When the dark things were driven from the world, they hid in the deepest and darkest depths of the ocean. Though few dark things were ever seen in the world again, below the surface, they made strange and terrible creatures. Dragons and myths of old sprang forth from the depths to plague mankind. But as the years passed, even those creatures born of the dark things’ hatred of all light and life changed and grew and became other creatures entirely. Thus it came to pass that the black shark swam in the ocean, but was neither an enemy of light or life, but an ally only to itself.

In a time when the shark had become a shark, but before those sharks which men would come to know in the golden ages and beyond swam the oceans, a shark was born colored the deepest black. When he swam below the surface, it would look as though there was only a shadow. And when he swam in the depths which never saw the sun, it still would look as though there was only a shadow. The shark could not see the sun, but only the myriad of shattered reflections it cast on the mirror of the ocean’s surface.

The black shark swam all the seven oceans of the world, and saw the coasts of all the lands of the earth. One such a coastline was a sheer cliff, and the shark would sometimes swim along it. Looking upwards through the glittering ocean at this rock wall, the shark happened to spy a bird flying from her nest. The shark was curious at this creature, floating through the air above the ocean in much the same way as he swam in the ocean’s water. He regarded the dove momentarily before departing.

In a sheer rock wall, a gray dove had built her nest in a tiny crevice. From there she could soar above the ocean, or above the trees on land. She could see the stars in the cloak of night, or dance in the salty spray of the waves. Few other birds built nests so near the vastness of the ocean, but the dove liked the cool air and the reflection of the stars and the moon at night. While other birds feared the unknown, and flew only into familiar skies, the gray dove sought out whatever new experiences she could find.

For this reason, the gray dove was not fearful when she spied the shadow of the shark circling below her nest. Every day the shark returned, and at last she flew low over the waves and cooed to the shark, “My strange and curious dark creature of the ocean, wherefore do you come to this spot, day after day and gaze upon the cliff? And what can you tell me of the world below the waves?”

The shark circled below the gray dove, the ocean’s water spraying her wings as his fin cut the waves. “I wonder at the world above the waves, and what it is like to soar amongst the fragments of the sunlight therein.” Thus the black shark agreed to tell the gray dove about the ocean, and the gray dove agreed to tell the black shark about the sky.

The shark told the dove about the many shores of all the lands of the world. He told her of the depths of the ocean, where living creatures shone like the stars at night. He told her all the legends sharks had passed down for as long as they had existed, and he described the sensation of swimming in the depths of an ocean which was vast and cold. At the wonderment of the dove in hearing all these tales, the shark’s only reply was, “I am a shark, and that is all.”

The dove told the shark about all the lands he could never see. She told him of the skies, and what it was like to fly among the stars and the moon. She told him stories of sights she had seen, which no other bird had seen, and what few other living things could know. The dove told the shark of what it meant to fly. At the wonderment of the shark in hearing all these tales, the dove’s only reply was, “I am a dove, and that is all.”

Day after day, the shark returned to the shore, and the gray dove flew to speak with him. At last the black shark said, “I have heard much of the moon and the stars, and I would like to see them with my own eyes, and know what it is to fly.”

The gray dove said, “Perhaps. I do not know if you could learn to fly. The sky is very far away.”

The shark and the dove spoke for yet many more days, telling one another all that they knew of their separate worlds. The gray dove made much of the ocean’s depths, often wondering at the lights below the surface, and wishing to see such things as the shark could see. At last the black shark said, “I would like nothing better than to show you those sights of which we have only spoke. If you wish I will take you to see them all.”

But the gray dove said, “Perhaps. I do not know if I could learn to swim, and the depths of the ocean are very far away.”

The shark returned to the coast day after day, for the ocean was vast, and cold, and lonely. The gray dove flew throughout the lands, and among the stars, and saw many things which even the ocean’s depths could not match. Day after day, the dove and the shark spoke, and told what stories they had. But whenever the shark asked if he might fly or the dove might swim, the dove said only, “Perhaps.”

For months the shark dreamed of nothing but flying, and so forever after, even today, sharks still dream of flight. For months the gray dove listened to stories of the ocean, and so forever after, even today, doves still carry the depths of the ocean in their eyes. But though the dreams of the shark and the dove would persist until the end of time, neither sharks nor doves nor any manner of beast could ever live in dreams.

The gray dove flew among the doves, and all other birds, but flew higher and further than any of them. The black shark sought out the depths of the ocean, those worlds never seen by any others, and carried what he saw to all other corners of the earth. In his travels the shark realized that the dove would always be a dove, and never a shark, and the dove came to know that the shark would ever be a shark and never a dove. Whether a shark may fly or a dove may swim, the ocean and the sky would always be too far away.

Perhaps the black shark and the gray dove may still live, and perhaps they still visit that great coastline of sheer rock. Perhaps the shark will see the stars or the dove will see the depths, someday. Perhaps, always, perhaps.

During the first age of machines, in the Western lands, there lived a king who wished for his lands to be renowned for their great contributions to the new sciences of man. He let it be known to all inventors of the kingdom (and there were many, for this was early in the first age of machines) he wished to see a replica of the human hand, that its mechanics might be better understood.

Inventors from all corners of the kingdom brought their clockwork hands before the king, but the greatest of them all was crafted by a man called Hamilton. The hand, covered in a white glove, was identical to the dainty hand of a woman. When the white glove was removed, its finely wrought inner workings could be discerned, and each inventor of the land proclaimed it perfect. “It is more like a human hand than the hand of any woman,” they stated. The king was well pleased with this state of affairs, and he invited Hamilton to live in the palace. “There are many more wonderful machines you have yet to create,” he said, “and I wish to share your knowledge with all the kingdom.”

Thus all of Hamilton’s tools were brought into the king’s palace, and his first decree was that Hamilton create for him a model of a whole human. “A hand is impressive, but I wish to be able to show how we truly walk and move. Build me an automaton, that the kingdom might know more of our internal workings, and the world may behold the great works of my city.” His task before him, Hamilton set to work, coiling springs, stringing wire, and crafting the finest gears. He was clever and ingenious, and after many weeks of labor, he presented his automaton to the king.

The automaton had the form of a dancer, and her skin was made of ivory. Her head had no features, but the carved ivory pieces could be removed from each limb, to reveal her innermost workings. Hamilton demonstrated how, when wound at different points along each limb, the automaton would reproduce the multifarious movements of man. The king declared it a modern marvel and it was exhibited for all to see. The inventors poured over the intricacies of its workings, and the doctors marveled as well to see the body’s machinery turned to steel and iron. The king often kept the automaton in the throne room, and would treat her as if she was a living being, requiring she be addressed and acknowledged by the court in the same way as any courtier.

But soon the king had a new task for his court inventor, and thus Hamilton was summoned before him. “Your dancer is a wonder, Hamilton,” spoke the king, “but it shows only how a human moves. We still know nothing of how a human breathes, and eats, and bleeds. I know you are clever by far, and so I entrust to you the task of showing these things.” With this new challenge, Hamilton set to planning. First he spent four days and four nights over again coming to learn the ways in which men breathed, and ate, and bled. He traveled throughout the land for many weeks more, far from the west, in search of all the materials he would need to create this grand, new machine desired by the king. Long months passed until at last Hamilton took up his tools, and began to craft the inner workings of the human body. He constructed them from rubber and leather, stringing pumps and bellows of iron and steel together with a fabulous network of tubing and pipes.

For a full year Hamilton worked, and when he was done, he presented to the king three new automata. The first was made entirely of glass and she stood with one leg bent, an arm above her head, and her other arm at her waist. Through the glass of her body a mechanized heart could be seen to pump blood through a network of veins and arteries. The second had limbs of ivory and a torso of glass. Through the glass could be seen a complex arrangement of pipes and cast iron digestive organs. Food could be placed in her mouth, and observed to be digested by the machinery in her body. The last reclined, and only the front of her body was glass. Her chest could be seen to rise and fall, and when a hand was placed before her mouth and nose, it was possible to feel warm breath. Through the glass, mechanical lungs run by bellows were visible.

Yet again, the king, the court and all the inventors and doctors of the land were pleased. They wondered over the precise mechanical duplication of the human body, and took copious notes. As for the king himself, he declared that the human body was but a prototype, which Hamilton had perfected. Thus the three new automata took their place in his court, next to their older sister.

Even so, it was not long before the king felt the need for yet another miraculous creation, and Hamilton was summoned again to his presence. “Your machines are beautiful, Hamilton,” he said, “but what of dreams? I wish more than anything to see a machine that dreams, that all men might see the functioning of their own minds.” Well, Hamilton was daunted by such a challenge, but he betrayed none of this by his countenance, and only nodded his acceptance to the king. He spent four and four times over again as many days learning the ways of dreams. He traveled for twice as many weeks to gather what materials he would need. He set to work thereafter for months and months more, until a year and a half had gone by, until the new automaton was complete.

He unveiled before the king a woman’s head. She had no skin of ivory or glass, instead having her workings exposed for all to see. A wig could be removed from her head, and beneath it found a complex device with a crystal at its center. A tiny key, inserted into the back of her neck, was used to wind her up. She would sit for hours, making no sounds, but reflecting rainbows of light across the walls with prisms cleverly hidden throughout her head. When her eyes opened, she would narrate her dreams in great detail, with a melodious voice produced via pipes in her neck. Each time her dreams were different, but they were always vivid and moving.

Men and women came from miles around to see the amazing clockwork dreamer, and the king declared no scientific marvel in the world was its equal. No doctor or inventor could even begin to fathom how Hamilton had devised the machine. Many thought it was a mere parlor trick, but so much of its workings were visible, they were hard-pressed to contest its reality. Thus the dreamer took her place in court, and every day she had a new dream for the king.

Now, it had come time for the king to take a wife, for his kingdom needed an heir, but he was dissatisfied with all women. There was nothing for it but to summon Hamilton. “I have a most important task for you,” he said. “I wish for you to build a wife for me, a woman who breathes and eats and dreams. I desire perfection, and there is no other way to have it.” Hamilton had never before made any protestations to his king, but here he felt obliged. “Sire, you have need of an heir. Such a woman will never give you one.” The king shook his head. “It does not matter. My legacy to this kingdom will not be one of imperfect flesh and blood. My legacy will be the greatest feats of science and reason, and will last longer than you or I.” Thus Hamilton’s task was set before him.

Hamilton knew what he must do to build the automaton, and all the tools and materials he would need. He gathered together the five sisters he had built for the king and took them back to his workshop. He placed the head of the dreamer atop the body which moved more gracefully than any dancer. He carefully clipped and restrung wires, moved about gears and switches, and one by one pinned them to the head. He took the heart and blood from another sister and, working with painful and delicate precision, strung her vessels through the dancer’s body and placed the heart in her chest. He the other sister’s lungs into the dancer’s body, and following those all the digestive systems of the third sister. Hamilton lost track of day and night as he worked, for it was no small thing to make one automaton of five, and fully two years passed before she was assembled. He saw how her carriage was that of a queen, and though he feared his own hubris, he recognized that she was perfection incarnate.

Hamilton took the clockwork queen before the king, that the king might lay eyes upon his bride for the first time. The king was love-struck the moment he saw his queen, and his heart pounded in his chest as Hamilton wound her key. Moments later she began to breathe and opened her eyes. The king knelt before her and said, “You are perfection incarnate, the beauty of the mind of man made flesh. Please, I ask that you sit by my side and be the queen of this land. And when I am long departed, you may rule it with your infinite wisdom.”

The automaton looked at the king for a moment, then looked at Hamilton, and at last spoke in her mellifluous voice. “I cannot accept your offer. I do not love you.” Leaving the king in shock, she bowed to Hamilton and walked out of the palace.

The king’s shock wasted no time in turning to rage. He ordered Hamilton jailed, certain the inventor had purposefully embarrassed him. Within minutes he had signed the order for Hamilton’s execution, to be held at noon the following day, by drawing and quartering. The lady Night spread her cloak, and her eye the moon traveled across the sky, and who is to say what she saw?

The following day, when the hour of Hamilton’s execution drew nigh, he was nowhere to be found. His cell was empty but for a single white glove, of the sort worn on the dainty hand of a woman.

There was a young child by the name of Timothy, whose mind would be filled with wondrous dreams as he slumbered each night. He dreamed of miracles, of distant lands beyond the seven oceans, and of beasts which were long vanished, or which were yet to be, or which never existed. The dreams of the young boy were unending in their variety and so limitless in scope that such a thing as a horizon did not exist for them.

Each dream was unique, for one dream would contain a whole world’s stories, and each story was a world unto itself, and each world was a dream within a dream. But when young Timothy awoke, he would find the rainbow spectrum of brilliance slithering through the grasp of his memory. He would recall a glimpse of landscape, a phrase from a story, or the feather of a bird, and nothing more. Each of these memories he fixed in his head, and as Timothy grew from a boy to a man, tiny fragments of endless dreams became a part of his mind. The dreams did not cease, but grew in their endless variety.

As a youthful man, Timothy set out to find the worlds in his dreams. He traveled to every land upon all the oceans. Yet he found no birds with plumage to match his dreams. No libraries held the vast stories written in his mind’s eye. No jungles held the beasts which stalked his nights. No flowers bloomed as those he dreamed, and no city on earth matched those in his visions. He saw all the world had to offer, and nothing was the equal of the world in his heart.

Timothy grew to a man, and he set out to build a new city. The foundations of his city were built from all the dreams in the scrapbook of his mind. It took on the aspects of those countless cities he had dreamed, twisting and winding its way into a new shape. Every night, as he dreamed another world, he fashioned each building in the city from his dreams. Each part of the city was a part of Timothy’s dream, and as the city began to grow, he sometimes would find himself catching a glimpse of a bird or a small cat from his dreams.

The new city grew up around Timothy and, as it grew, he did as well. Timothy did not build anything but dreams, and his dreams were only the buildings. He wandered the streets of the vast new city, its solitary inhabitant, and he would see paradise birds and jeweled insects in flight and the blooming of prismatic flowers. He would find himself wandering through libraries of his own invention, taking books from the shelves, therein to read at last all the stories whose fragments he had but glimpsed.

Timothy was never able to remember just when men and women began to take up residence in his new city. Perhaps their echoes had always been a part of the city, for as cities are built, so they shall be inhabited. Other cities in the world were no more or less dreams than Timothy’s new city, but they were dreamt by every man and woman living in them. The men and women who came to live in the new city discovered it was the city which dreamed of them, and their dreams were inside it, and not the reverse. They dreamed, and in dreaming built the new city up to greater heights, and all the dreams of Timothy found their way into the men and women who lived in the new city.

Timothy searched the city’s streets and byways each day, its labyrinthine buildings and parks growing ever larger as the dreamers in the city grew in number. He had taken all his passion, all the currents of his soul, and he had let them out into the world. The city was his heart, but within the city he could never find the heart of himself. The city would grow ever after, the new city, the greatest city, the city of dreams where all manner of creatures would live. The city herself became a living and breathing thing, a woman whose touch Timothy felt on his shoulder when he walked her streets and on his cheek when he slept. He saw no one when he turned to look, and never knew why he woke in the darkness before dawn. Only in the city’s embrace would he find his heart, but as to whether or not he has learned this truth, no one can say. The new city still stands, and still dreams, and that is the whole of its story.

When she was a young girl, the woman who would be known as Sparkle liked nothing better than to watch her father at work. Sparkle’s father was a jewel cutter, and was known throughout the western lands as the greatest living man to cut jewels. A jewel cut and polished by his hands was said to have facets so sharp it reflected back more brilliant light than the sun. Men and women told stories of how his jewels were so exceedingly perfect that no wrong decision could be made by anyone who held one in his hand.

The jeweler was pleased to have Sparkle sit with him as he worked, for she was his only child, and attentive besides. He nicknamed her Sparkle because, he said, “You are my greatest treasure, and no jewel I cut will ever match the sparkle in your eyes.” The jeweler showed Sparkle all the ways of his trade, and he trained her to cut jewels as he did. In this way, Sparkle learned to strike with precision, to find the most beautiful facets of every jewel, and of course the virtues of patience.

Her father was well-pleased at her skill, and he spoke of a wisdom far beyond any mere technical skill. The diamond was the greatest of all the jewels, he told her, for it was the purest and the brightest, and the only jewel which truly captured light. But though he loved to see the enthusiasm and skill with which his daughter adopted his trade, he cautioned her: “You must learn another trade, for if we only follow in the footsteps of those who teach us, we will never learn anything of ourselves.”

Time passed at its orderly, gentlemanly pace, and it led the girl Sparkle out of her childhood into her womanhood, as time so often will do. Following her father’s wisdom, she learned went into the world to find her own way and, as is to be expected of a woman having all the skills of a diamond cutter, she became a masterful swordfighter.

Sparkle’s blade was made of steel so polished it gleamed like silver, and the pommel of her sword was a diamond she cut herself. It was the most perfect cut she had ever made, and it was said the facets of the jewel were so exacting they lent her blade preternatural guidance, sending it along the true path through any opponent’s guard. She fought many a duel, and for a time she lent her blade in the service of the armies of the western lands. In every battle she fought, her sword cleaved through those of her enemies, and struck each one with the truth and purity of the diamond in its pommel.

Her father was very proud, and when she would come to see him, he would say, “I am happy to see you have found fame and fortune, and it warms my heart to see you are still guided by the diamonds and their purity. But I am growing old and you are my only daughter. Will I ever hold a grandchild in my arms?” Sparkle would smile and reply, “I have met no man who is my equal, but perhaps some day I shall, and then you shall have your grandchild.”

It was no secret that Sparkle had no interest in anyone who was less than her equal, and though a great many suitors crossed far to the western lands to challenge her swordplay, none of them were her match. However, three brothers who lived far to the north heard of the great swordswoman and determined that one of them must meet her challenge.

Thus, they set off and journeyed across the great land for three days and three nights. The first brother carried a heavy sword of damascus steel, with an enormous ruby set in the hilt. On the first night, a raging wild boar attacked their campfire, and the first brother split it entirely in twain with a single blow. His sword was so powerful it could cleave a mountain and the first brother was as strong as a hundred men.

The second brother carried a fine rapier, flexible as a whip, but sharp as jealousy, with a beautiful emerald set in the hilt. On the second night, a cougar stalked the three brothers’ campfire, but before it could leap, the second brother had skewered it through the heart three of a thrice times. His blade was so swift it could strike the life from a man a day before he knew he was dead, and the second brother was faster than ten men.

The third brother carried no weapons, though his first and second brother often sought to arm him. “I know where to find the finest steel for your blade, my brother,” the first would say. “And I,” would say the second, “know the finest smith in nine kingdoms to forge your blade.” But the third brother demurred and, so long as anyone had known him (and his two brothers had known him from his first breath), he carried only a plain staff, carved from pine. On the third night, the third brother excused himself momentarily from their campfire, and when he returned the brothers were not troubled for the rest of the night. They did not ask their brother where he had gone, for he was ever laconic, and they knew him to be more clever than any other man in nine kingdoms.

On the fourth day, the three brothers arrived in the great city of the west, and made it known they wished to vie for Sparkle’s hand. She was eager for the challenge, and she met the first brother in the duelists’ square, before the greatest bridge of the city. He bowed to her and said, “My name is Ruby, and I will test my sword against yours, for it is empowered by the darkness of the ruby in its hilt. Come, let us see how easily your glimmering pushes aside the night.” And with that he leapt to his attack.
He struck a powerful blow, but in the twinkling of an eye, Sparkle stepped to the side, and his sword struck the ground, opening a great chasm. He swung again, but with a flash of diamond and steel, Sparkle’s sword struck his blade to the side, and he clove a second great chasm in the ground. He moved for a third blow, whereupon Sparkle struck the hilt of his sword and, with an adroit twist, knocked it from his hand. Ruby’s sword fell into the chasm, and vanished into the depths of the earth. “Your sword and strength are impressive, good sir, but you must concede our playing is at an end, and yield,” spoke Sparkle.

The first brother could do nothing else.

The next day, the second brother challenged Sparkle, once again meeting her in the duelists’ square. He bowed to her and said, “My name is Emerald, and I will test my sword against yours, for it is empowered by the intensity of the emerald in its hilt. Come, let us see if the clarity of your diamond can overcome its vibrancy.” And at that he took up his guard and prepared to meet her attack.

Sparkle struck at the second brother and, more swiftly than eyes could follow, his sword darted out and batted aside her blade. She smiled and circled around him, then struck again. Once more, it was as if the wind itself pushed her blade to the side. Thrice more she struck, and thrice more the emerald rapier interposed itself. Then, as she struck a fifth time, the second brother saw his opening, and made his riposte. But Sparkle’s blade moved even more swiftly than his, and as he made his strike, her sword came down across the emerald rapier and shattered the blade. “You have speed like no other,” she said, “but, good sir, you must concede our dance has concluded and yield.”

The second brother found he had to agree.

The next day, the third brother did not challenge Sparkle. But, knowing they were three of a kind, she made her way to the duelists’ square anyway, and there she found him waiting. “So,” she said, “what exotic blade do you have to try my diamond against?”
He merely shrugged. “I have no blade, and seek no challenge. I have only my good staff and it has served me well as any steel, and got me into less trouble for that.”

Sparkle laughed. “Come now, I know you are three brothers. You must seek some challenge. You cannot mean to be serious when you place your staff on equal footing as forged steel!”

The third brother shrugged again. “No steel blade has ever barred my path. I seek no challenge, but to walk across this square.”

Now she smiled. “Very well, good sir. If this is the case, then let no steel bar your path, and let you walk across this square if you wish.” And at this she drew her sword and stood in his path.

The third brother said, “As you wish,” and walked forward across the square. Sparkle stood in his path and, as he approached her, she struck. The blow was so fast that she could not be seen to move, and so powerful that the wind from her strike tore the leaves from the trees. But as she struck, the third brother took his staff in both hands and interposed it between himself and her blade. Her diamond sword passed cleanly and exactly through the middle of the staff, and there it was stuck.

The third brother twisted his staff and let it fall to the side, and so he and Sparkle both stood before one another, empty handed. “Your pardon, m’lady,” he said. And he walked the rest of the way across the square.

So in this way Sparkle learned that where strength and swiftness failed, the simple knowledge of where and when to yield might succeed. She married the third brother, and they had many children, each one as strong as the Ruby, as swift as the Emerald, with all the skill of Sparkle, and each one more clever than the third brother. And if they have not died, they are still alive today.

Long ago, before the sun set sail in the great barge across the sky, it was set into the tallest mountain in the world. Men would come from all over to share the light and warmth and life of the sun, for all other ends of the earth were cold and dark. In these places of the earth the dark things still roamed freely, carrying away all living things for their own ends.

Such was the nature of the dark things that no god or mortal had ever seen their face or form. No two were alike, and what little of them was glimpsed looked roughly hewn together from thorn bushes and predatory insects. Of all the dark things, the one known as Cold was the most cruel. He lived as far north of the sun as he was able, and the icy chill from his body was so great that it covered all the world. When he left his cave, the deepest cavern in the northern mountains, even the sun itself would flicker and wane.

So long as Cold lived in the north, all the gods and men knew that nothing would grow for long and life would not last on the earth. The gods conceived a plan to banish Cold forever. The chill of Cold was so great, even the lives of gods would be snuffed out, and no man could survive within it for long, but if a man was made immortal, he might take Cold’s icy breath inside himself, and thereby strike at the heart of the dark thing.

In the northern lands there lived a king, and when he heard of the gods’ plan to banish Cold, he traveled to the tallest mountain in the world. Though he had lived in fear of Cold for all his years, he was the king of the northern lands and, moreover, he coveted the immortality such an act would grant him. He came before the gods and said, “My lands are nearest to the lair of Cold. In truth, but for him, the caves of ice and wind would be mine as well. Let me fulfill this task as both my right and duty.”

The gods saw no reason to deny his request, for Cold was a fearsome thing and there were few mortals so brave to challenge him, even for life eternal. They gave the northern king a fruit from the tree of death and told him that upon eating the fruit he would become immortal. No matter how terrible the frost of Cold became, his body and soul would endure, and in this way he might slay the dark thing and banish Cold ever after. So the king of the northern lands bowed, and thanked the gods, and returned to his homelands. In his great castle he prepared his warmest garments and his sharpest sword. The northern king beheld his reflection in the blade’s sheen, and he saw there fear and doubt. He feared Cold, and he wondered if he could slay the dark thing alone. He saw his face in his sword, and he saw that he was already old, and wondered what immortality might mean.

At last he called for the court jester, Munhihausen. The northern king said, “Munhihausen, I have agreed to banish Cold, but I fear I cannot do so alone. I have the fruit from the tree of death, and if you will take on all the icy chill of Cold then you will have immortality in return, and I will slay him, so that he might be banished forever.” Well, Munhihausen had known the northern king for many years, and though he was only a jester, there was some familiarity between the two. The jester agreed to help the king, and the king gave the jester his second-warmest clothes, and second-sharpest sword, and the two set forth towards the caves of the northernmost lands.

The further north they went, the colder the air became. It slipped deep inside the folds of their warmest clothes and curled around the bones of the king and the jester, but they pushed onward. The northern king said, “We should rest, Munhihausen. I fear my bones are too brittle to go on.” The jester replied, “We cannot, my king. For if we do, we will surely freeze in an instant, and spend the rest of our days in these bitter lands.” The king accepted Munhihausen’s wisdom, and they continued on until they reached the base of the northern mountains. The air was so cold here nothing moved at all. There was not the slightest breeze, for even the wind was frozen.

“Are you certain you do not want to eat the fruit from the tree of death?” asked the jester, and the king assured him that he did not, for the king still feared the terrible icy breath of Cold. Thus the jester ate the fruit all up and, as he ate it, the chill which hung in the air unwound from his body until he felt not even the slightest bit cold. “If it works as the gods have said, my king, then we shall soon see, but I have little reason to doubt them now!” The northern king, too, noticed a lessening of the cold around the jester.

The northern king and his jester climbed into the mountains, and the frozen air closed behind them. But Munhihausen did not feel the chill anymore, and the king felt it less, as it fled from Munhihausen’s presence. Soon enough they came across all manner of men, women, and beasts, frozen in place. Their features were faded away and, when they stopped to inspect one poor statue, the king and the jester discovered they had been not worn by time as much melted by the distant heat of the sun. Thereafter, they did not linger over the lost souls and their expressions of horror, features of ice contorted at something unseeable.

Though they could not feel the air growing cooler, they could tell by their breath that temperature dropped further and further, as the statues of men and beasts grew more numerous with each step. It was not much longer before they came to a great cavern, swept by winds at the entrance. From deep inside the mountain came the sound of a rushing river, and something like the sound of gravel trickling over rocks. “You should prepare yourself to strike,” said the jester, “for I fear Cold will arrive before long.”

“How can you know this?” asked the northern king.

Munhihausen waved an arm and replied, “I can hear and feel it breathing, and so can you.” The king moved away from the entrance to the cave, and in the space of seven horrible breaths, Cold came from the depths of the mountain.

Little enough of the dark thing could be seen from the shadows, as the sun’s faint light flickered and waned. Claws graced it like the wings of a mangled bird, and somewhere at the end of a neck like a scorpion’s tail a mouth hung, riddled with the teeth of a hundred different beasts. From this great maw an icy gale poured forth. The northern king cowered in terror at the slick black ice of the dark thing’s skin. The rocks strewn about the cavern cracked to dust and whirled through the air, but Munhihausen felt nothing. The dark thing drew in a breath with the sound of a waterfall and, as it exhaled, all the air about the jester turned white with frost. Still, he felt nothing.

Munhihausen, seeing how he did not feel at all the breath of Cold, stepped forward and swept his sword across the horribly twisted neck of the dark thing. But so cold was the dark thing, and so cold was its breath, his steel shattered into a thousand pieces. “Now,” said Cold, “we will see if a bite is more than a breath.” And with this its jaws descended and closed around Munhihausen’s body.

The gods were yet as good as their word. The jester was immortal, and though he felt the terrible fangs penetrate his body, he did not die. In the jaws of Cold, all its icy chill went rushing into the jester. Munhihausen’s skin turned pale, and a fine layer of frost covered him. His hair turned white as the first snow, and his eyes became as blue as icicles. He cried out to the northern king, “You must act, my king! The icy chill of Cold is inside me, and my sword is lost! You must slay him straightaway!”

Though still filled with fear, the northern king rose to his feet, and drew his sword, and in the space of seven steps he had passed the blade through the body and the heart of Cold, and slain the dark thing. It lay on the earth, with its blood tainting the soil, and uttered its dying words:

“So you used the gifts of death to rid the world of Cold, but what life you have will bear my mark forever, for you will carry my breath in you for all of your days. And you, who have passed your sword through me, you will live with my chill surrounding you at all times, and never shall your suffering end. You who are already immortal, only so long as you carry my breath inside you shall you live, and should you ever release it, your life will bleed forth like any other mortal.”

Laying its curse, Cold died.

Thereafter, the northern king became the Winter King, and he made his home in the farthest north lands where Cold had lived, and ever after these lands remained frozen.

As for Munhihausen, the jester, he became the Jack of the Frost, and bore the burden of all the cold of the world in good humor and good grace. All the year round save but a few months he held the cold inside himself, and so he lived many more years than any man, and many gods, and if winter has not died then he is still alive today.

Among gods and mortals, the molasses of the fire ants was considered to be a treat of unparalleled sweetness. But to reach the fire ants meant crossing miles of dangerous and hostile jungle, as well as journeying deep into the caves where they kept their stores. Even then, there was no guarantee the ants would agree to part with their molasses, for they were insects, alien in body and thought.

Xopchipili, being the son of both a god and a mortal, agreed to go and fetch a jug of molasses for his father, the Sun (he who first lit the furnace of the gods and who has kept it burning ever after). Though he wished to go alone, the Sun sent with him one of his golden cats, not wishing any harm to befall Xopchipili.

The perils of the jungle troubled Xopchipili and the golden cat little enough, and in the time of telling a tale they had arrived at the great caves of the fire ants. The ants massed by the entryway, and Xopchipili put a hand on the golden cat and spoke to the ants. “I have come to request a jug of your molasses, fire ants. You see by the golden cat who accompanies me that I come on behalf of the Sun. Even the gods have nothing so sweet as your stores.”

Thus the ants parted and let Xopchipili past. Perhaps they were flattered, but more likely there was some other reason, known only to the ants. He led the cat deep into the stores, and filled a jug with molasses. “Xopchipili,” said the golden cat. “I am quite tired from the walk. Do you think the fire ants would mind if I had but a little bit of molasses?”

“You must ask them yourself, cat. I asked only this jug for the Sun, my father,” replied Xopchipili. The golden cat went then to ask, and returned momentarily to lap up some molasses from the stores of the ants. But no sooner had he done so, than a great chattering filled the air. Xopchipili closed the jug, and gave the golden cat a baleful glare. “Well, and I see you do not know the fire ants at all. You are charged with keeping me from harm, and now you will have to meet that charge. Let me climb on your back, and run from here as fast as you can, for you are swifter than I, and the fire ants are displeased. Let us only hope you are more fleet of foot than they, as well.”

Xopchipili climbed onto the golden cat’s back, and the cat ran as fast and as far as he could. All around Xopchipili and the cat came the angry chattering of the fire ants, as they cut through the jungle, chasing those who had stolen from them. Xopchipili struggled to keep from spilling the molasses or himself as the golden cat ran, but his hands were soon sticky with molasses, and the golden cat became covered with prints from Xopchipili’s fingers.

Still, the cat was as good as the Sun’s word, and they out-ran the fire ants, and returned to the Sun with a jug half-full of molasses. The Sun demanded an explanation, and Xopchipili dutifully and honestly told his father what had occurred. The Sun folded his arms, and clouds of his displeasure rolled across the sky. He banished his golden cat, now covered from head to tail in specks and spots of molasses, to roam the jungles of the fire ants forever.

And that is the story of how Xopchipili gave the leopard his spots.

Long ago, when the stars were still new in the sky, in the twice tenth land of the thrice ninth kingdom a young girl named Liesje was born into a large family. She was born in the winter, but the week of her birth was unseasonably warm, and all the flowers were in bloom for the briefest of instants. Because all the flowers bloomed for her birth, the young girl was granted the gifts of love, beauty, desire, and secrets. However, her family felt only jealousy for her gifts. They treated her poorly and the young girl left her homeland as soon as she came of age.

She traveled very far from her family. While she was in the lands bordering the realm of the Winter King, she met the first man ever to show her kindness. Because she was young, and because no one had ever shown a kind face to her before, Liesje gave a part of her heart to him, so that they shared her love, beauty, desire, and secrets. They were bound together and from their union the young woman had a son. A small part of her heart was inside him as well, and she knew, as her son grew up, so the love and beauty and desire and secrets in him would grow large and blossom.

Liesje came to live with the father of her son, and his family, but this new family was nearly as jealous as her own had been, and often treated her nearly as poorly. But she had the little kindnesses of her son’s father, and having nothing else, they seemed like the world to her. She cared for her son, for his father, and for the four cats who lived in their home. Of them all, the cats showed the most appreciation for her care, and held the truest admiration for her heart. “Do not betray your heart for a single act of kindness,” they said. “We know that for every kind act, he is cruel a thousand times over.”

Liesje soon came to learn the truth of the cats’ words, but she had given her heart to him, and so it was very difficult for her to leave. Time passed, and at last his cruelties instilled determination in her heart. She would leave, to protect her son if nothing else. Thus she went deep into the woods and asked the king of the cats (a great, gray tomcat), what she must do to release her heart from her husband, and escape. “We will help you escape. Tonight you must pluck the petal of a rose, and place it in his supper.”

It was the dead of winter, but as she returned home, the young woman found a single red rose in bloom along the path to her home, where the roses grew wild in the short months of summer. With the greatest of care, she plucked only a single petal, tendering her apologies to the flower, and leaving it to grow. She carefully stirred the rose into her husband’s stew that night, and no sooner had he finished it than he fell into a deep slumber.

Moments after he was asleep, the calico cat which lived in the house leapt upon his chest and, with tiny claws sharp as razor, cut open his chest to expose his heart. She plucked out love from his heart, and sewed him back up with one of her whiskers. “I give you my thanks,” said Liesje to the cat. “Now go before he awakes, and wait for me anon. When I am well away from here, then it will be safe to find me and make whole my heart again.” The calico cat leapt up to the window and vanished into the night.

The next day the woman went back to the king of all the cats, and he told her, “Tonight you must pluck the petal of a lily, and place it in his supper. Then we shall help you.” She returned home, and on her way she found a patch of day lilies, with a single flower in bloom. She tenderly plucked a yellow petal from the blossom, and served it with her husband’s salad. He was asleep in an instant, and the red tabby cat of the house jumped upon him immediately. From his heart, the tabby took beauty, which hearts often lose after love is gone. “Go before he awakes,” she told the tabby, “And when I am well away from here you may bring me my whole heart again.” The red tabby cat slipped out the door and was gone.

On the day after, the king of cats told her she must feed her husband the petal of a violet, and as she returned home she found a single violet in bloom, breaking through the frozen winter soil. She once again took no more than a single petal, and used it to garnish her husband’s meat. As he slept, their small Siamese cat took from his heart desire, which always follows after love and beauty. She told the Siamese cat to go before her husband woke, and she did. “Bring me my whole heart again when I am safe,” she said after the cat.

On the fourth day, the gray cat told her she must find the petal of an orchid. There were no such plants growing in those lands, so close to the northern kingdom. Still, she looked all along the path, and finally walked far from it, into the forest, where she found a single orchid flower in bloom. Their fourth cat was a longhair with snowshoe paws and silver striped fur. He took the secrets from the heart of Liesje’s husband and, with her admonition, vanished into the night.

She knew that with all her heart gone from his, it would leave a terrible hole, and what little kindness he had would be eaten away, so she dressed her son warmly and set out into the forest that night. Though it was too dark to see normally, fireflies lit their way, and they were not long in finding the great gray king of cats, the tomcat. “Come with me,” he said, “and I will lead you far from here.”

They followed the gray cat through the forest, and when her son became too tired to walk, the king of cats summoned a puma to carry him. As the sun was rising, they left the forest and came to a distant shore where the subjects of the king of cats all sat aboard a tiny boat. “We will carry you to the island nations, where you will be safe, but in the future you must guard your heart more carefully. Only one thing remains to be done. Give me your name, so that unkind thoughts can no longer find you. I will give you a secret name, and only the cats will know it.”

Liesje gave the king of cats her name, and thanked him profusely for all his help. “But what of the pieces of my heart I have given to all the other cats?” she asked. And he told her, “Do not worry, they will all find their way back to you in time.”

The cats sailed their small ship with the young woman and her son across the East Ocean to the island nations. So long as her heart was missing its pieces, she could not die, but her son had grown so much, and his heart had grown so great, that all she was missing and more she found in him. One by one the cats found their way across the ocean to the young woman, bringing love, beauty, and desire. All but the secrets were returned to her heart. And so forever after she looked for secrets, but because she had love, beauty, and desire, she was never overly concerned to find them.

To this day, many a young woman will search for secrets, and favor can be curried with them by being kind to cats, for one never knows what cats might have secrets.

In the first golden age of man, the old gods took new forms and the new gods born from the second age of machines became almost as one with the old. The dark things, what few of them were left, still dwelt in the depth of the ocean, but their spawn had long since become dispersed throughout the world. Monsters still lived in the darkest forest and dwelt in the highest mountains, but many more wore the guise of men. Dragons now dwelt in mortal flesh, evidenced only by their twisted hearts and the taint left on all life they touched.

One such person as this caused to be assembled a great and terrifying vehicle. He baptized its engine - that heart of iron, clenched into a fist, beating at the center of the beast - in the blood of a thousand vermin. He stitched the seats with leather of human skin. The car sat low to the ground, wrapped in a sheet-metal skin as if it were those machines of men which vaulted the sky itself. He slit the throat of a child destined to become a king, and covered the car in an eternally slick and wet coat of red. He placed the soul of the child into the engine, and lit it aflame. His hellish creation came to life with a roar that shouted all the horrors it embodied, and it shot flames from its exhaust.

This sorcerer would drive his car from one end of the world to another, feeding it souls at every stop along the way. His car sparked the flame of jealousy in all mortal eyes, and his challenge was always the same. Any man who could out-race him would be gifted with the car, but all those who lost would forfeit their souls. Souls burn hotter than any fuel and, one after another, all would-be challengers fell to the car. Each soul made the beast faster - the engine pulsed with unnatural life and all the howls of the damned could be discerned when the sorcerer opened wide its throttle.

Well, the hellish car traveled for years and eventually went all the way across to the western lands. It made the journey with precious few challengers, and so long ago was its last race that the car was nearing emptiness. Almost all its souls had burned up, and the sorcerer knew he must find another challenger soon, for he was old, and could no longer trap the same pure soul which had first kindled the engine. For this reason, he did not think twice about his next challenger, but pounced upon the first victim he found.

Now Katy was not half again the age of the ancient sorcerer, but her car was even older than he. She had taken the car, called Firedome, from her father’s father. Each generation cared for the vehicle and it, in turn, sheltered them from the dangers of the open highway. Though they did not know it, the car (often likened to a family member) held some small part of one of the old gods - the Traveler. Like many old gods, he had become a part of the new world built by men, living in the highways and the great behemoths which lumbered across them. Time passed, as it often does, and though it was the flickering of an eye in slumber to the Traveler, the great monsters of the highway were replaced by small, plastic things, which had no life in them. The great open roads became choked with these contraptions, and so the traveler made his home in smaller spaces, further from mortals, where the potency of metal and fire, and of flat, empty roadways could still be found.

Thus it was, perhaps, because he was in such a desperate bind, or maybe nothing more than age, that the sorcerer did not see Katy’s Firedome for who it was. He knew only hunger as he saw the enormous winged car stopped at a light, and prodded his creation to growl low at her with all the wailing of the damned inside it. Katy looked over the liquid red thing of steel and death, but her heart was not filled with jealousy, because she drove Firedome. No false glamours could blind her eyes, and she could not want for anything so long as she had her car. She was not tempted by the monstrous sound, and was not frightened as it leapt from the stoplight in a blaze of smoking tires and flaming exhaust.

The sorcerer was sure he would have his due, and he was not without some small skill. He divined where Katy would stop for gas, and there he found the old Firedome and spoke to Katy, “That’s a fine machine you drive, but it’s a crime to reign it in. I know those old monsters and they like nothing better than to play. Well my beast there likes his fun too, and I’ll wager the title against your soul that we’re a faster pair than you.”

Katy looked over the sorcerer and his car, and she knew they were all of evil. Still, she said, “Well I know better than to trust anyone who’d wager for a soul, so I might be a foolish girl, but you look like you’ve done more wrong than ten of my lives are worth. I’ll take your wager and give you a lesson, and you can see how far down the road you get kicking dust off your heels.”

The sorcerer gnashed his teeth and spat. He glared with eyes like blood as they sealed their deal with a handshake, and together the two great cars drove out to the longest road across the desert. “From here until the mountains,” said the Sorcerer, and the race was begun.

The red beast shot fire. It screamed and yowled. It shook with such thunder that the desert itself quaked. The blood of the innocent king flowed from it unchecked. The Traveler’s ancient road cracked and tore under its tires. Asphalt melted and gravel flew. But its rage was impotent and its howling was all against no good end. Firedome’s engine came to life with a rumble sounding from deep below the earth. It launched with all the force of all the roads in the world, and there was nothing for the red beast to do but stand behind it and drop into the distance.

Katy waited until the sun neared the horizon before the sorcerer and his beast appeared. She heard the unhealthy knocking of his car first, and she knew that neither was much longer for the world. As the car came to a halt, its engine rattled its death and ceased to breathe, for in his desperation, the sorcerer had burned up every last soul the car had ever eaten. But though he had lived to see his failure, he had not lived to curse the name of Katy and Firedome. He sat dead at the wheel, his face twisted in rage, hands locked in a death grip.

Katy took the title of the red beast, and she blew out the last embers of its engine. She pushed it off the road, behind a high outcropping of rocks, and left it there. She returned home, feeling the proud hand of the Traveler at her back, ushered safely through the desert and the western roads by Firedome.

As for the beast, such creations can never be undone. It waits behind the mountain. The sorcerer has long since fallen to dust, and the beast is near buried beneath the sand, but it waits still for another innocent who will rekindle its fire.