Fables

Dragon
Short Stories

O’ Skjold Pige, maiden of flaxen hair and of iron heart, wielder of Longbrand, slayer of Firben the Dragon, Hawk-Talker, and the tamer of Ulv Linjal the Wilder King. Such as it were, she was mother of raiders and matron of heroes. Of Pige Iron Heart -her birth, her life, her death- I sing.

For Skjold Pige was daughter of the Frozen Jarl, Skjold Helt, who stories and names became legend carried by the eastern winds. After his betrayal by Skarp the Usurper and the fall of the great realm of Ullenheim, was young Pige left to wander the frozen lands in search of home and hearth. Placed in the charge of Spyd, her mother’s father, and kindest of her relations, the two did flee the realm for the safety of the wilderness.

Together grandfather and infant wandered and avoided the eyes of the Skarp and his agents. Traveling as a lowly minstrel, did Spyd walk the lands. The infant Pige was left concealed within an oversized lute, protected from the elements and treacherous eyes. So, it was that Spyd the Minstrel came to the cottage of Kort and Hoj. The sisters were Craven, members of the fay-folk in the form of man, and known for cowardice and treachery.

They offered the old man sanctuary and sustenance for the long winter’s night, each sister observing how Spyd would clutch his lute, never allowing it far from sight. Together the Cravens surmised that some great prize must be held within its confines, gold or jewels, perhaps from some ill-begotten scheme. Yes, that must be it, they believed. For surely this long-beard was some sort of highwayman, who had cut many a throat to prosper to such an old age.

They offered Spyd a place in their small stable for the night. The old man readily accepted, still clinging to his lute, even as he drifted into slumber among the putrid frozen hay. He would never arise again.

Thus, it was that in the night did Kort and Hoj strike, killing Pige’s grandfather with the swift blow of their axes. Yet, before they could turn their blades to the lute in hopes of wealth and riches, did they hear the soft mewling of a child, whose life was surely no longer than that of two winters.

Frustrated by their poor fortune Hoj turned to strike the golden haired child, but Kort was quicker. She stayed her sister’s hand, knowing that the girl could be useful. Yet, surely the child would despise them for the killing of Spyd, argued Hoj, but Kort disagreed. She was too young to retain the memory of that night and through her they could find an easier existence among the cold harsh world.

So, it was that two and ten winters passed and Skjold Pige grew up strong and beautiful, though terribly unhappy. She cared for her aunts and their constant demands kept her wearied and dissatisfied. Each day she tended the livestock, fed the hearth, cooked their meals, and kept the snow and dirt from their floors. The two Cravens lounged about all day, making demands of her and treating her as one treats a servant. The girl grew up hard and determined with calloused hands and an unblinking heart.

Pige’s life was one of struggle and work, and rare were her cherished moments, when she was left free to wander the wilderness. Her happiest moments were always found among the natural beauty of her land, as if she were as unbound as the summer sparrows. Yet never was she allowed to walk near the cave of black ice. For her aunts had warned her of the great demon that lived within its mouth, Firben.

The mighty dragon, Firben, was none other than the eldest brother of Kort and Hoj, and his avarice and malice surpassed that of his sisters as the strength of a great bear surpasses that of a house cat. Firben, once stole the treasure of Heksedame, the feared northern witch. Yet, he hoarded the treasure with great jealousy and zeal, even sleeping atop it for fear of robbers and cutthroats. Unbeknownst to him and his sisters he also hoarded the curse of that treasure as well. During the night he transformed from the Craven he was to the terrifying visage of a horned serpent, whose teeth could pierce shield and armor, and whose jaw could swallow a longboat. The name of Firben became feared among the bands of the South and cursed by his sisters, for they envied the mound of wealth upon which he still slept each night.

Pige knew none of this, nor did the naive prince and his band of raiders who landed within the fjord nearby. Oks Prale, son of Skarp the Usurper, went ashore for supplies with his men one snowy winter’s morning. While off alone he beheld the daughter of Skjold Helt, last of the great Jarls. For she was wandering among the trees in search of firewood to warm the feet of her Craven aunts. Her golden hair set his heart aflame, and he approached as one might approach a foal in the wild. Yet, Pige Iron Heart was no skittish creature. Upon his sudden arrival she struck with club and fist, believing it to be some lone sickly wolf or thug of disrepute.

Prale fell to her blows as his heart had fallen to her beauty. She begged his pardon and as he lay upon the frozen ground did he beg her hand in marriage. She considered the bleeding man at her feet. He was fair of face, if not weak of chin, but marriage would also mean freedom from her aunts and their frozen hovel. She accepted his proposal and helped the limping boy back to her aunt’s house to tell them the tidings of her coming nuptials.

Kort and Hoj were less pleased with the prospect of the coming union. Prale was allowed to sleep the night to recover from his wounds in the very same barn as Spyd the Minstrel. The boy would have suffered the very same fate as Pige’s grandfather had it not been for the girl’s constant attention. Come the morning, each Aunt gave their reasons why Pige was duty bound to stay with them and not marry the son of Skarp. For, who would run their baths? Who would cook their meats? Who would keep away the summer rats and the winter wolves? Yet the daughter of Helt remained firm in her resolve, claiming that she would do none of those things if they forced her to remain.

The two Craven cursed their luck and the boy prince. Yet, Kort, always the more cleverer of the two, saw a shrewd plan. If the prince could slay the demon snake, Firben, than they would allow him to take Pige back to his realm. For, if the boy succeeded it would mean the end of their monstrous brother and the recovery of his treasure. If he failed then Pige would stay with them for the remainder of her life, working to keep them in comfort and ease. Prale, accepted their challenge, though his hands were shaky and his battleaxe untested.

Prale set out the next morning, gathering his men, with the intent on proving himself to the relations of his new bride by slaying Firben the Gold. Though forbidden to do so, Pige, also left her aunts’ hovel and followed the trail of the prince and his men, joining him just as the great serpent emerged from its icy black lair.

The battle that was waged between the hunting party and their dragon foe was fierce and filled with the aroma of death. Yet, the fight did not turn in Prale’s favor. His men were killed and he was wounded beyond reason. During the slaughter, Pige came close and pulled the boy to safety, dragging his near lifeless body into the sanctuary of the woods and beyond the reach of the sated Firben.

Pige shed a tear, not for the wounded prince at her feet, but for the lost freedom she craved beyond the confines of her small world. Thus, in that moment her resolve steeled and her heart became iron. She snatched Prale’s axe from his wounded hand and took up her own club.

The daughter of Helt made her way to the shore near the black ice cave, and worked through the morning to bash and cut the sea ice into small jagged pieces as wickedly sharp as Firben’s own teeth. The girl cut a path twenty span wide and forty span long, working as if she were imbued with the power of Hammare the great smith of the heavens. She slashed till the axe became dulled and pitted and pounded till her club splintered and broke. She then took the morning’s snow and laid it over the trail of icy pitons, shading the path’s true intention from all but the keenest of eyes.

With splintered club and dull blade, she approached the black ice cave calling out for Firben with a booming voice. She mocked him for his cowardice, for who else but a coward would refuse to face a mere servant girl. The great serpent was enraged and struck like thundersnow, slithering forth to snap up the arrogant Pige in one assault, but she was prepared. Dodging beyond the grasp of Firben the Gold the daughter of Helt led her unsuspecting prey toward the frozen shore.

She sighted her trap and ran across it, her light footsteps barely disturbing the snowy covering of the trap. She floated across it as light as a midday’s flake. Firben however, whose girth was immeasurable and whose great weight was prodigious, crashed through the field of spikes, their razor sharp pikes ripping into the beast’s belly. The great serpent bellowed as the daggers of ice cut deep.

Skjold Pige did not hesitate. She took her splintered club and drove it into the soft side of the raging monster. Then she took her dulled axe and plunged it into the great serpent’s eye. Firben thrashed and screamed. The birds took flight and the seals took to the waters. With each motion the dragon became lethargic, until finally Firben the Gold laid still and dead near the shore.

An urge came over Pige then. Without knowing her own intent, she reached down and drank the blood of the beast that was pooling beneath the body. The world become color and sound and a new understanding flooded into the mind of Pige Iron Heart. For a great snowy hawk landed near her feet and spoke to her as any one person might speak to another.

Though, the daughter of Helt could not later recall the words of the great predator, she understood its meaning. The bird spoke to her of the treachery of her aunts and the death of her grandfather. A memory emerged to Pige as a wolf emerges from the morning mists. The face that looked down from the haze of history was one that was kindly and gentle, but then it was changed. It became one that was unmoving and dead, blood surrounding it like an ocean surrounds an ice flow. The axes of Kort and Hoj shone in the oily lamplight of the stable.

A quiet rage grew inside Pige Hawk-Talker, and she returned to the cave of black ice and found the great mound of treasure that had  belonged to the demon, Firben. Placing a small ransom’s worth of riches in a sack she ventured back into the wilderness, and carefully gathered the deadly Moddenlir root. Its petals were the violet of the western sunset, but its thorns were deadly, even with the slightest of pricks. She removed them from the earth with skill and care, placing them in the bag with the coins of Firben, and returned to her aunts in their hovel.

The winds of change whipped her hair as she shut the door of the gloomy small home, yet she took care not to betray her intent in voice or visage. She cheerily announced the death of the dragon to her aunts, and at first, Kort and Hoj were despondent at the news. For they realized that the prince had met their dowry price, but upon seeing the bag of gold their misfortune was forgotten. The two Cravens reached greedily into its dark confines of the purse, pulling forth both coins and thorns. Shrieking in ecstacy that turned suddenly to pain, the two old fays fell to the swept ground near the well-kept hearth of their home.

They writhed in agony as their niece looked upon them, with her face of a stone. The last words the two Craven’s heard from the girl they had treated so poorly was but a single pronouncement, I am Skjold Pige, Daughter of Helt, and now my grandfather Spyd the Minstrel is avenged.

In that last moment, they knew their secret was discovered and that their evil deeds had finally returned to them. Pige watched Kort and Hoj shrivel and die at her feet. She then took a torch and lit the house. It flames climbed higher than the trees as night fell across the land.

Before the moon had risen, she was reunited with Prale son of Skarp. Together they boarded his ship and turned toward his father’s realm. Oks Prale believed that he was going home to introduce his betrothed to his father, but unbeknownst to him his bride had drank the blood of Firben. She now spoke with the birds, who knew the secrets of the world, and they had told her of the fate of her father at the hands of Skarp the Usurper.

The snowy hawks and summer sparrows had told her that secret and many more. Now, Pige Iron Heart, daughter of Skjold Helt was returning to her homeland to avenge her family and reclaim the land that was stolen for her. For, she swore, Firben would not be the last to fall beneath her blade.

O’ Skjold Pige, maiden of flaxen hair and of iron heart, wielder of Longbrand, slayer of Firben the Dragon, Hawk-Talker, and the tamer of Ulv Linjal the Wilder King. Such as it were, she was mother of raiders and matron of heroes. Of Pige Iron Heart -her birth, her life, her death- I sing.

Tree
Short Stories

In a time once ago, a weary Traveler rested beside a tree, a birch of browning wood and soft green leaves. There was nothing special about this particular tree. It was neither the tallest, nor the widest. It was not the prettiest, or the straightest. In its center there was an ugly dark knot, and its limbs were far too short to give proper shade, but it was still a tree.

So the Traveler sat beneath it, eating an apple, and watering his horse at a nearby stream. When he was done he discarded the core beside the tree, and decided to settle in for the night. The tired man had a long road ahead and was none too eager to be on his way.

As the man set about building his fire he was unaware of the two creatures that watched him. Two ravens, Vel and Sloegr, sat upon a limb of the birch and watched the Traveler as he went about his business. Finally noticing the discarded apple core, it was Vel who soared down the trunk and returned with the prize that both brothers consumed. It was a feast like none they had ever had.

“Brother,” said Sloegr, “This has been a feast like none we have ever had.”

“Truly, brother,” replied Vel, “truly. Yet, tomorrow we will starve again.”

“Perhaps not,” said Sloegr, “for I have a proposal.”

And so, the two ravens discussed their plot and the Traveler went about his business. He cleared away the brush, stacked stones for a pit, constructed the wood for a proper fire, and unpacked his blankets. Once all was complete he rested beside his meager campfire, longing for the comforts of home and dreading the road ahead.

That night the weary Traveler dreamed as he slept beside that birch of browning wood and soft green leaves. There was nothing special about these particular dreams. They were neither the sweetest, nor the most pleasurable. They were not the most agreeable, or the gentlest. In their center was an ugly dark moment, and the harmonious parts were far too short to give proper comfort, but they were still dreams.

So, when the Traveler awoke he found himself once again beneath the birch tree, and he heard two voices.

“Ho, there,” said Sloegr hopping along the ground toward the Traveler. “Do not have dread.”

“Truly,” replied Vel to the man, “truly, for we are creatures of temperate nature.”

“We are guardians of this sacred place,” said Sloegr. “For, you have spent your night beneath the Great Tree of Prosperity.”

“I have?” replied the Traveler.

“Truly,” said Vel, “truly you have.”

“This tree,” said Sloegr stopping only to peck through the cinders of the man’s long cooled fire, “it is a place of great magic. Many generations ago a powerful witch carved her runes inside the trunk of this tree. Now it grants prosperity and happiness to any who offer it the sacrifice of food, as you have.”

“I did?” asked the Traveler.

“Truly,” said Vel, “truly, you offered it part of your supper, the core of your apple.”

“As you can see,” said Sloegr, “The apple core is gone, and you have received your reward.”

The Traveler looked around for the apple core and found that what the raven brothers said was true. The core was gone. “I am unsure,” said the man at last. “The apple core has vanished, but I recall receiving nothing in return?”

“Of course,” said Sloegr, “of course you did. Your slumber was restful and safe. Your dreams were both pleasant and fulfilling.”

“I do not remember my dreams,” said the Traveler.

“Truly,” said Vel, “truly you do. They were as honeyed as your love’s kiss, and as comforting as your mother’s smile. Now you feel as rested as you have ever felt.”

“I suppose,” said the Traveler.

“Do more than suppose, my good man,” chimed in Sloegr. “For during the night a fearsome wolf was prowling nearby and yet he did not come near, because all beasts and forces respect the Great Tree of Prosperity. It has saved your life.”

“Truly?” Asked the man

“Truly,” replied Vel, “truly.”

“And that was all done with only the sacrifice of a single apple’s core. More food yields greater results and continued prosperity and happiness. We know this because we are the guardians of this tree.”

“I will admit,” said the Traveler, “I am none too eager to move on. I do suppose I could stay for another night, and perhaps this time I will offer more food, a small loaf of rye perhaps, and some stone fruit.”

“The great tree will appreciate that sacrifice even more, and you will be blessed for your contribution,” said Sloegr with eager appetite. “Yet, we must warn you, for the tree is also protected, as are we. If you kill either myself or my brother, than you and yours will experience a plague of misery unlike any you have ever comprehended. Nor can you cut the tree down, for that would mean death to any who attempt so.”

“I understand,” said the Traveler. “I swear I will uphold these vows.”

So the Traveler stayed another night and the ravens feasted as they never had before on bread of rye and sweet cold fruit with pits of stone. That night the man slept as if he were dead and when he awoke he talked of pleasant dreams and warm sunshine. He talked of how the stream was clear and soothing and the land seemed serene and gay.

Satisfied, the man went on his way and as he traveled he told others of the Great Tree of Prosperity. He told them of the fortune it brought him and the protection it offered. The story spread as the man passed through the countryside, through inns and taverns, through villages and cities, carried by old and young, rich and poor.

Upon reaching his destination the man was married to a reliable woman of middling beauty. There he stayed for a year’s time with the family of his bride. Upon the coming of a new spring he set off on his return from that far off errand, with his new wife in tow. When the Traveler happened upon the spot where he had once rested and met the two ravens, instead of empty wood, he found that a small community had risen up around the tree.

The town sat beside that birch of browning wood and soft green leaves. There was nothing special about this particular community. It was neither the grandest, nor the richest. It was not the most populated, or the prettiest. In its center there was an ugly dark stump, and its houses were far too small to give proper shelter, but it was still a community.

There were pens for animals, nets across the stream, and parts of the forest had been cleared for crops and timber. Roads and other paths were laid from house to house. When the Traveler arrived he was greeted by the Farmer and the Baker. They welcomed him to their town, as did the Fisher and his wife. The Carpenter was busy making chairs while his children ran around under foot. The wives of the Woodsman and the Hunter set a place at the table for the Traveler and his new wife.

Soon the couple was part of the community. The Carpenter and the Woodsman helped them build their house. The Farmer showed them how to grow crops. The Baker gave them fresh bread in exchange for the songs the Traveler sang each night. Together the small town of people grew and prospered, just as the raven brothers had promised. Though they were not rich, the town was happy and healthy. They shared their wares and skills with one another freely and no one was without want or need.

The seasons turned and the days progressed. The town grew in the passing years as children were born, newcomers were welcomed, and everyone did their part. Each night, they never forgot to leave an offering of food beneath the birch tree. Each morning the food would be gone and the town would be happy for another day. This was an important ritual, for everyone knew that without the sacrifice to the Great Tree of Prosperity their town would fail. They knew it as they knew the sun would rise and the wind would blow.

Meanwhile, each night Sloegr and Vel ate a feast like none they had ever had. Over the years the two brothers grew fat and lazy.

“Brother,” said Sloegr “I feel so fat and lazy.”

“Truly,” said Vel, “truly, I do as well. Each night we have a feast like none we have ever had.”

Yet, this state of affairs was not meant to last. For one day the Traveler and his young son were out hunting, as Vel was digging around the underbrush for worms. Mistaking the fat raven for a grouse the Traveler raised his bow and shot the bird through its heart. It was only too late that the man noticed his mistake.

Sloegr screamed at the sight of his dead brother. “You have killed my brother,” he said.

“I did not mean to,” said the Traveler. “I mistook him for a fat grouse that I was going to cook for stew.”

“Stew?” said Sloegr. “It will be you who is in a stew when it is discovered what you have done. A plague of misery will descend on your town like none you have ever known.”

Then the raven flew to the ugly dark stump in the center of the town and began to caw to the people. “This man has killed my brother. He has slain one of the guardians of prosperity,” said Sloegr. “Sickness and wretchedness are at hand.”

The Traveler once again raised his bow and shot the second raven brother. Sloegr died on the great dark stump, the man’s arrow through his heart. Yet, the damage had already been done for the townsfolk had begun to gather at the cawing of the bird. Those that did not hear the creature’s words still arrived to find the bird impaled by the Traveler’s arrow on that dark wretched stump. The discovery was quickly followed by dark murmurs and even darker stares. That night the townsfolk nailed the dead ravens to the door of the Traveler and his family, to remind him of what he had wrought.

The next morning the townsfolk discovered that their nightly sacrifice to the Great Tree of Prosperity remained untouched. Many believed that the tree was rejecting the town because they had slain the raven brothers, the tree’s own guardians. By supper time three people had come down with a sickness, including the Traveler’s young son, and even more claimed fever and chills by the following morning.

Some people pleaded for their health beside the birch of browning wood and soft green leaves. Yet, there was nothing special about this sickness. It was neither the deadliest, nor the most infectious. It was not the swiftest, or the most ferocious. In its center there was an ugly dark stomach ache, and its symptoms were far too short to give proper demise, but it was still a sickness.

As the days wore on, more of the people claimed fever and sweats, and the townsfolk grew more distrustful. The Carpenter and the Woodsman no longer helped to build houses. The Farmer no longer showed how to grow crops. The Baker no longer gave fresh bread, and even the Traveler no longer sang each night. Together the small town of people grew fearful and miserable, just as the raven brothers had promised. Though they were not poor, the town was unhappy and unhealthy. They no longer shared their wares and skills with one another freely, and want and greed grew like another sickness in their minds.

The seasons turned and time progressed. Newcomers were no longer welcomed, and everyone kept to themselves. Misery blanketed the town like sackcloth. Each night, they no longer offered food to the birch tree, nor to one another. Their ritual was gone, for everyone knew that without the sacrifice to the Great Tree of Prosperity their town would fail. They knew it as they knew the sun would set and the wind would calm.

Finally, the Traveler’s young son died of his hunger and his fever, and his father and mother wept like none they had ever had.

“This is sorrow like none we have ever had,” said the Traveler.

“Truly,” said his wife. “Truly and tomorrow we will know only misery again.”

“Perhaps,” said the man, “but I have a proposal.”

Grabbing his axe the Traveler left his wife and the comfort of his home and strode to the Great Tree of Prosperity. The townsfolk, ever fearful and ready to blame the man for their sorrows watched as he stopped before the tree, and raised his axe. The people left their houses yelling for him to stop, remembering the final warning of the raven brothers. Death awaited anyone who chopped the tree, but the man was too overcome with grief and determination.

So the townsfolk only stood by in horror as the blows of the Traveler’s axe fell upon the birch tree, over and over, and over again. Sweat poured from the man’s brow as the pounding of his heart rang in his ears. There was fear in his breast, but he was insensible to it, no longer caring if he lived or died. He was only certain that the Great Tree of Prosperity was a burden the town could no longer bear.

Hours passed and still the man pressed on. As the birch began to lean and lurch the townsfolk began to panic, for the Traveler had not yet been killed, but a new fear arose among the people. For some began to believe that instead of killing the man the magic of the fallen tree would instead punish the town further. They began to wonder if all who were gathered at the tree’s felling would not see another sunrise. Yet, just as their panic came to a frenzied pitch the birch tree gave a thunder crack and the last of its bark splintered.

The tree fell on its side and the townsfolk became like savages. They cried to the heavens, wept openly amongst themselves, and became overcome with vicious fury. The Woodsman was the first to grab the Traveler, urged on by the Fisher’s wife. The Carpenter and the Farmer were next to join in and were soon followed by the rest of the town. The people let loose their passion and frustration on the Traveler, who could only yell for mercy.

The Traveler died beside the fallen birch. He took his last breath surrounded by the townsfolk he had once called friends. They watched as the man breathed his last, fulfilling the third foretelling of the raven brothers.

His wife, a reliable woman of aging beauty, wept by his broken body and in that moment the people realized what they had done. The horror of their actions tore at their own hearts, so that they soon left the town. Each of them, the Farmer, the Hunstman, the Baker and all the rest abandoned the town and the fallen tree, hoping to escape the gloom and the curse of what they had done.

Yet, in their mad rush to leave not a single person ever stopped to examine the fallen birch tree. If they had they would have noticed no special runes or symbols of witchcraft beneath its skin. They would have found no magic or mystery to the felled and imperfect tree.

All they would have found was a birch of dead wood and hard browning leaves. They would have discovered nothing special about that particular tree. It had neither been the tallest, nor the widest. It had not been the prettiest or the straightest. In its center there had been an ugly dark knot, and its limbs were still far too short to have ever given proper shade, for it had only ever been a tree.

Stories
Short Stories

In a time, once ago there was a farm. It sat at the bottom of a mountain that was topped with crisp white snow, nestled at the edge of field of shallow greens and fertile browns, and beneath a sky of crystal clear blue. In this farm there dwelt five brothers and one sister.

Hitotsu was the eldest brother and the strongest. Futatsu and Mittsu were twins and the funniest of the brothers. Yottsu was the next brother and the smartest of the boys. Then finally, there was Itsutsu, the youngest brother. He could not till the fields as fast as Hitotsu, or tell time by looking at the sun like Yottsu, or even make the others laugh till they spit forth their rice like Futatsu and Mittsu. No, Itsutsu was disturbingly average in every single way, except for one. He was a dreamer.

The youngest child of the family was Rei, the only sister. She had the biggest heart of the family, but most of her attention was often reserved only for Itsutsu, and the two siblings would spend their days together playing in the field and pretending to be great warriors or wealthy daimyo.

Their farm was small, yet it was also one without want. Life was hard, but the siblings were kind and generous with their time and provisions. The children were respectful of their elders and the soil was unstinting with its bounty. The brothers and their sister often went to bed with bellies full of rice and pork, and heads full of song and story.

For living on the farm with the siblings was an old man named Grandfather. He was neither bound to the siblings by marriage or blood, but they treated him as such. He was simply a kind old man who had no family and no place to go. In return for their hospitality, he told the most magnificent tales. In these stories heroes vanquished great creatures made of wind and magic; beautiful maidens fell in love with dashing ronin; and bravery was always rewarded while cowardice was always punished. Yet, the most often and whispered stories the old man told were of the Aerials.

“They can take the form of any beast or man they perceive, and yet mischief is so often their common shape. When not stealing your lost trinkets or tripping the prideful, they dance on the rays of the moon, and make love on the tips of stars,” said Grandfather. “To look upon them is to know bliss and to leave their presence is to know longing.” The old man often became sad after he spoke of the Aerials, but the brothers and their sisters had too much honor for him to ask more.

That is until one night, when Itsutsu’s courage outpaced his sense of respect. With great reluctance, but a burning in his heart, did the youngest brother press the subject. He did not want to show dishonor to the man who had been more than a father to him, and so he waited until that night’s tale had come to a close. Then he said, “Grandfather, why do you look so sad?”

The old man simply smiled and waved away the impish question, but after enough prodding from Itsutsu and his brothers he finally relented. “I have seen the Aerials,” he admitted. “I have danced to their songs, and laughed at their merriment. I can still recall how they shone, like the light of joy itself. I do not know how long I kept their company, but one morning I awoke and their great feast had disappeared. Their village was turned to stardust and their light was lost to my eyes forever.”

“Can we ever see them, Grandfather?” said Futatsu and Mittsu with one voice.

“Please, Grandfather,” pleaded Itsutsu, his appetite whet from the stories of the old man. For he had always felt he was destined with a glorious life beyond the farm and the familiarity of his siblings. He ached for the sort of existence he had heard in Grandfather’s stories: adventure, love, and honor.

“Mortals, such as yourselves, can only behold the realm of the Aerials for one night, the night of your fifteenth birthday.” The generous old man smiled a distant and faraway smile as if meant for another person in another time.

“Why is that grandfather?” asked Yottsu. “How is it that we are only permitted one night?”

“Hardly seems fair,” said Itsutsu who sank down in sorrow for the boy would not turn fifteen for another four harvests.

“Aerials are unlike mortals such as you. They are wandering sprites, creatures of pure nature and emotion, like the trees or the dragonflies. They do not have souls and are left to exist for eternity, and yet time has no meaning to them. They have no beginning and no ending. Thus, you may only see them on the night you make the journey from childhood to adulthood, for it is a time of transition when you are old enough to be honorable but still young enough to be playful.”

“I will be fifteen with the new moon,” said Hitotsu the eldest. He had remained silent throughout the story as his siblings had whispered and wondered aloud to each other at the prospect of meeting the Aerials. “Where might I find them?”

“If you truly wish to see them,” said Grandfather. “They will find you and guide you to their meadow, and there you will behold their glowing presence.”

“I cannot wait until I am fifteen,” said Itsutsu as he trembled with anticipation.

“Itsutsu,” said Rei, for she was never far from her big brother. “I want to go to bed. I’m tired.”

“Soon, sister, soon,” said the boy with a shooing motion.

“One more thing, children,” said the old man. “This is important. If you ever do find yourself in the company of the Aerials you must remember not to eat of their fruit. Can you remember that?”

“Itsutsu,” complained Rei. “Please, can we go to sleep now?”

“We understand, Grandfather,” said Hitotsu, though his two youngest siblings had not heard the man at all. Instead, Itsutsu was still trying to quiet the complaints of his sister.

“Can’t we go to sleep?” said Rei again as only little sisters can.

“I think your sister is wise beyond her years,” joked Grandfather. “Now off to bed with all of you and no more about such things.”

That night Hitotsu slept fitfully, rolling and turning in his slumber. When asked about his disturbance the next day he simply exclaimed, “It was nothing, just unusual dreams.” Yet, the eldest boy’s fits continued for many nights until the rising of the new moon, for on that night Hitotsu’s mat was empty.

The siblings searched for him, but they could not find where he had gone. It was unlike their brother who was the most responsible of them. They sought high and they sought far. Even little Rei looked behind each blade of grass, and yet no one could find Hitotsu. The only one who did not seem concerned was Grandfather who only smiled at the apprehension of the siblings.

For the old man was wise and when the sun rose the next day their brother had returned and was waiting for them at morning meal with the most magnificent tales. “Brothers and sister,” he said. “I have been with the Aerials, just as Grandfather said I would.”

“You have,” said Itsutsu with great curiosity. “What was it like? Tell us, please?”

“It is like a barely remembered dream now,” said Hitotsu, “but one that was sweet and pleasant. We tested our strength and ate a feast redolent with succulent fragrance. Bowls of rice and soya, sweet donburi, dishes topped with tonkatsu and kare. Plates of udon, soba, and somen cooled in the night air beside crisp yakitori and honeyed nikujaga that would put any other to shame. I ate without ever growing full or fat. It was truly magnificent.”

The eldest brother smiled and spoke no more. He appeared older and much more like Grandfather, for the old man seemed to share Hitotsu’s silence as he too became lost in memories. The other siblings, however, whispered excitedly to one another, imagining what wonders they might see when they visited the Aerials.

The twins, Futatsu and Mittsu, were the next to turn fifteen. They too slept fitfully leading up to the night of their birthday, and on the night of the crescent moon they could not be found. They returned the next morning looking as their eldest brother had and telling tales of the tricks and the games they played among the Aerials.

“It is like a barely remembered dream now, “said Futatsu. “But one that was sweet and pleasant,” said Mittsu. Then they both spoke together, “We played great games and laughed with unabashed merriment.”

“My cards were triumphant in Daifugō and Butanoshippo. My skill was sharpest with Menko and Irensei. I surpassed all my opponents while playing Sudoku and Oicho-Kabu,” said Futatsu with a great laugh.

“Well my dice was swiftest in Chō-Han and Kitsune Bakuchi. My words were cleverest with Dajare and Shiritori. I was victorious over all my opponents while playing Pente and Shogi,” said Mittsu with genuine pride.

“We played without ever growing tired or defeated. It was truly magnificent,” they said together, and then both twins spoke no more that day. Each seemed older than the night before just as their brother had after his night.

The next to turn fifteen was Yottsu, and just as his brothers had before him he slept in fits until the night of the half-moon when he disappeared. He returned the next day to tell the tale of what he had seen.

“It is like a barely remembered dream now,” said Yottsu, “but one that was sweet and pleasant. We talked on topics of great literature and poetry, and together we sang great tales on instruments of varnished pine and cypress. Rich notes sprang from the Koto and Kugo accompanied by the decisive beat of a Taiko and Ikko. Harmonious notes flowed from a Hocchiku and a distant Hichiriki. Their chords mingled with a chorus of Kokyū, and the clear ringing of a thousand voices. I listened without ever growing bored or stale. It was truly magnificent.”

Most of the brothers were silent that day, all except for Itsutsu, for he waited with mounting anticipation for his own birthday when he too could see the Aerials and play and feast and sing among their great realm. So he waited through the cool breeze of the harvest, the harsh winds of the winter, the gentle caress of spring, until finally he came to the airless swelter of the summer season.

One night as he laid down, Rei nestled beside him, he began to dream. In his dreams he saw them, creatures of light and beauty dancing beneath the moon. They feasted and laughed as only their kind could and in those dreams his provincial life was gone and he too was beside them, twirling in the shimmer of night.

Thus, did Itsutsu dream for nine nights, and thus did each night his visions grow stronger. While awake he became restless with his work, and agitated with his sister. Even the words of Grandfather failed to fill the empty bowl of his heart. He became impatient with the mundane and intolerant of the routine of life, until the night of the full moon.

Like the call of a distant wolf he head music. He followed it to a shining meadow far beyond where he had ever gone before. Upon entering he believed that he was alone, yet he had not been alone. For the Aerials were all around him, invisible at first to his eye, but as the light of the moon fell upon the glade Itsutsu’s senses became swallowed by the sights, smells, and music of the wondrous creatures he beheld. Truly, the stories of his slumber had come to life in the glow of the night.

“Aren’t you a brave, boy,” said the soft voice of a beautiful woman. So pale as to almost be made of silver, her flaxen hair fell wildly to her waist. Round eyes and sharp features gave her a tempting and mischievous look. Every movement was full of promise and every word an unspoken vow that no man or boy could resist. Adorned in nothing but twinkling silks and a small jade tiara, she was powerful to behold.

“Who are you?” said Itsutsu after stepping into the realm.

“I am Nyotei, Queen of the Aerial and Keeper of the Unseen.” The queen gestured behind her and the world became a dream. The youngest brother feasted and frolicked among crystal dells. He ate his fill and drank his weight in rice wine and oolong. In that one night he lived a thousand lives, floating above clouds, moving unseen through villages near and far, racing the wind and speaking with the trees. It was the life he had always knew he’d been born to live.

As light began to rise in the east, Nyotei put a warm and inviting hand around his shoulder and offered him one last treat, a ripe cherry. The boy held the fruit, admiring its rich amethyst skin. His mouth watered for a taste, but something within him held his hand.

“One last treat, for my brave boy,” said Nyotei. Her words were as cloying as her hips. “If you eat this fruit, than you will be able to stay here forever, with us. You could live the life you have always wanted.”

In the Realm of the Aerials the land of the living felt like a barely remembered reverie. The words and warnings of Grandfather swam up to him as if from the depths of a great and dark ocean, but he could not hear them. They were ill-defined and lost to time and memory, and as the moon began to set in the west Itsutsu found himself forgetting his farm, his brothers, and even Rei as one forgets the colors of a distant dream.

The boy thought only of the adventure and excitement of the night and so he closed his teeth upon the succulent cherry, and Nyotei smiled as sweetly as the fruit she had offered.

It was then that the sun rose and the saccharine juice turned to ash in Itsutsu’s mouth, and the Realm of the Aerials turned to sunder. The boy’s skin burned as the rays of the lights fell upon it until he too faded from sight along with Nyotei and her kin. The world around him became as empty as his own heart, no fear, no joy, and no love could touch Itsutsu, for his soul was gone and he became one of the Aerial.

Thus, did the siblings awaken the next morning and Itsutsu was nowhere to be found. Their youngest brother was not waiting for them to tell the tales of his nocturnal adventures, nor did he appear the next day or the next day after that. Rei and her four brothers grew sad and life on the farm became as grey as rain and twice as cold.

For even though Itsutsu had not been as strong or as smart or as funny as his brothers, he had been the soul of them all, and without him life became dull. In his depression, Hitotsu grew weak and thoughtless in his farm work. Yottsu became disinterested in his books and mathematics, preferring to instead sit alone. Even Futatsu and Mittsu refused to laugh or joke after that day. Rei would often disappear and none of her brothers could be sure of where she went.

Grandfather seeing the well of melancholy that grew in the siblings became disturbed. He thought of them as family and so he went off in search of answers. On the night of a full moon he traveled once again to a familiar meadow in hopes of seeing the shining faces of old friends.

“Nyotei,” Grandfather called into the darkness. “Do not do this. You may never forgive me my transgression, but I beg of you to release the boy. I beg of you, great and terrible empress.” Yet, all the old man found were the songs of night birds and the admonishing whisper of the winds. Grandfather wept as he had wept after the first time he found himself in that meadow.

Unbeknownst to the old man, Itsutsu was nearby, unseen by any mortal eye. As he watched Grandfather cry softly into his wrinkled hands, the Aerial who had once been a boy began to remember. He remembered the tenderness in those kindly old hands. He remembered his brothers and his sister. He remembered laugher and family, and he remembered that he missed them all.

Then Itsutsu wept too. Grandfather was blind to the boy’s presence but they cried their shared their sorrow as only family could. That was when Nyotei, Queen of the Aerial and Keeper of the Unseen took notice of the boy. He was one of her subjects now, and yet she did not understand his sorrow.

“Why do you cry, little one?” asked the queen.

“I cry because I miss my family. I cry because I can no longer feel the sun, or touch the grass, or laugh as heartily as I once had,” said the creature that had been Itsutsu.

Nyotei nodded slowly and a smile spread across her face. “What if I could give you back your mortal life and return to you your eternal soul?”

“How?” said Itsutsu, seizing upon the question as a starving skylark seizes upon scraps of food. “I will do anything to breath fresh air again.”

“It will require that one takes your place, one of your own flesh and ancestry,” Nyotei’s smiles became like that of a viper’s, cold and serene, and Itsutsu nodded his understanding.

Two harvests passed and Rei finally entered her fifteenth year. She never gave up looking for her lost brother, and when the full moon rose on the night of her birth she found herself standing in a moonlit dell surrounded by mist and vague figures. As the haze cleared her surroundings glistened to life and her search finally came to an end.

Standing before her was her brother, Itsutsu, though he no longer appeared as he once had. His skin sparkled with silver and his eyes were the deep black of two endless pits. His hair was longer and it shimmered like light dancing on water, but it was him. Rei recognized her brother the same as if she had seen him that morning.

Rei on the other hand had grown from a child into a woman. Her smile was as lovely as bird song and her cheeks were the color of roses. Life had filled the once small girl and blossomed her into vibrant womanhood. Itsutsu hesitated. He was unsure if the image he beheld was his sister, but Rei embraced him immediately with tears falling from her eyes with love.

“I have sought you far and near, brother,” she said. “I just knew I would find you tonight, just as my dreams foretold I would.”

Rei, unlike her brothers did not feast or frolic, or sing or play. Instead, she spent the night with Itsutsu and together they walked through distant fields, talking of life. They talked about what had transpired in the youngest brother’s absence, and of Rei and her hopes and dreams for the future. She told him how she had recently fallen in love with a young merchant from a local village.

“He is good, and kind, and though he is not wealthy we will be well taken care of,” she said and smiled as Itsutsu had never seen before.

“I wish I could be there for the wedding,” said her brother.

“I do as well.” A tear fell from Rei’s eye. As it fell it caught the light of the rising sun in the east. “I wish that more than anything.”

“I was foolish,” admitted Itsutsu as he understood that his time with his sister was running short. “I miss the world. I miss our home.”

“But, your brother could be restored,” chimed in Nyotei as she appeared as if from nothingness. In her hand she held a plump shining cherry.

“How?” said Rei. “I will do anything to make it so.”

“I know, my child,” said Nyotei, her tone as smooth as silk. “All you have to do to help your brother is eat this fruit.” She held out the cherry. It glowed in the soft light of approaching dawn.

“I will do it. I will help you, Itsutsu.” Rei snatched the fruit and raised it to her mouth.

“No,” exclaimed the Aerial who has once been her brother, for he could not let his only sister sacrifice herself for him. She was too full of vitality, too full of promise. Her life was just beginning. In that moment he saw her as she would appear through the years.

Itsutsu saw her as a bride, as a mother, and even as a grandmother. He saw her take her last breath at a tender old age surrounded by loved ones who had yet to exist. He saw her smile her last smile as her soul ascended to bliss and peace. He could not rob her of that promise. He could not destroy the children she had yet to birth.

Itsutsu grabbed the cherry from her hand and crushed it beneath his fist. Nyotei screeched a horrible noise. “That was your last chance,” she bellowed. “You will remain here forever. You will never know the feeling of love again.” As the sun began to rise she disappeared, leaving the two siblings to embrace for the last time.

“She is wrong, Itsutsu,” said Rei as he too began to fade from sight. “I will always love you. Remember that.”

“And I will always be with you, sister,” said her brother.

She reached for him one last time, but he was gone and the morning light now basked the empty meadow in the promise of a new day, the promise of new life yet to come. Rei walked home to tell her siblings of what she had beheld on her night with the Aerials. It was a story she hoped would heal the wounds of her family and give hope for the world ahead.

Rei nor her brothers would ever see Itsutsu again, but he would watch them from time to time, concealed from their vision by the magic of the Aerials. He was there when Grandfather took his last dying breath and for a moment the old man’s eyes seemed to find him.

He watched his siblings as they all grew older and started families even as he himself never aged. So, when the time came for their children and their children’s children to come of age, he was there to greet them and play with them and sing for them. Yet, mostly he was there to make sure that none of them ever forgot the importance of family or the thrill of living a humble mortal life.