In a small village, at the very beginning of the first age of machines, there lived a toymaker most clever and skilled. Like the watchmakers and doll-makers of the middle cities, the toymaker was able to craft wondrous clockwork devices of mystifying complexity and multifarious function. Year round, the toymaker would work at his craft. He would never sell his toys, nor take any money for his services, and so the people of the small village would gift him with food to eat, and wood to burn, and clothes to keep him warm. In this way the toymaker lived, and every year in the month after the first frost, he would travel through the village and present each person with a gift.
The children of the village would scour the countryside and sneak off to the newborn cities, returning with scraps of iron and broken dolls thrown away by the urban children. They brought these scraps to the toymaker, and thus he always had material with which to craft his devices.
But time passed, as time often does. And as time passed, the village grew larger and the toymaker grew older. One day he begged a favor from the wealthiest man of the village, to ride into the middle cities and bring for him back a supply of materials which he listed in precise handwriting on a narrow scrap of parchment. Now, the wealthy man was wise (as few wealthy men are) and so he agreed to the task without question, and journeyed far over fields and through dark forests to the middle city. There he gathered the toymaker’s supplies, and he returned in less than a fortnight.
The toymaker thanked the wealthy man, and for seven days and seven nights he worked hard, single-mindedly crafting the materials brought by the wealthy man into the only device he had ever made for himself alone. On the eighth day, he took a simple key of iron and wound his newest toy, a raven made of chrome. The bird came to life, and the toymaker placed one of his unfinished projects before the clockwork raven. Immediately, the chrome raven set to work, using beak and talons, putting the toy together with the same deftness of the toymaker.
Life continued on its way for the toymaker. He made his wonderful toys, and the chrome raven helped him. Who is to say how he constructed the raven’s clockwork brain, imparting to it his craftsman’s eye and delicate touch, but the bird worked tirelessly, needing only to be wound. Soon the toymaker devised a way the raven might wind its own springs, and even that task ceased to trouble him. Thus, as the village grew, the toymaker still traveled to every home at the first frost with a brand new toy.
But as happens with men who grow old, one day the toymaker died. The village was very sad, and there was nothing else to do but to bury the beloved toymaker, and chain shut the doors of his workshop (for no man or woman, boy or girl among them all could bring themselves to disturb his tools and unfinished toys). Sometimes, when passing by the shop, some people thought they still heard the toymaker at work. While this was in no ways true, the toymaker had never spoken of his chrome raven, and upon his demise, the clockwork bird had continued about its work, completing those toys the toymaker had not finished, and building more from the scraps about his shop.
Eventually these scraps ran out, and the raven ceased its work. It sat, unmoving save for the occasional winding of its springs, for seven days and seven nights. At last, on the eighth day, it left through a window in the loft of the workshop and flew through the village. As it happened, a small child’s toy from several years past had broken that night, and he left it on an open window sill. Seeing this toy, the raven alighted, and took it back to the locked workshop. It fixed the toy in a trice and returned it that same night.
Soon enough children throughout the village began leaving their broken toys, and odds and ends out on open windows. Every night the chrome raven would collect the broken toys, and the next night it would return them, repaired. On the first frost of that winter, it flew through the village, leaving the toys it had made over the year on the window sills of all the children. People of the village began to leave scraps of metal and broken toys discarded by the middle cities on the workshop’s doorstep again, and so the rumors grew to legends of a toymaker who would bring presents to all good children every winter after the first frost.
The people of that village still leave their broken tools and toys in open windows for mending, and it is still said, if you leave a broken toy on the window sill, the toymaker will come to repair it in the night. These are only stories, of course. The toymaker is long dead, and resting as he well deserves. But as to the chrome raven, who could know for certain? Never rusting, crafted by such a man as the toymaker, it may yet be repairing the broken toys of the village to this day.
In the darkest forest was a tiny village, which eked out its existence on roots they dug from the earth, the tiny creatures and birds they could find to hunt, and the strange fish they caught in rivers which had never seen daylight. The forest was thick and heavy all around the village, and they saw sunlight only when their men and women would climb high into the trees to knock down leaves and poke holes in the canopy. But the trees grew so rapidly, that every week they would have to climb up and make holes again, all so that they might see the sun for just a few precious hours every day.
The dark things also lived in the forest, as they had for as many years as anyone in the village could remember, and perhaps for twice as many years as long as before that time. They would often carry off the men and women of the village, and the villagers could do nothing about this, save build their fires brighter, and venture with more caution to the rivers that never saw sunlight. The dark things lived even deeper in the forest than the village (which was so deep that no other men knew of its existence) and so no one knew the fates of those who vanished, taken by the dark things.
It happened one of the fisherman of the village (who was also a leatherworker, and a farmer) ventured to a place where he thought he would be safe with his torch and his lantern. When he did not return, his wife was filled with sorrow and rage, for she was already pregnant with his first child. The men of the village searched for him, but all they found was a torch gone cold, a fishing net, and a broken lantern. His wife mourned him for a week. Then she took his torch and his broken lantern and she set out along the river.
It was well-known amongst the villagers that the only other living soul in the darkest forest was the witch who lived at the source of the river. It was said she could never die, and even the dark things feared her powers. And so the leatherworker’s wife, having sworn to revenge herself, was determined to seek the river’s heart and speak with the witch.
Perhaps it was luck, or perhaps her torch and lantern were sufficient, but as the woman traveled along the winding river’s edge she did not encounter any of the dark things, and no other creatures that might threaten even a child lived so deep in the woods. Presently she came to the river’s end, where it trickled from a small stone hill. Set in the side of the hill was a door, and guarding the door was a giant eagle. “Salutations, eagle,” said the woman. “I seek the witch who is said to live at the source of the river that has never seen the sun.”
“The sorceress speaks to no one,” replied the eagle, “unless she so chooses. Be on your way, or I shall pluck out your eyes with my claws.”
“I beg you, eagle, take me to the sorceress. I only wish to strike a bargain with her, and to avenge the death of my husband, taken by those dark things, which have made an orphan of my son.”
The eagle shrugged his enormous wings. “Very well. My mistress has no love of the dark things and readily listens to bargains. But know you will pay dearly for whatever aid she may bring. Here now, climb upon my back.”
The woman thanked the eagle profusely, and did as he instructed. The eagle opened the door in the small hill and, with a beating of his wings, took flight into the enormous cavern upon which the door opened. The only light came from mold which glowed like Night’s eye the moon and fireflies which danced all about the ceiling, and the woman could see below an enormous lake of the same black water of the river. The eagle soared above the lake, flapping his great wings, for so long as it takes to think twice on a vow and swear it again three times, until at last they came to an island in the middle of the lake and landed on its shores.
“I may take you no further, good lady. I wish you fortune, little as that may do for you, and must now return to my duties.” The eagle took to the air again, driving the lake into wavelets, before vanishing into the darkness of the cavern.
The woman found a narrow stone path and followed it for as long as it takes to think four times on a vow and swear it again five times over, until she saw a small cottage with a the welcoming glow of a crackling hearth fire coming from its windows. She followed the path to the front door, struck the solid, dark wood three times, and moments later met the witch face to face.
The witch was a beautiful woman, and if she was immortal, she did not show signs of her age. Her dark eyes, perhaps, might’ve seemed ageless, but perhaps that was only rumor’s fine craftsmanship. The woman who had come for the witch did not care of rumors, so long as one was true. Thus she bowed and said, “Sorceress, it is said the dark things fear you. They have taken my husband and orphaned my unborn child. I have sworn to revenge myself nine times, and I will give anything over to you if you will aid me in this.”
The witch looked kindly on the woman, and took her into the cottage. She gave the woman warm bread and cheese, and fed her brandy with honey until she was well-rested and calm again. When the woman was no longer hungry from the long past hours, nor tired from journey, and when she was no longer trembling with fear, then the witch asked her again to speak of her purpose.
“The dark things have taken my husband from me, good sorceress. I do not know if he lives or what has become of him, but my child will be an orphan, and I am alone. I have vowed nine times to revenge myself upon them, and I vow it again now. I have little to give, but anything of mine is yours if you will help me.”
“That is ten times you have vowed, now,” said the witch. “And ten times over you have promised anything to me for my aid. You shall have it, but rest assured it will cost you dearly.” So speaking, she rose from her rocking chair and went to the crackling fire. She took a burning branch from the flames, careless how they licked her fingers and wreathed her hand. As she held the burning branch, the flames turned to healthy bark and green leaves, until it was no longer charred and black, but a living thing. When she returned to her chair, she handed this living branch to the woman.
“After your child is born, but before his first year has passed, build a great fire. When the flames burn brightest, throw this branch into them. Let the smoke cover him in soot and ash, and burn the ash away with the flames. From these flames your champion will be forged, and he will ever after carry the fire of man that the dark things fear inside himself. If you have a mind for it, when the fire has burned to ashes, find this branch again. Plant it where sunlight finds my river and so long as it grows he will not die of any mortal wounds.”
The woman took the branch and thanked the witch profusely, carefully stowing it in her satchel.
“That is my gift,” said the witch. “Now here is my price. All those who bargain with me will serve me. Go, and return to your village. Raise your son, let him drive away the dark things. But when all this is done, you will return to me, for it is yourself that you exchange for your revenge.”
“Very well,” said the woman. “When I have seen the dark things driven away, I will return to you.”
The witch led the woman through the woods growing on her island, a circuitous route the woman could not remember later, until they reached a small door, and when she went through the door, she found herself next to the eagle. The woman said not a word to the eagle, nor the eagle to the woman, but she went directly back to the village. Months slipped past, as they will, and the woman had her child, a boy. She built the bonfire as the witch had described and, when it burned brightest, threw on the branch. Smoke billowed and she let her son become coated with the dark ash. When his body was black, she held him into the flames, and they licked him all over, but the infant made no sounds of pain.
The ritual done, she bound her left hand in clean linen, for the fire which had washed over her infant had also burned the hand with which she held him. Still she waited, and when nothing but ashes remained she found the branch, still green. She took her son and the branch far up the river until she found a sun-dappled bank. “Here, my son,” she said. “Here is your life. May you grow strong as a tree and tall as the sunlight.” She planted the branch by the river and named her son Nadir.
Years passed, as they will, for time can find even villages in the darkest forest. Nadir grew from a boy into a man, and his hair was a red as bright as the fire which had burned his mother’s hand. She told him stories of the dark things, and told him of his father. She taught him how to find the dark things, and not to fear the darkest places. When he was old enough, his mother gave him his father’s lantern and torch, and told him that he was ready to venture into the deepest woods and avenge his father.
Nadir went deeper into the forest than anyone had gone before. He left the banks of the river and went to places so dark that his torch burned out and his lamp ceased to light the way. But the fires of men burned in Nadir, and there was no darkness so great it could cloud his eyes. In this way, he saw the first of the dark things which slunk from the trees, bent on harm. It breathed like a running river and it moved like a jungle cat, though it seemed to have the shape of a house which had long fallen into disrepair. When the dark thing laid its hands and claws upon Nadir, it smoked. And when he grabbed it by limbs that seemed only distantly attached to any one shape, fires flared where his flesh touched the darkness. Nadir bore the dark thing to the ground, and drove the dead torch into it, and it became ash, then sand, and was soaked into the earth.
Thus it was with each one in turn, until all the dark things were gone or had fled, and when he was finished, Nadir collected their skulls. He buried each skull at the foot of a sapling and left a sprig of rosemary in the spot where he covered over the earth. When this task was done, he returned to the village, where they held a great celebration. Nadir went to tell his mother what he had accomplished, yet he could not find her anywhere. He did not know where she had gone, but because no darkness could cloud his eyes, he was able to see her footsteps.
Nadir followed the river to its source, and there he met the giant eagle at the doorway. The eagle said, “I was told you would come, and I am to bring you to my mistress. Please climb upon my back.” Nadir did so, and once again the eagle flew across the enormous lake, leaving Nadir on the small island. Here he was met by a lioness, who said nothing, but turned and walked down the stone path, leading Nadir to the witch’s cottage. She greeted him at the door, and fed him warm bread, cheese, and sweet brandy until he was at ease. Only then did she ask the purpose of his visit.
“My mother has come this way,” said Nadir. “It is a joyous occasion and I wish for her to celebrate it with me, but I cannot find her.”
“She has come this way, it is true,” said the witch. “Alas, she cannot return with you to the village. She made a bargain with me many years ago, and thus you have your strength, and you drove the dark things away, and now she has returned to me as she must. I do not wish unhappiness upon you, so you may come here to see her whenever you wish, but I can no more release her from my bargain than you may give up a meal you have already eaten.”
Nadir could do nothing, even with his strength. The witch took him to see his mother, and she was very happy to see him again, though sad she could not return to her village with him. And when she left, the lioness returned to guide him through the woods to the door, whereupon he found himself beside the eagle again.
Nadir returned to his village, which prospered, and he lived as long as the tree, and if it is still growing, then he may still be alive today somewhere in the darkest forest.
There was once a girl who dressed up a wolf like a man. Because it was in the nature of the wolf, the wolf took on the aspect of a man. When she tired of boys and men, she dressed the wolf up like a woman, and because it was in the nature of the wolf, the wolf took on the aspect of a woman. The lady who made the wolf a woman named her wolf Marie, and they lived together for many years. But few mortal women are eternal as wolves. Eventually she passed away and Marie the wolf was alone in the world.
Thus Marie the wolf found passage aboard a ship and sailed for the island nations. She had heard much of their cities, how cultured they were, and how great the progress of science had become in them. She was curious how men of the islands lived, wondering if they were of greater interest than those mortal men she had disdained on her homeland’s shores. She was quite pleased by the ships men had built, which carried her across the waves of the eastern ocean. Many of the sailors made the sign of the cross when she came aboard (some of them not even knowing why), but she had paid for her passage and there was little they could do but pray for her to remain in her quarters.
Marie the wolf did nothing of the sort, learning all there was to know of the great vessel in the months of crossing from one shore to the islands. Though the sailors did not trust her, many were bewitched (for no man can resist the wolf’s gaze), and so her curiosity was sated. Many sailors pledged their undying love to Marie, and yet when she set foot on the island’s shore they found themselves awakening as if from a dream, not wholly certain how the time spent on the eastern ocean had passed so rapidly.
In the capital city of the island nations all the greatest advancement of man and all his greatest culture could be found on every street corner and in every building. Marie the wolf found herself nearly overwhelmed at first brush, and spent hours wandering the streets, absorbing the gas light lanterns, the ornate carriages, the clocks and towers and grand museums that filled the city to overflowing. When her senses had drunk their fill she set about finding a place to make her den in the city.
She easily made the city her home, because such is the nature of the wolf, to take on the aspect of its surroundings. She hunted out all those things her palette desired, haunting the streets as the sun went down, slinking through gas-lit shadows without fear (for there are no predators more fierce than a wolf in the city) and seeking out those men with the scent of artistry about them.
Why she was drawn to these men she could not say. Perhaps something of their scent reminded her of her long lost lady. Or perhaps those gifted young men had, in some small way, a part of the wild which she had left behind so many years ago. She would find her artists in bars and in libraries. She lurked around universities and small cafes. Their eyes would find her, unthinking, drawn to her with the same flinching reflex as a person startled by a loud noise or burned by unexpected heat. Their eyes would find her, and Marie the wolf would take them into her den.
The artists and writers were not her prey (though, rest assured, she did prey on the city), but were her sustenance. To know them and to love them, as they completed works of beauty, drove the blood in her eternal heart, and she unknowingly captured a tiny portion of their souls in their work. Each painter, each writer, each poet, and each artisan fell under her spell, and so she made her way into their paintings and stories and poems and plaster. All of these artists sought to capture her, to put upon a canvas not just her features, but enough of her that they might take hold over her. They tried to lay her soul out in words and song, and for all their work, none saw the wolf under the clothes of a woman.
One by one, each artist captured not the soul of Marie the wolf, but of themselves. Her gallery grew large and extensive, as one bewitched artist after another passed through her home. In time, she placed those painting and sculptures on display, so that the men of the islands might see something of what becomes of an artist who places his soul in his works. She kept bound volumes of literature and poems on her shelves, even those which did not feature her (even indirectly), for she loved them all, even when she ceased to bewitch them.
As much as she loved her artists, there came a time when their company no longer sustained her. Marie the wolf began roaming the streets long after dark, not knowing what she sought, but following a scent in the air. It was the scent of blood, and violence, and the hunter’s instinct all wolves have. It was this scent which led her to her first murderer, one gross and uncouth man stabbing another for pocket change. The scent was strong about the play of violence here, but for all its potency it was less than what she sought. She tore the murderer to pieces and took some sustenance from his demise, and some from his remains, but only a little.
She stalked the city by night, and some spoke of her as an avenging angle, or the ghost of a murdered prostitute, who would tear to pieces any man who sinned. The police were more pragmatic. The deaths were very apparently the work of a feral dog or a wolf, and this was what they sought. As always, reason and myth had different ends of the same animal.
For three full moons, Marie the wolf roamed the city, until one evening she followed the scent into a parlor where there was no trace of a murder and not a drop of blood. Aristocrats and ladies milled about, and a man dressed in dark finery played the piano. The scent was strongest on him, at the piano, and when Marie approached he looked up from the ivory keys and their eyes locked. They knew one another in an instant, both wolves in the guise of men. So Marie the wolf spent an evening listening to the wolf dressed like a man play piano, and when he closed the cover over the keys, they returned to his apartment and swore their love.
Marie the wolf and her paramour would live together for many years, and they would father children who were something of wolves and something of men, and not fully either. Eventually Marie and her paramour would part ways, for though wolves are eternal, love is not. Their children would carry on their lineage, marrying mortals, or wolves, or other beasts in the guise of men. And to this day the line of the wolf has been carried down through killers and artists, through lovers and evil men. There are still no mortal men who can resist the wolves’ spells, and so long as the wolves still hunt, artists will sing their praises.
The story of Rethwyll is not well known, as her deeds were done not so very long after Crow brought fire to the world (and thereafter was ever shunned by all mankind).
In these times so long ago, men began to bring light and warmth to the night, and in this way began to drive back the dark things. But while men celebrated, the lady Night feared for her life. She watched the fires of men grow ever brighter, each one a wound, and she worried that they might destroy her entirely.
It happened that during the day, Rethwyll rested in the shade beneath an old grandfather pine tree. She had no sooner closed her eyes, than a voice whispered in her ears. “Fair lady, I would speak with you about my mistress.”
Rethwyll thought it might be some small bird or insect, as she was known among them for her singing, but when she turned, she discovered it was the lady Night’s handmaiden, Shadow, who spoke to her. Shadow explained how her mistress was worried over the fires of men, and what they might do. Rethwyll felt sorry for the poor lady Night and Shadow, and she promised to think of a solution.
“Come and speak with me when the fire dances on the walls of my home, Shadow, and I will see what I can do.”
That night, as Rethwyll lit the fires, Shadow appeared in her home, wavering in the firelight. She bowed to Rethwyll and asker her what they would do. “Your mistress,” said Rethwyll, “fears the light too much. The fires of men will only burn brighter in the totality of darkness.” Rethwyll then picked up a brand from the flames. “Take me to her, and I will show her what she must do.”
Thus Shadow swiftly carried Rethwyll through the darkness to the highest mountain, where the lady Night sat with folded legs and veiled eyes. She looked sadly at Rethwyll and only said, “So this is how I shall meet my end.”
Rethwyll raised her eyebrows to Shadow, as if marking those words which she had so recently spoken. “Come, Lady Night, the fires of man cannot destroy you. Men have lived in darkness for as long as we have memories, and it is possible they may drive it wholly away. But if you light their way, they will no longer fear the darkness you bring.”
Rethwyll held the fiery brand out for Night. “You must take the fire of men and make it your own. Make it a part of you. You need never banish Shadow like the day, but show men that your darkness is not always cruel.”
The lady Night bowed her head, and sat for a moment, before lifting away her veil. “Thank you, good lady,” said the Night, and carefully took the fire in her left hand, where the color of it drained away and left only the pale silver of its light. With her right hand, she took her eye from her head. “For you,” she said to Rethwyll, “a gift in exchange.” Thus the lady Night gave to Rethwyll her right eye, and she replaced it with the flame in her left hand.
Night stood, and the fire in her right eye grew brighter as she stood taller and taller, until she could look across the entire world.
“You have my thanks, as well,” said Shadow to Rethwyll. “I will carry you home if you like.”
“You are welcome, Shadow, but that is quite alright. I believe there is enough light to find my way.”
And that is the story of how Rethwyll set the moon in the sky. As to what she did with the Eye of Night, that is another story entirely.
In the city to the north, on the shores of a lake greater than the seas, in that first age of machines when the streets were lit by gas lamps and time was kept by clockwork, there was a woman of no small means named Myra. She was well known throughout the city as a skilled organist, with fingers that positively danced upon the keys. Churches and theaters alike paid great sums for her talents, and it was in this fashion she was able to live comfortably enough to have her own carriage and private stable.
On an unusually warm day in the middle of Fall, the lady Myra was returning from a recital when she saw a man prone in the gutter. It was not so unusual a sight for men to drink themselves so far into the streets, but by his clothes he was a gentleman, and he did not have the same limp form as those suffering from excess. Perhaps it was the neatness of his clothes, or the paleness of his skin, or the scent in the air around him, which tasted somehow more pure and clean than even the air on the grassy slopes far from the city.
Whatever the cause, the lady Myra had her carriage halted, and the coachman lifted the senseless soul from the gutter into her cab. She could feel the air itself in her cab grow stifling with the feverish heat of the unconscious gentleman.
The moment she was home, she laid the stricken gentleman out on a sofa and placed a cold compress on his head. The sun set and the moon rose above her home until the sun rose again, and all the while the lady Myra sat with the stricken gentleman, dribbling water into his mouth and dampening his burning skin. His terrible fever never broke, but as the first tendrils of dawn crept over the roofs and awnings, the strangest transformation took place. His breathing slowed and became regular, and the fine traces of water across his skin froze into the thinnest layer of frost. His eyes opened, and the lady Myra saw they were the palest of blue, so light they nearly seemed to have no color at all.
The very first thing his eyes saw, on focusing, was the face of the lady Myra, and the concern writ thereupon. He rose immediately to a sitting position, and took her hands in his. She saw that here, too, a layer of frost colored his already pale skin pure white, and what fever had gripped him until his eyes sprang open had so far vanished that his hands felt chilled as rocks in a winter river. “You have my gratitude, madam, though I do not know your name. I am called Jack the Frost, and I nearly think I died in the unforeseen warmth of the afternoon. Simply assure me you are not an angel, so I know whether I still live.”
“I assure you,” said the lady Myra, “that I am no angel. My name is Myra, and I am pleased by your recovery, though somewhat mystified by your demeanor and manor.”
“Ah, ahh!” said Jack the Frost, releasing her from his icy hands, “but how soon the world forgets. I am Jack the Frost, as I have said, and though you mortals have long lost my name from your lips, I am the one who bears the burden of winter, and who holds the ice and snow from the world for half the year round. Believe me if you wish, or don’t, as is your choice. You have only the evidence before your eyes. But know that I am grateful for your aid, and would grant you a boon.”
“Well,” replied the lady Myra, “I don’t doubt the truth of my eyes and hands, and you are welcome if I have given you any aid, but I live well enough that I need little in the way of boons or fortunes.”
“You are modest as well, but know this: I will grant you three favors, with all the power of the ice and wind at my disposal. Simply call my name when you have need of my aid. And now I must take my leave, for the winter cannot delay much more than a day or two.” With those words, Jack the Frost was gone in the glittering of an eye, leaving nothing but a draft of icy air in his place.
The lady Myra eventually put Jack the Frost to the back of her mind and went on about her way, performing at the keys of the many organs throughout the north city. As happens with such fame, a wicked aristocrat learned of her skill and determined to take it for himself. Thus the aristocrat had constructed a great pipe organ, grander and more luxuriant than even the kings and queens of the island nations had in their castles. But the organ held a terrible secret. Deep in its bowels he hid a human heart, and all throughout the organ ran an ingenious series of bellows and pipes, so that playing the organ caused the heart to beat with a mockery of life.
Word of the magnificent pipe organ soon reached the lady Myra, and it was not long before the wicked aristocrat sent her a cordial letter, imploring her to give a recital, that the organ might be blessed with the sound of her playing. Not knowing of his malicious intent, of course Myra agreed, and several days later arrived via stagecoach, prepared to play the deadly organ. She sat before it and played the recital, and the organ made the most beautiful sounds, coaxed from it by her skilled playing. But as she played, its heart beat faster and faster, and with every beat of its heart, a little of her life was stolen away. Myra played for hours and hours, and the more she played, the more exhausted she became, until at last she collapsed over the keys.
The lady Myra was taken away to a hospital, while the wicked aristocrat delighted in his devilish instrument. With her heart captured by the great pipe organ, he was able to play as well as she, and his seductive tunes drew wealth and power ever tighter around him. Meanwhile, the lady Myra languished in the hospital. No doctors or nurses could divine the nature of her ailment. She seemed to have no strength, and could barely move or speak. However, one evening as the hospital stood quiet and solemn, an old gypsy woman was roaming the ward, selling roses to some patients and giving them to others. When she came to the lady Myra’s bedside, she gave her a rose and spoke into her ear:
“Your heart has been stolen away by a wicked man. I can see it in you, poor dear. As long as he has your heart, you shall never take it from him, and I fear another must willingly give his heart to you, so that you have the strength to reclaim your own. But who? Who has a heart as great as what was stolen from you? Go to the dragon of the east ocean. You will find his floating mountain in the center of the waves. He may take pity on you and lend you his heart, but do not expect a bargain.”
The gypsy’s rose gave the lady Myra the strength she needed to rise from her bed and make her way out of the hospital. Still clutching the rose in her hand, with the thorns digging into her palms, she used what petty cash she had about her person to hire a coach, and traveled to the shore of the east ocean. She walked to the end of the furthest pier she could find, and there she stood, swaying, watching as the waves crashed and the wind whipped her face. “Please, Jack the Frost,” she whispered. “Come to my aid. Freeze the ocean, if you are able, and show me the path to the east dragon’s mountain.”
No sooner did the words leave her lips than a cold gust of wind blew her hair about her head, towards the ocean, and Jack the Frost appeared by her side. “I see you are in distress, good Lady Myra. Well you have called for aid and you shall receive it. I shall lead you to the east dragon’s mountain in a trice!” With these words he was swept into the ocean on a gust of wind, and it turned to ice beneath his feet, while one or two petals of the gypsy’s rose danced around his hair. In a snap he crossed the ocean and laid a path of ice for the lady Myra to walk in his wake.
She followed Jack the Frost, until in as many days as there are letters she reached the floating island of the east dragon. She was near to collapsing, and so she squeezed the gypsy’s rose ever tighter, and the pain of the thorns kept her awake, while the blood from her cuts froze on the ice and on her skin. She slipped to the ice beneath the floating mountain and lay on her back, looking at the underside of the granite edifice, so far above her reach. “Please, Jack the Frost,” she whispered, “come to my aid again. Carry me up on your winter winds to the mountain where the east dragon waits.”
No sooner did the words leave her lips than a gust of wind blew her hair about her head, towards the granite castle, and Jack the Frost appeared kneeling at her side. “I see you are in distress yet again, good Lady Myra. But you have called for aid and you shall receive it! To the east dragon’s mountain then, straightaway!” With these words he swept the lady Myra up in his arms, and the screaming winds of winter whirled about them both, and he carried her up to the mountain and took her to the doorstep of the great castle were the dragon resided. Then he was gone in another swirl of wind and rose petals.
The lady Myra made her way to the great door, and rang for the dragon, and shortly the portcullis rose. She found herself facing the east dragon himself. “Welcome to my castle,” spoke the dragon. “I see you have journeyed far, and you may rest here for a day and a night if you so wish, for any mortal making the journey is granted my hospitality.”
“I thank you for your good will, dragon of the east, but no rest will cure me, for a wicked man has stolen away my heart.” She held up her hand, which still gripped tightly the gypsy rose. “I was told you alone might lend me a heart great enough to reclaim what is mine, and thus I have come to beg and bargain for your heart, if you will let me have it.”
“Very well,” said the dragon, “what have you to offer?”
“If you have a pipe organ, I can play more beautifully than any other,” said the lady Myra. “But I cannot play without my heart, and without your aid, I cannot reclaim it.”
“Still, I cannot give up my heart for a promise, young woman. What might you leave for me in it’s place?”
“I have nothing else but a rose given to me by a gypsy lady and a favor owed to me by Jack the Frost,” said lady Myra.
“Then ask Jack the Frost for his favor, if he will, to produce for you a diamond unlike any other, as pure as ice and as perfect as a snowflake.”
The lady Myra once again called for Jack the Frost, and once again he appeared to her. She told him of her last favor and he bowed to her and said, “If that is your wish, then so I shall grant it!” In three winks of an eye Jack the Frost spun around. The snow and the winds of winter swirled about, and then Jack the Frost was gone, leaving in his place a magnificent diamond the size of the lady Myra’s head, with more facets than a hundred snowflakes.
The east dragon was pleased with the diamond. He took the lady Myra to a locked box where he kept his heart (for in this way, no one could slay him) and spoke, “You may reclaim your heart, good lady, but you must not break your promise. Return to me and show me what music you can make when your heart has been restored.”
The lady Myra took the heart of the dragon inside herself, and she immediately was filled with his strength. She leapt from the east dragon’s mountain all the way across the ocean to the city where the aristocrat lived. With one hand, she ripped apart his house until she found him cowering behind his devilish pipe organ. “I have carried this rose twice across the ocean for you, sir, but I see no garden in which a seed might grow. I see nothing but tainted earth.” So speaking, she planted the rose in the wicked aristocrat’s mouth. In an instant it sprouted all throughout his body, until he was covered in thorns and roses as red as blood.
She then turned to the organ and tore it asunder with her other hand, in a screeching of metal and a cracking of wood. She found the unliving heart at its center, and plucked it as the old gypsy woman plucked a rose for her. She carried her heart back to the east dragon’s castle and there she returned his heart to him, and took her own heart inside herself again. She played many songs for many weeks, and the dragon brought her roses, plucked from the wreckage of the wicked aristocrat’s home, placing them in a vase which sat beside her.
When she had played his fill, the dragon carried her back to her home, and she returned to playing concerts in the city on the shore of the great lake. She did not see him for many years, but after each concert she was presented with a rose as red as blood. When her life was near its end, she vanished one night from the bed where she lay. It was said a great dragon carried her off, and if such is the case, then perhaps he gave her a diamond for a heart and so she lived forever after in the castle of the east dragon, floating over the ocean.
The Widow Ash lived in the island city with her two young daughters and no one else. There was once a time when their family had been wealthy, and their house had been filled with friends and laughter, with wine and celebration. But the good master Ash had passed away, and with him passed the fortune of the Ash family until all that remained was the home, the widow, and her two children, neither of whom had seen their fifth year.
On the last month of winter, early one morning, the Widow was awakened from her slumber by the cries of a child. There were often hungry children wandering the street, and because there were no longer any servants in the house, the Widow herself was obliged to go to the door to chase them off. When she opened the door on the cold morning she was surprised to discover that there were no urchins begging for food but a baby in swaddling clothes on her doorstep. The Widow very nearly shut the door, before a thought could take shape in her mind. It was true she did not need another mouth to feed, but how nice it would be, she mused, to have a servant girl again and (better yet) one who need not be paid.
Thus the Widow took in the girl, finding upon her a simple note with a name and a request that whoever should find her care for her. She raised the child, but not as a daughter, and the girl lived with the Widow and the sisters Ash not as family, but as a servant. When she became old enough to walk it was her duty to fetch things day and night for the Widow and her daughters. When she became tall enough it was her duty to clean the whole empty mansion. She was taught how to sew and mend, how to cook the meals for the family, and all the many ways in which the Widow demanded her home be maintained. The young girl was not given one of the many empty rooms, but instead had to sleep in a small alcove by the hearth.
This was how her youth was spent, and it gradually passed, so that the girl became a woman, knowing nothing but the life of a servant girl to her step-mother and her two step-sisters. The Widow treated the poor girl as if she were serving a queen, and as to the step-sisters, they seemed to take endless delight in heaping work upon her. Often times she would have to work late into the night mending garments, sitting in her tiny alcove with a kerosene lantern.
Moths would flutter about the light, and so she would have to stop and shoo them away. “Be careful, my little friends. Go find the light of the moon, for it will not harm you so.” And as she would sew, she would often admire the beautiful patterns on the moths’ wings. Sometimes during the day the Widow Ash would find a moth or two in her boudoir. “Horrid things,” she would say, and strike them dead with her fan. And the wicked Ash sisters would pick at her clothes and tell her she was as drab as a moth. “Careful or we shall swat you to death with a fan, little moth!”
Well, the girl did not have much time for herself, but she had some, and she had little enough of her own, but here and there she had scraps of cloth left from her sewing. Between all the chores and tasks, she was able to sew for herself a beautiful shawl of many patterns, modeled after the moths which sat with her on her long nights hard at work. She was quite pleased with it and the next day she wore it about the house.
Both sisters were immediately jealous and ran to their mother in anger. “Mother! Mother!” they shouted, “Why does she have a shawl so much prettier than ours?” The Widow Ash marched down to the hearth and ripped the shawl from the poor girl. “Wretched servant,” she said, “Stealing cloth for yourself from me. And after I give you a roof over your head and food to eat! I should turn you out onto the street!” Thus the Widow Ash gave the girl’s shawl to her daughters and for supper that night the poor girl had only hard bread and water.
That night the servant girl would have cried herself to sleep, but she had still more mending to do. So her tears fell onto her sewing and the moths fluttered about her, providing what comfort they could.
The following day the sisters decided to walk through town, so that they each might wear the lovely shawl and make all the other girls jealous. They spent many hours wandering the cobblestone streets, pretending to look into shop windows in order to admire their own appearance. It seemed to grow quite late in no time at all, and soon the gas lamps were being lit. The girls decided they must return home, but as they were making their way back to the mansion, they came across a dandy standing under one of the gas lights.
He greeted them cordially. “Good evening, my good ladies, and where might you be traveling dressed in such finery?”
Well, the gentleman was handsome, obviously of good birth, and wealthy besides, so the two sisters tittered to one another and bowed profusely and told him they were returning to their home (they took care to describe it as a mansion).
“Then I shall not delay your passage,” he said, “but for one question. I must know whence came the lovely shawl you wear about your shoulders.” And here he indicated the younger sister Ash, for it was she who wore the shawl at the time.
The girls tittered again and the elder sister Ash said, “Oh, it was but a small matter. My sister is as skilled as she is beautiful, and sewed it all herself!”
“That is quite an impressive talent, young lady,” he said. “If I may then beg you just one moment more, I think I should like nothing better than to see you sew a fine dress.” And here he produced from somewhere within his cloak voluminous quantities of silk and fine cotton. “I promise you silver for such a task, enough to make it worthwhile.”
Of course the wicked sisters agreed in a flash, and they were soon on their way home, where they wasted not a minute in setting the servant girl to work on a dress cut from the fine cloths the gentleman gave them. The Widow Ash soon learned of the offer, and the girls agreed that they should all split the gentleman’s silver. In but a matter of a day the dress was made, and the younger Ash sister slipped it on almost before the last thread was cut (it fit her body poorly, but she did not notice), and together the wicked sisters went out into the city again.
As before, they found the gentleman wandering beneath the gas lamps, but he immediately noticed the magnificently attired sister. “It is a masterwork, beyond what I could have hoped for. Here is your silver, but take caution. My silver is the purest sort, plucked from the light of the moon. Let no one lay dishonest hands on it, for the consequences are dreadful indeed.” Of course, the two girls barely heard any of this, and a moment later the gentleman produced yet more fine cloth. “But if it pleases you, I should like to see you sew a petticoat and parasol from such finery as this, for your skill is quite remarkable.”
Once again the girls rushed home. There the Widow Ash was waiting to shake the silver out of their clutches. “Come, come,” she said, “Greedy children, let us see what you have earned.” They fell thereafter to dividing the silver, as hyenas might quarrel over a corpse, for quite some many hours. When all this was done they took the fine cloth to the girl and set her again to the task of making a beautiful garment.
It took her no more than a day, but as she worked through into the early hours of dawn, a terrible scream echoed through the house. The Widow Ash came rushing to her daughters’ room, and there she found them sobbing in terror. Seemingly overnight the younger sister Ash’s hands had withered away and fallen off, leaving her with only a pair of stumps, twisted up like an ancient tree, at her wrists. “What have you done, you foolish child!” she said. “What have you been touching! I have told you both how carefully a lady must maintain her hands!” The Widow Ash then beat her two sobbing daughters about the head with her fan until they ceased crying.
By this time the petticoat and parasol were complete, and there was nothing else to do but for the elder Ash sister to slip on the garments and go about the city (the youngest, it was made clear, would not be seen in public thereafter). The petticoat did not fit her well, but the wicked sister did not notice, and wandered through the city for many hours until she found the gentleman under the glow of gaslight.
Again he marveled at the skill involved. “But where is the seamstress? I must pay only her and none other!”
Thinking quickly, the elder sister said, “My sibling was taken ill, good sir, but I sew nearly as well as she, and so I was able to finish it for her.”
The gentleman smiled and bowed his head. “Ah, yes, I perfectly understand. Well then, here is the silver I have spoken of before. Do not let it stray across the hands of anyone who lies, or the consequences shall be dire.” But the sister hardly listened, for this time he gave her twice as much silver as before. And then for a third time he produced fine silks. “But now the shawl that was so pretty seems to pale next to the dress and petticoat. Please, I implore you, if your sister cannot sew, then perhaps you can produce a shawl nearly as beautiful as the one before.”
And so the elder sister Ash took the cloth and ran straight home where her mother shook the silver from her hands. “Greedy child, what have you earned for us this time? Your wretched sister has done nothing but moan all day! I should hope this is sufficient recompense.” Thus they fell to squabbling and, even with no hands to grasp it, the younger sister Ash quarreled as well as her elders. But soon enough this was all over and they once again took the fine silks to the girl, to be sewn into a shawl.
Being a shawl, it only took her a matter of hours, and the Widow Ash snatched it from her fingers no sooner than it was finished. She and her elder daughter greedily ran their fingers over it, thinking of what riches were to come, while the younger sister Ash sat in a corner and quietly sobbed, as she had no hands with which to enjoy the fine garment.
The Widow and her daughters went to bed, leaving the poor girl with her usual allotment of work, plus what she had not done because she had been sewing fine cloth and silk. But when the sky began to lighten, once again the Widow Ash was awakened by the screams of her daughters. She rushed to their room and found them sobbing and screaming, for the elder daughter’s hands had, like the youngest, withered away and fallen off, leaving her with nothing but a pair of stumps, twisted up like an ancient tree, at her wrists. Once again the Widow Ash beat them about the head until they ceased crying. “Stupid wicked girls! Now you have both ruined your hands over some trifling foolishness! I do not know what you have been up to, but I’m sure you deserve it!”
With both her daughters in such a state, there was nothing more to do but for the Widow to wear the shawl around the city, and so she left her daughters at home and walked the streets until she met the strange gentleman by the glow of gaslight. He looked from the light to the shawl and he said, “We have never met, but I see another fine garment. Yet where is the seamstress? I can pay her and none other.”
“My daughters are sick,” snapped the Widow, “and besides all that, I taught them all they know. I sewed this myself.”
“Ah, I understand,” said the gentleman, and held out his hand as if to pass his payment to the Widow. As she eagerly reached for it, his hand darted out like a snake and took her wrists, twisting them around until the gas light pooled in her palms. “And now I am quite sure your daughters are unwell. You have fine hands, my lady, but they have never sewn a stitch, nor been raised to a single other task. You will take me straightaway to whomever has made these fine garments or I will lop your hands off here before the moon and the cloak of night!”
The Widow had no choice, and thus led the gentlemen to her house, which was a bedlam of sorrow and piteous cries from her daughters. She took him to the alcove where the servant girl slept and presented him to her. “Here,” she said, “here is your accursed seamstress! You can have her for all the good she’s worth!”
The gentleman ignored her, as only a gentleman can, and took the girl’s hand. “My little moth, I knew your wings from afar. My family is called Luna, and you are of my kin. Let me take you into the night and show you what you have inherited.”
The little moth girl took Luna’s hands, yet still felt sorry for her awful step-mother and wicked step-sisters. “Please, good sir,” she said, “I know they are not kind, but can you not grant them some mercy? It is cruelty to leave them all in such a state.” The gentleman was moved by her plea, but still wroth at the Ash family.
“You like to suck the blood of moths and spin lies, so now you may live on moths and spin empty nets.” And with this pronouncement he turned the step-mother and her wicked children into spider. The gentleman then lead the girl into the night, where together they would circle under the gas lamps and catch silver from the light of the moon.
Miss Leah was taught how to make masks by her mother. Standing before the mirror, her mother showed her how to apply the delicate lacquers to her lips, and carefully sculpt the bone-thin clay over her face. She showed the child how to decorate her brow with fine jewels, and paint the clay until it held the complete illusion of life.
“Mother,” the child would ask, “why must we make the masks for ourselves?”
“Because, my child,” said her mother, “we must not give away every part of ourselves to the world. Your name is a secret, and so is your face. Knowing these secrets gives others power over you, and so you mustn’t share them carelessly.”
Now, Miss Leah’s mother was known throughout their island nation for her skill in the making of masks, and this skill she passed on to her daughter. It was in her blood and, with each day of practice, it found its way into her hands. Time passed, as time will, and Miss Leah became a woman, as a child often will. In addition to her talent and her skill, her mother passed on the business of making masks.
To make a mask was no small thing. Most of the men and women of this island nation made their own masks, but few had the skill for the most elegant and lifelike creations, though most still had the desire for them. These clients were served by Miss Leah. Blindfolded, she would paint her bone clay over their faces, and then to this mannequin canvas impart a face. Some of these customers would even bring their children to Miss Leah for their very first masks (young children being veiled until they came of age, of course).
Though there were other sculptors of masks, Miss Leah’s were known and recognized as the best. The way they captured the essence of life, where a tilt of the head or a gesture of the hand would seem to change the mask’s whole expression, was a sublime and subtle art. Miss Leah never shared the secret of her masks, because the truth was that their life came from herself - her own face was her model, and the subtle shifts of expression captured in unmoving porcelain were no less than reflections of her own features. As she kept these always hidden below those masks she made for herself, so the truth was concealed.
One evening as she was walking home, something caught her eye and turned her head. Going around corner, she caught just a breath-stealing glimpse of a mask she had never seen before. She saw it only briefly, but she recognized it as her face.
The following day she was disturbed, but soon able to convince herself it had been a mere trick of the light. Thus her mind became placid again, until she saw another woman with her face. She hurried after the woman as fast as she could, but the woman turned a corner and was gone from sight when Miss Leah reached the same spot.
That night, she took the mask from her face and set it before her, in its place on a wall filled with masks. She stared first at it, then at the others, then at all of them, until before she knew it they all seemed to be her own face staring back. Finally, with shaking hands, she went to the mirror and began to make a new mask. She carefully applied the bone clay, and lacquered her lips with a pale pink, put the faintest of peach coloration to the clay, and watched as the features set. She removed the mask and looked at it, a perfect reproduction of her face. She set the mask on the wall, and the others no longer looked like her.
The next day she asked each of her clients if they had seen the mask, and showed them her secret face. Each client in turn told her they had not, until the last client. This one stared long at the mask and finally gave Miss Leah a name. So from the name Miss Leah found an address and at the address she found the woman with her face. She spoke to the woman, disturbed by the nuance of the mask. Her own creations captured the subtleties of life, but the craftsperson responsible for this mask had instead duplicated her features exactly, including even the tiniest imperfections.
The woman wearing her face gave her an address but no name. “He never gives a name,” she said. “This is all I know of him.”
She found an unassuming brick building at the address. The door had gold numbering on it, and a buzzer, which she pressed. “I’ve come to ask you about your masks.”
“Please, enter.”
At the top of a flight of narrow steps, she found a small office, arranged much like her own, but in a smaller space, and lacking her more luxurious accoutrements. A young man arranged jars of clay and lacquer, facing away from the door, but turned as her head brushed a set of silver chimes over the doorway.
“Ah, hello today…” He then stopped and looked at her. “Miss Leah. How nice to see you again.”
She held up the mask she had made of herself and asked him, “How?”
The man sat in a chair backwards and clasped his hands, looking out from behind a mask Miss Leah could tell was one of his own design. Like his mask of her features, this one was strangely and disturbingly nuanced. Rather than speaking, after a moment he reached into a drawer in his desk and drew out a package wrapped in tissue. He removed the wrappings, and Miss Leah found herself staring at one of her own creations.
“This, Miss Leah,” he said. “I felt the shape of you when you put the bone clay over my skin. I found your face in the one you made for me. In your touch and in your paint you shared a secret. What else could I do? I had to see you, and so I made masks of my own. They are no different than yours, Miss Leah. Your secret is safe, for I’ve hidden it on someone else’s face, and no one would ever think to look for it there. Is that not why you do the same thing?”
Miss Leah took the mask of her own design from his hands and looked at it, remembering making it. “Yet,” she said, “I do not know any of your secrets, not even your name.”
“Oh,” he said, “I think you do.”
And as she looked at the mask in her hand, then at the mask on his face, and traced her fingers over the polished clay and jewels, remembering what it felt like to shape it, she saw more clearly than ever her features in both masks. She looked from one mask to the other, and at all the masks on the walls of the shop, until her eyes found his again, and at last she realized what his true face must be. She set the mask on his desk, and leaned forward, so that no one else would hear her as she whispered his name in his ear.
In one of the midlands valleys, long before the first age of machines but long after triumph of men over the darkness, there was a lake of crystal clarity and perfect smoothness. Barely a ripple touched its surface, and the most raging of winds became calming breezes on its shores. The lake was small and shallow, fed by a large creek or a small river (depending on whether or not one comes from the east or the west), and when the sunlight was at a certain angle, it was possible to see the fish and turtles swimming under the surface. At other times, the lake would become a mirror with a clarity unequaled by any silver-backed woman’s vanity. One afternoon at just such a time as this, the charming young lady Wendy walked through the tall, waving grass along the shore, making her way down to the water’s edge. She spread her dress as she lay down in the reedy plants by the shore, and propped her head on her hand, looking into the lake at her reflection. “Tell me, my reflection, whence comes this melancholy? My life is good and I am happy, but sometimes I feel empty and alone. I do not know whither such a feeling would have me go. Do you know, my reflection, where it pulls me?”
Her reflection pointed to the north and spoke, “What you seek lies in the lands to the north. Search and find what the lady has lost. Return it to her. She will fill the void.” Wendy gave her reflection her thanks, then placed two finger on her reflection’s lips, and flicked the droplets into the water, scattering the image.
The lady Wendy packed a warm cloak and winter clothes, and she set out on her journey. She traveled far from the middle lands and their waving grass, over the tall and craggy mountains, through the darkest forests, into the lands of the north where the lady Night spreads her cloak over the land and the sky for months at a time. On her travels, she stopped at many inns and in many towns. Always she asked, “Do you know a lady who has lost something?” Yet none had an answer for her.
At last she was under the lady Night’s cloak, deep in the northern lands. The towns were few and far between, and it was rare to meet travelers. Thus when she saw the old woman on the road, the lady Wendy stopped to ask her of the lady who had lost something. “Please,” said the old woman. “I am very cold, may I have a cloak?” Wendy had many cloaks, and so she willingly parted with one for the old woman. “And I am very hungry, young lady. Do you not have any bread?” Again, Wendy saw no reason to deny the old woman. “And please, some brandy? To warm my bones.” Wendy, being a lady of generosity, willingly gave the old woman the last of her brandy, and the old woman was very grateful.
“Oh, my dear lady, thank you so much. Now, your question, ah, yes, I know of a lady who has lost something. She is the Lady Night, and one of her most precious diamonds has fallen from her cloak to the earth, somewhere in these lands. As you can see, the icy cold of her diamond has long since seeped out and covered the earth, and she searches now, as she does this time every year, for her lost precious stone. You will find it if you look closest to your heart, but heed me now. Although you will want to keep it more than anything in the world, you must not. Carry the jewel back to Lady Night, and only in this way will you keep what you most desire.”
Wendy thanked the old woman, and the two continued on their separate ways. After many more hours in the cold and the dark, she saw lights and knew she would sleep somewhere warm for the night. As always, she acquired a room at the inn, and she took her meal at the inn’s public space. But as she went to sip her wine, someone stumbled into her, spilling it across her blouse. Flustered, the youth apologized to her, and helped her clean herself and the table. Her eyes sparkled in amusement, and met his, and he flushed red as the wine. Her hands brushed his, and she thought little more of it until she retired to sleep. There, in her room, she saw the small wine stain was exactly over her heart.
The next morning, as she prepared to leave, she found the young man in the public room. “Please, good lady, stay one more night. I have seen no others with your beauty or sparkle. Please, take this gift, which hardly matches you in either respect, but may perhaps sway you to spend just another day, another hour here, with me.” And saying this, he held up a most wondrous uncut diamond.
The lady Wendy stared with amazement, breathtaken by the diamond, and moved to tears by the youth’s gesture. She reached out to take it, to agree to stay as long as he would have her, when understanding crept over her, and she saw the diamond for what it was. “Good sir,” she said, “I hardly know you, and yet I would stay for a day, a week, a month or longer for no other purpose than to look into your eyes and hear your voice. But the diamond is neither mine to take, nor yours to give. Though I cannot stay here, I would welcome you to journey with me, and we shall return the diamond to its owner.”
Thus the lady Wendy and the youth who stood nearest to her heart journeyed out of the winter lands, through the darkest forests and over the craggy mountains. They traveled many leagues, until at last they reached the highest mountain in the world. Together they climbed the mountain, and together they called up to the lady Night, who stood looking out across the world with her eye the moon.
Night noticed them straightaway, and in the flickering of a shadow no longer stood over the world, but looked at them eye to eye, and asked their business. “Lady Night,” said Wendy, “We have come from the north lands, because there we heard that you had lost one of your diamonds, and searched for it every year. We have the diamond for you here, and have come to return it and beg your pardon.”
And the youth bowed his head, and spoke up, “My pardon, Lady Night, for the jewel has been in my family for longer than my father’s father can remember, and we knew not that it was yours. It was only through the graces of this good lady I learned of the stone’s true owner. I did not mean to keep it from you.”
So the lady Night pondered, and at last granted his pardon, and gladly took back her diamond. “I see it has long ceased to shine, but I thank you anyway. And I see that you have found another jewel far brighter and more precious, young man. I charge you to see that she does not lose her shine as my diamond has, for if you take good care of her, I believe she will be as much a part of your children’s children’s lives as my own diamond was a part of yours. Go, and you have my blessings.”
The youth and the lady Wendy then journeyed back to the middle lands, where they lived together. And though the lady Wendy still sometimes felt melancholy, as all mankind must at times, she no longer felt empty or alone.
Long after the dark things were driven into the ocean, they would still carry off men. And there, in the depths, they would beget monsters. Some said such creatures were the union of mortals and those strange beings who had existed before light itself. Others said the monsters were men, warped and twisted by the depths of the ocean.
In a great city, in the thrice tenth kingdom of the twice ninth land, such a monster came to carry off the most beautiful maiden of the city, every fifth year. A wealthy merchant, knowing his youngest daughter was soon to come of age, sent out offers of a great reward and the hand of his daughter in marriage to any man who would slay the monster to all four corners of the kingdom.
Random heard of this reward and came to offer his services to the wealthy merchant. “Well,” spoke Random, on presenting himself to that worthy man, “where are all the others who seek the prize?”
“They have all tried and failed,” replied the merchant. “A man as strong as a hundred men was slain just yesterday, and his sword of one thousand folds shattered in twain.”
Random spread his arms and said, “That is all good, but I will wager I am twice as strong as that. See here now, I carry neither sword nor rifle, but I swear on your promise that I shall complete your task.”
“So you say,” the merchant agreed, with little hope. “You may overnight in my house, and be well-rested for the morning.”
“I have no need of sleep,” said Random. “I will set about my task straightaway. But I must ask to borrow from you two good, strong draft horses, eight casks of kerosene, a sturdy blade, and one of the good lady’s kerchief’s for luck.”
The merchant provided all these things, and Random set off as the sun began to touch the horizon. When all daylight had fled, and he was a good distance from the city, Random stopped his cart and immediately lay down to sleep, for he was quite tired.
Some hours later, a terrible voice awakened him. “What’s this? Another warrior of men sent from the fools in the city! Well, I will have my prize this year too, and your life with all the others!”
“Oh, so you are the monster I have heard so much talk over,” said Random. The great beast stood like a man, yet towered like a tree. It had the features of a baboon, or a wolf perhaps, and coarse, mottled hair covered the twisted and gargantuan musculature of its body. “Well, you are not so much. I hardly think it is worth my time to slay you.” And Random made to go back to sleep.
“Pah! You are nothing! Such arrogance! Stand or die where you lay.”
Thus Random stood, and retrieved a cask of kerosene from the cart. “You are quite loud. Let me refresh myself with a drink, first.” And so he drank down the entire cask, though in truth he secretly let it all flow into the earth.
“Bah,” roared the monster. “You think me impressed? I am not!” And with that it drank down all the other casks of kerosene, spilling it everywhere as its hideous jaws guzzled the foul-smelling liquid.
Random stretched and yawned. “If we must fight, then let me clear this away.” So speaking, Random picked up a rock larger than his head and, with all his might, threw it a league.
The monster roared with laughter. “I will clear a space big enough for both of us, worm.” And at that, it gathered up a hundred trees in each arm, straining as it lifted them over its head.
Well, in a flash, Random pulled out the fair maiden’s kerchief and struck it alight. He threw the burning silk onto the kerosene-soaked monster, and before the beast could roar a protest, it was engulfed in flame, and burned to cinders from the inside out.
The trees collapsed on it, and crushed its ribs, and when the flames died, Random used his sturdy blade to cut off the monster’s head and hands. The head he laced with rosemary and silver, and buried it beneath a sapling, and the hands he brought back to the city as evidence of his task’s completion.
He was given his reward by the merchant, and if he has not died, he still lives in the great city today.
The small village where Tarn had lived for all her life was blocked by mountains on one side, the ocean on the other, and a raging river on the third. For anyone in this isolated delta of unfortunate terrain to trade anywhere else, a perilous journey across the mountains was needed.
The brave villagers crossed the mountains for generation upon generation before they made the decision to ford the river. Thus the town worked and worked for five long years, trying to build a bridge. Many lives were lost, as the river’s fury smashed their efforts to pieces. As happens in five years, Tarn went from being a girl to being a woman, and she felt regret for the suffering of her village. So she went to the river and lay down by its side.
“River, tell me. Why do you rage? Our village is dying and we cannot cross the uncaring mountains much longer. Will you not let us bridge your currents?”
“Young lady, I rage because I am alone. You see the uncaring mountains? They cut me off from all my brothers. And the ocean? He thinks we rivers are below him. I have no others but myself, and the emptiness of my heart fills me with rage, which I cannot contain.”
Tarn was moved by the river’s sorrow, for like his rage and rushing waters, it was powerful, deep, and dangerous. “River, if it is only loneliness that troubles you, then I will stay with you, and ease your terrible loneliness. I only ask you help my village and let them cross between your shores.”
The river swirled in contemplation before he spoke again. “Young woman, you have shown me the only kindness I have ever known. But I am a river and you are a mortal. It is not as easy as all that. I must know if you are able to fulfill your promise.”
“Whatever I must do to prove myself,” said Tarn, “you need but ask.”
“Very well,” said the river. “In the thrice ninth land of the thrice tenth kingdom stands the tallest mountain in the world. At the top of the mountain, the Lady Night watches over the world with her right eye the Moon, wearing her cloak woven with diamonds. If you can bring to me one of Night’s diamonds, I will be satisfied.”
Tarn bowed and straightaway she packed up a satchel and some warm cloaks, and set out for the tallest mountain in the world. As all the seconds ticked off in telling the tale, so many days were taken to travel the trail, and her journey brought her to the peak of the mountain at the stroke of midnight.
Tarn looked up at the lady Night and her eye the moon, wondering if the woman could hear her voice, and with all her courage she called up, begging the lady Night for a moment of her time. Three times she called, and three times the lady Night paid her no mind, but at her fourth entreaty, the Night turned her right eye to look upon Tarn, and before she could blink, the lady Night stood facing the young woman Tarn.
“I see you have traveled far to speak with me, and so you may have my ear. Come, young woman, what would you?”
Thus Tarn told the lady Night her story, and the Night listened intently until it was through, whereupon she shook her head sadly. “The river is right, but I fear you are not the measure of the task before you. The diamonds of my cloak are not meant to be held by mortal hands. Will you not be swayed?”
“Please, Lady Night. I must, for otherwise my village shall die.”
The lady Night merely shrugged her shoulders, growing as tall as the sky again, and reached up to pluck one of the diamonds from her cloak. “Take it, young woman, and rush home without delay, for I fear you will not carry it long or far.”
Tarn took the diamond from Night, and immediately felt a cold deeper than the breath of Jack the Frost and crueler than jealousy drive its needles into her body. She understood Night’s warning, and ran without delay, clenching her hand tight around the diamond.
Like the winter wind, she raced between grass and leaves and no obstacle could stand in her way. She rushed over land and mountains in thrice the time the tale was written. Soon she was running down the mountain which guarded her village, the lady Night’s diamond still held in her hands.
She reached the river and there she stopped. Her skin was pale as morning frost, her eyes clear as icicles, her hair like polished topaz. She tried to speak, to tell the river she was here with his prize, but her mouth was frozen shut. Even her eyes could not blink. She fell upon the soft, grassy banks and cried, each tear freezing on her skin.
“You have returned,” said the river. “And I see you have brought what I have asked. You have kept your promise, and I shall keep mine. Step into my waters, for I will trouble your village no more.”
Each of Tarn’s limbs was as chilled marble, but she found her feet, for the sake of her village, and stepped into the river. He no longer raged. Now his gently flowing waters lapped across her body, warming her, until bit by bit she melted away in the currents of the river.
“You will no longer need your mortal flesh,” the river told her. “I will sculpt for you a body of pearl, sand, and silver. Thus you will ever after be a part of me and I will be a part of you. By the diamond of the Lady Night, I promise, and so by both our promises we are bound.”
And that is the story of how Tarn tamed the river with a promise.