The Legend of "White Swan" LbNA #66775 (ARCHIVED)
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Add Location| Owner: | Adoptable |
|---|---|
| Plant date: | Apr 19, 2014 |
| Location: | Wabasis park |
| City: | Greenville |
| County: | Ionia |
| State: | Michigan |
| Boxes: | 1 |
| Planted by: | Maple Hill Billies  |
|---|---|
| Found by: | LaLaBirds |
| Last found: | Apr 26, 2015 |
| Status: | FaFFr |
| Last edited: | Apr 19, 2014 |
I am the great Chief Wabasis, though I am now a ghost of what I once was.
Literally.
My name means “White Swan.” But the white swan is stained with the sins of a life past.
Supposedly. My reputation alone is stained, and not I. You see, I was once a great man, blameless in the eyes of my people. I was commissioned to negotiate a treaty between the Indian and the White man, but the amount that they expected was far greater than the amount I brought back to my tribe. They demanded I give them the money I had embezzled, but I didn’t have it, and never did. In anger they exiled me to this spot. When I dared to leave its boundaries, they murdered me in cold blood. For years, treasure hunters have searched for the money that I supposedly hid, but they never found it, because it was never there. Now, after one hundred and fifty years, I will show you my true treasure.
Your quest begins in a secluded parking lot, north of the main entrance of the park that bears my name. There, you will find the spot where I began my exile. I stood overlooking the lake my enemies left me. I spied some of my brother swans floating on the water below. They were, and still are, all I have left. Behind me and to my right there was and still is a trail, which I set out upon. I slowly made my way to the south, contemplating my fate. The night descended, and with it came the chill. Coming across a small cave formed by what my people call Ifasfo, (I’m just kidding, I really have no idea what it’s called) I decided it was the perfect spot to build a small fire to warm my bones and broken heart. From the relative comfort of my shelter, I could see much of the lake and was reminded of my people, my lost freedom and wounded spirit.
In the morning, I set off to explore the boundaries of my prison. (What? You didn’t think I’d hide my treasure in the cave, did you? That would be too obvious.) I crossed a deep gully, which was bare then but now sports a bridge. I passed twin brother saplings which have now grown tall and straight. There was no chain across the path when I was here last.
Stepping carefully down the hill, I squatted down to drink beside a spring. Being exiled makes one thirsty. Modern chiefs have built a Wigwam on top of it. They do not appear to be home. How, I wonder, do they sleep on that cold, wet floor?
That thing over there looks like a mythical creature called a Stegosaurus. I don’t believe such a creature exists. Of course, there was a time when I didn’t believe in ghosts, either. Yet here I am.
Enough reminiscing.
I follow a path that reminds me of a snake, winding over the wet, spongy ground that gives birth to the spring.
Veering left, up ahead I see that other chiefs have settled here since my time. Their shelter looks nothing like the homes of my people. Hmm. It looks like a stinky house, though better than the ones down by the lake.
The reason for my exile is a shameful one (obviously, or I wouldn’t have been exiled) but not too shameful, it seems, for I have been memorialized in a nature trail. Humph. The picture looks nothing like me.
I used to lean against the tree by the trail. It is bent now, due, no doubt, to the burden I carried.
Steeped in the juices of my sorrow, I stop by a stream, now bridged, and see the tracks of brother raccoon and other animals. At least I am not alone. Perhaps you may see some, too.
Along the trail, new trees in this cluster of beech have sprung up to replace the old, and now they are marred by scratchings. What is this “Nolan?”
But this one, past the rest. Ah, yes. Grandmother Beech was a lithe young beauty in my day. She has seen many moons, and seasons, and storms. Look at her. She still stands, the matriarch of those nearby, though her heart is dead and her body empty, a shell of what she once was. We share a lot in common, she and I.
On her, my daughter and her scalawag lover carved their initials, but time and insects have destroyed what I could not. In her, I have hidden my treasure, for I know she will guard it well. Please hide it thoroughly, for my story continues for all those that seek.
P.S. If you want to learn more about my legend, Google my name. By the way... what’s Google?
Literally.
My name means “White Swan.” But the white swan is stained with the sins of a life past.
Supposedly. My reputation alone is stained, and not I. You see, I was once a great man, blameless in the eyes of my people. I was commissioned to negotiate a treaty between the Indian and the White man, but the amount that they expected was far greater than the amount I brought back to my tribe. They demanded I give them the money I had embezzled, but I didn’t have it, and never did. In anger they exiled me to this spot. When I dared to leave its boundaries, they murdered me in cold blood. For years, treasure hunters have searched for the money that I supposedly hid, but they never found it, because it was never there. Now, after one hundred and fifty years, I will show you my true treasure.
Your quest begins in a secluded parking lot, north of the main entrance of the park that bears my name. There, you will find the spot where I began my exile. I stood overlooking the lake my enemies left me. I spied some of my brother swans floating on the water below. They were, and still are, all I have left. Behind me and to my right there was and still is a trail, which I set out upon. I slowly made my way to the south, contemplating my fate. The night descended, and with it came the chill. Coming across a small cave formed by what my people call Ifasfo, (I’m just kidding, I really have no idea what it’s called) I decided it was the perfect spot to build a small fire to warm my bones and broken heart. From the relative comfort of my shelter, I could see much of the lake and was reminded of my people, my lost freedom and wounded spirit.
In the morning, I set off to explore the boundaries of my prison. (What? You didn’t think I’d hide my treasure in the cave, did you? That would be too obvious.) I crossed a deep gully, which was bare then but now sports a bridge. I passed twin brother saplings which have now grown tall and straight. There was no chain across the path when I was here last.
Stepping carefully down the hill, I squatted down to drink beside a spring. Being exiled makes one thirsty. Modern chiefs have built a Wigwam on top of it. They do not appear to be home. How, I wonder, do they sleep on that cold, wet floor?
That thing over there looks like a mythical creature called a Stegosaurus. I don’t believe such a creature exists. Of course, there was a time when I didn’t believe in ghosts, either. Yet here I am.
Enough reminiscing.
I follow a path that reminds me of a snake, winding over the wet, spongy ground that gives birth to the spring.
Veering left, up ahead I see that other chiefs have settled here since my time. Their shelter looks nothing like the homes of my people. Hmm. It looks like a stinky house, though better than the ones down by the lake.
The reason for my exile is a shameful one (obviously, or I wouldn’t have been exiled) but not too shameful, it seems, for I have been memorialized in a nature trail. Humph. The picture looks nothing like me.
I used to lean against the tree by the trail. It is bent now, due, no doubt, to the burden I carried.
Steeped in the juices of my sorrow, I stop by a stream, now bridged, and see the tracks of brother raccoon and other animals. At least I am not alone. Perhaps you may see some, too.
Along the trail, new trees in this cluster of beech have sprung up to replace the old, and now they are marred by scratchings. What is this “Nolan?”
But this one, past the rest. Ah, yes. Grandmother Beech was a lithe young beauty in my day. She has seen many moons, and seasons, and storms. Look at her. She still stands, the matriarch of those nearby, though her heart is dead and her body empty, a shell of what she once was. We share a lot in common, she and I.
On her, my daughter and her scalawag lover carved their initials, but time and insects have destroyed what I could not. In her, I have hidden my treasure, for I know she will guard it well. Please hide it thoroughly, for my story continues for all those that seek.
P.S. If you want to learn more about my legend, Google my name. By the way... what’s Google?