This piece is a fictional origin story for my walking stick. The stick is made of hickory, stands about five and a half feet tall, and measures roughly two inches thick with the bark still holding fast to its surface. I named it Deepstride because it matches the length of my steps and feels like a steady companion on long trails. The story treats the staff as something alive, not magical, but shaped by seasons, storms, and the slow patience of the natural world. It is written in a style inspired by The Lord of the Rings to give it an ancient, mythic quality that reflects what the staff means to me.
Before the southern hills carried names of their own, a great storm rolled over the land with a force that shook the earth. Lightning struck an old hickory and split its crown, yet the tree did not burn or crumble beneath the blow. It drew the fire inward, as if swallowing the heart of the storm, and held that power deep within its grain, while the seasons continued their endless turning. When at last the hickory fell, one branch remained whole, its bark clinging tight through many summers and winters as the wood hardened under sun and frost, dreaming of thunder and longing for rain.
In time, a wanderer passed that way, tall and grey, with eyes that held a far-reaching distance as if he carried entire horizons within them. He walked with a sense of listening, as though the land spoke in tones only he could hear. When he came upon the fallen branch, something within the wood stirred at his presence, and he paused to rest his hand upon it. He felt a faint rhythm under the bark, steady and calm, like a heartbeat sheltered deep within the grain, and he sensed that the branch had waited for him alone.
He lifted the wood and tested its weight, finding that it settled in his hand with a sense of belonging, as if both wanderer and branch recognized one another. The moment felt deliberate, shaped by years of storm and sunlight, and the wanderer knew the staff would remain with him for the miles ahead. After standing in thought, he finally spoke, and his words carried a tone that felt rooted in the earth beneath him. This one walks deep, he said, deep and steady, and so the branch was named Deepstride.
From that day forward, the staff kept pace at his side, marked by the memory of storms yet content to remain grounded in each steady step. It never glowed or whispered, but the man sensed a patient presence within it, a life shaped by weather, time, and resilience. The bark beneath his fingers felt rough and cool, carrying the texture of seasons long past and quiet strength shaped by the tree that once held it high above the forest floor. When the rain returned, the staff seemed to remember its birthplace, and when long roads challenged the wanderer, it remained constant and sure, matching his rhythm without asking to guide or follow.
Many years have passed since anyone has seen the wanderer on the southern hills or heard the sound of his footsteps on an empty road. Even so, some claim that on evenings when the clouds gather low, and the air carries the promise of rain, a faint tune drifts through the trees. It is a slow, measured humming, the sound of a traveler at peace on a long path, with the steady rhythm of a staff tapping out the miles beside him. Some call it wind and give it no further thought, but others listen longer and wonder if Deepstride still walks the hills with the one who first named it.
The road remembers his tread, and the wind remembers his song, and those who hear it know that some stories linger long after their tellers have passed from sight.