The Singing Scoutmaster: Echo and Narcissus

Long ago, in the shadowy woods and echoing valleys of ancient Greece, there lived a beautiful nymph named Echo. With a voice as sweet as birdsong, she loved to sing and tell stories, her laughter ringing like silver bells through the trees. But one day, her gift for talking got her into trouble with Hera, the queen of the gods. Echo had distracted Hera with endless chatter while Zeus, the king of the gods, slipped away to visit the other nymphs. Furious when she discovered the trick, Hera cursed Echo: from that moment on, she could only repeat the last words spoken to her. She could no longer share her thoughts, her feelings, or her beautiful stories. Trapped in a prison of silence, Echo wandered the forests, her heart heavy with sorrow.

One bright morning, as she roamed through the woods, Echo's eyes fell upon a young man of extraordinary beauty. His name was Narcissus, and he was known throughout the land for his stunning appearance. His hair was dark and flowing like a raven's feathers, and his eyes were the color of a clear blue sky. But for all his beauty, Narcissus had a cold heart. He cared for no one but himself and shunned the affection of all who admired him. Echo, however, could not help herself—she fell hopelessly in love the moment she saw him.

Desperate to speak to him, to tell him how deeply she felt, Echo followed him through the woods. But when she tried to call out to him, she could only repeat his words, like a mockingbird trapped in her own curse. "Who's there?" Narcissus called, hearing a rustle in the bushes. "There!" Echo answered softly. "Show yourself!" he commanded, his voice echoing through the trees. "Show yourself," she repeated, stepping shyly from behind a tree. But Narcissus, thinking she was making fun of him, turned away in irritation.

"Leave me alone!" he shouted, and all Echo could do was whisper sadly, "Alone." Her heart broke as she watched him walk away, oblivious to her pain. Humiliated and filled with sorrow, Echo hid herself deep within the forest. She wasted away in grief, pining for the love she would never have, until all that remained of her was her voice. From then on, her disembodied voice haunted the caves and mountains, forever repeating the words of others, an eternal reminder of her unrequited love.

Meanwhile, Narcissus continued to wander the woods, unaware of the trail of broken hearts he left behind. He was so consumed by his own beauty and pride that he rejected every nymph, maiden, and suitor who dared to approach him. He thought no one in the world could ever be worthy of his love—no one, that is, except himself.

One day, while walking near a clear, still pool of water, Narcissus paused to rest. As he leaned over the edge of the pool to drink, he caught sight of his own reflection in the water. He had never seen himself so clearly before, and he was mesmerized. The face looking back at him was the most beautiful he had ever seen. He gazed at it, entranced, not realizing that it was his own reflection. "Who are you?" he whispered, reaching out to touch the surface of the water. But as he did, the image shimmered and broke apart, vanishing in ripples.

Desperate to see that beautiful face again, Narcissus sat by the pool, waiting for the water to still. When his reflection reappeared, he smiled and spoke to it, thinking it was a beautiful spirit hiding beneath the surface. "Stay with me," he pleaded. "Do not leave." But the image could only smile back, saying nothing. Narcissus stayed there, hour after hour, staring at his reflection, lost in longing and desire. He became so consumed by the image that he refused to eat, sleep, or move. He reached out to embrace the reflection, only to touch the cold water.

Slowly, Narcissus began to waste away. His once vibrant body grew thin and pale, his voice fading to a whisper as he gazed into the pool, forever yearning for the love he could never possess. "Goodbye, dear love," he murmured at last, his strength failing him. As he uttered his final words, the gods, pitying his fate, transformed him into a beautiful flower—pure white with a golden heart—bending over the water's edge as if still gazing at his reflection. This flower, the narcissus, blooms by quiet pools and streams, forever mourning the vanity that led to Narcissus's downfall.

As for Echo, she continued to haunt the forests and hills. Her voice, now nothing more than a faint whisper, still answers when someone calls. She repeats their last words, a ghostly presence in the lonely woods, forever linked to the tragedy of the young man who could love no one but himself. The story of Echo and Narcissus became a tale shared around campfires, a cautionary story about unrequited love, the dangers of vanity, and the price of loving only yourself.