get in trouble for burnin' 'em! Mum, you listenin'?" I always paused at this point, because next was my favorite part. She would nod and smile, indicating for me to continue.
"Well, yah see, he lit those little prickly plants, and stared in suprise when all they did is smoke! Cackdus was a clever man, although he was a bit touched, he knew much about living in the world all alone, so he thought, well...if it smokes so much, then I do believe I should give it some air.
"So Cackdus moved closer to the smoky mess and inhaled deeply, so that he could breath a bit of air on the fire. but guess'm what mum? He coughed and sputtered on the smoke, and gave that little pile to much air, and the sparks and coals flew everywhere, and began to burn down every'thin'! The bushes upon bushes of Cactus weed, as we call it today, got ta fire, and smoked so much that the skies were as black as night.
"Those living by the desert began to feel a little crazy, and when the smoke past, they took to lookin' for the fires source. They found poor Cackdus, who was now quite touched in his head that it took'em awhile, a quarter...no a whole day! To get the story outta'em.
"Since then the plant has been quite hard to find, and named respectfully after Cackdus, whom had found its use. Over the years, mum, the names been changed, and that story lost! Until papa heard it from an old Mhun, who was a dying in the desert! And now you know it too!"
She'd applaud and laugh, and hug me, and tell me how good of a teller I was. That was the last story she heard, in fact. The last thing we did together. That one fateful day, when I arrived as happy and dirty as usual, she looked a bit pale, an' so I told her the long stretched out version, which I thought was more serious sounding. My best version, you know. When I was done with my tale, she squeezed my hand, an' left this plane. Almost as if she had been hangin' on, to here the end of the story. Her last words, said with a placid look on her face, were, "Now my dear one, why I do believe that your a born teller!"
Whenever I pass that little plant, I always remember my pa, who never failed to tell me that story on the way to the spring, and I'll remember that twinkle in mum's eye, when she told me I was a born teller. She past so much into me at that moment, you know. So I 'spose this'll make you treat those little plants with respect. And remember never, no matter how cold it is, start fire to a cactus weed.

Penned by my hand on the 11th of Chronos, in the year 226 AF.