If there was ever a time for reading through the archives, now is it, since I have just spent the past week or so editing everything older than February.

In the lands of the East, where the fingers of the Ocean combed through the earth in many rivers, and the sun pulled the water from the very soil itself so that it stood in the air during the hottest months of the year, there was a great forest where the trees grew tall and lush. The verdant life of the Eastern woods overflowed from the ground and the treetops, spilling across the land in vines and ivy, creeping flowers and tangled thorns heavy with berries. All the branches of the trees hung over the ground below, making tunnels with their leaves. Deep within the forest stood a lake, surrounded by tall grass and willow trees, and not such a far journey from the lake stood an ancient elm tree. The elm had seen more years than any family, and its trunk was wider across than any man could spread his arms. It had lived through many winters and many storms, and was scarred by the wind and the snow and the rain. Near the base of the old elm there was a hollow, where lightning had split the tree in twain many years ago. The tree had been young, and the time had long since passed since the two halves had mended together, but the hollow remained, wide and dark. Scores of times since then, lightning had struck the tree, and it had branches wider than many other trees trunks. It seemed that its height could not be measured, and that somewhere above the forest floor it had grown so wide it touched every treetop in the forest.

But time came, as he always comes from place to place, where men and women made their homes in the Eastern woods. The roads and cities of man were built beneath the canopies of green, and their paths ran below the tunnels made by the low-hanging branches. And so even then they came to live by the marshy lake and the great old elm tree.

Now the woods were heavy and dense at this lake, and the families of men who lived not so many hours’ journey from the elm and the lake were few and so far between that most could not even see the lights of their neighbors’ homes late at night. Yet still, it came to pass that all these men and women learned of Baba Janous, and they told all their children. The stories of Baba Janous were whispered late at night, when children pretended to be asleep and their parents pretended not to hear their whispers. The stories were passed from older children to younger and back again in school yards and classrooms. And the stories told to the children by their parents were then told to their children’s children, and the children who came thereafter.

Baba Janous, it was said, lived in the dark hollow of the old elm which was taller than anyone could measure. It had one leg which was a goat’s hoof and another which was an eagle’s talon. It had the body of a dire wolf, but its tail was made of three snakes. The first snake was a cobra and would answer any riddle or puzzle. The second snake was a viper and knew the manner in which all things would die. The third snake was a great python and knew the names of all men and beasts. Baba Janous had tiny wings on its back but could not fly. It had a head with two faces. One face was an old crone, and the other face was a beautiful maiden. The crone had no teeth, but it was said her voice was more beautiful than any mortal woman’s, and she knew always if someone lied to her. The beautiful maiden never spoke, but it was said inside her mouth she had countless teeth more fearsome than any lion’s, and if anyone told a lie to Baba Janous, she would gobble them up whole.

There were many stories of men and women putting riddles to Baba Janous, or trying to trick her. It was said she granted wishes, and had a great treasure, and would come and eat up wicked children who did not listen to their parents, and would tell a virtuous man how to win his true love’s heart, and all other manner of perils and rewards which have always been the province of monsters. No one had ever seen Baba Janous, though many children camped by the old elm and tried to scare one another into fleeing for the warmth and safety of their homes, and swore the truthfulness of all manner of horrific claims to their schoolmates the next day. No one had seen her, yet many a times had men and women left some trinket or gift of fruit and meats before the dark hollow in hopes of her favor. And who is to say if she granted such importuning or not? They had only the certain knowledge that whatsoever was left before the hollow would vanish in the night, and was nowhere to be found thereafter.

Thus grew the stories of Baba Janous, and so grew the families who lived so many hours apart from one another, and it was all but inevitable that a house was one day built near the shore of the lake, not so very far at all from the hollow of the elm where Baba Janous dwelled. The husband Dumaz was a chef, and would rise early to see the bread was baking and prepare the very first soups of the day. The wife Mari was a fisher, spending many patient hours at the nearby lake to catch the finest and the fattest fish for miles around. It did not take long before their neighbors came to know and love them (for who does not like a man who cooks and a woman who is patient?), and so soon the chef and the fisher woman learned all the most re-told tales of Baba Janous. They had each of them already seen the great elm tree, and wondered at what might be in the hollow. Having heard the stories, Mari would take any leavings from their table out to the hollow, and Dumaz would sometimes laughingly say of some good fortune that Baba Janous must have liked her meal especially well. Dumaz and Mari would tell their own stories to the curious children who came to see the great elm, and always indulged with a smile those brave budding adolescents honoring dares of courage to spend a night under the elm’s branches.

On these nights the husband and wife would share their amusement, but long after the sun had set, when the woods were dark, with no moonlight falling between the leaves, Dumaz or Mari would wake and wonder more than they otherwise would in the warmth and the light. On these nights one or the other of them would always walk out into the woods, just to be sure, they told one another, that the children were not scared. In the dark, with the children asleep in their tents, the base of the elm was quiet and the hollow yawned with total darkness. The sounds of crickets and frogs and night avians filled the woods and the lake’s shore, but the silence beneath the elm tree was absolute.

As is the way of husband and wife, Dumaz and Mari had a son and a daughter. They named their son Lee and their daughter Ami, and the children brought much joy to their household. They raised the young children with love, as all children are loved and cared for by their parents. As many families had before them, Dumaz and Mari passed down to their children their favorite stories of Baba Janous. They warned their children they must be good and honest or Baba Janous would gobble them up. They promised their children if they were clever and wise, Baba Janous would reward them. But always they cautioned their children to be wary of the woods late at night, for the woods had many real dangers, even if young Lee and Ami knew Baba Janous was just a story. The children grew older, as was their nature, and Lee and Ami learned many more of the stories of Baba Janous in the schoolyard and in whispered tales told late at night. They knew, just as well, that their parents left food at the ancient elm where Baba Janous was said to live, and so they grew curious as young children must be to discover and live in the world around them.

It came as no surprise to Dumaz and Mari when young Lee and Ami came to them and asked to spend a night by the great elm, though their children had not yet seen ten years. They let Lee and Ami join the older children in the tent that night, with assurances from neighbors all around that many other young children had been watched over for an occasional evening by these older youths. Dumaz and Mari worried, as is the province of parents, but they knew at any time they could hike out into the woods and assure themselves that all was well.

Thus young Lee and Ami, by far the youngest children ever to sit watch at the base of the great old elm, sat with the older children around a small campfire and told all the most frightening tales they knew of how Baba Janous stole babies from their cribs and kidnapped unwary children walking in the woods at night and (most of all) gobbled up anyone who fell asleep before the hollow of the elm. At last there were no more stories to be told, and the night became heavy with silence. The leaves of the elm blocked out the moon and the only light came from the embers. But now all the children were sleepy from telling stories and frightening one another and, though they had all promised not to fall asleep, their eyes shut one by one.

In all their dreams, the children heard a voice, “What have you brought for me, dreamers at my doorstep? What have you brought for Baba Janous? Little dreamers, little dreamers, slumbering at my home, lay still and sleep, and out I will creep, and step by careful step between you and see what I may keep.” And each child who heard the voice, more beautiful than any they had heard, was called by name. Each boy and girl woke as their name was spoken, and Lee and Ami woke last of all. When all the children were awake, they found the blackened stones of the campfire were gone, as were the ashes and all the food they had brought but had yet to eat. All the older children fled, for they were certain Baba Janous meant to take them next, but young Lee and Ami were brave. “We will stay here and wait for Baba Janous,” said Lee. “We will stay up the night,” said Ami, “and see her.”

And so the two children waited and waited, and soon they heard a rustling in the forest, and heard a soft woman’s voice call out their names. But it was only Mari who, seeing her children all alone in the woods, made them come back and sleep the night in their own warm beds.

The story soon spread from child to child, embellished with each telling of the tale until it was as if they had fled from the jaws of Baba Janous herself snapping at their heals. Yet Lee and Ami swore they had not seen her, for they knew well the importance of truth. As they walked from school to their home, the two young siblings became determined to see Baba Janous once and for all. They did not tell their parents, for their parents now said the woods were too dangerous at night, and told them that they must be more careful around the old elm. It was rotting, they said, and a heavy branch might fall on them. Lee and Ami heeded their parents’ warnings of the woods at night, but though Dumaz and Mari worried about their children, they did not keep them from the forest in the day, for they knew that all children must learn to live in the world.

Thus it came to pass that Lee and Ami would take the leavings of their dinners out to the great elm as often as their parents permitted, and on the longest winter evenings they would stand very near the hollow, which was so dark that even standing before it they saw nothing within, and say into the empty space, “Baba Janous, Baba Janous, we have food for you to eat. Come out and let us see you and we will give you other things to keep.” Every evening, they heard no reply.

As the nights began to grow shorter, young Lee and Ami’s parents began to remind them that they had a bedtime and they must be in bed by it. It was yet still winter, though nearing the end of those cold months where Jack the Frost let free the cold inside his body so that he might hold it back another year, and so the days were still short, but Dumaz and Mari did not want the children to grow too accustomed to waiting away the sunset in the woods.

Then, one evening as the children set a tiny dish of sweet cream and berries before the elm, they heard a voice come from within. “What have you brought for me, little dreamers, what do you lay at my doorstep? What will you give me to keep and what will you get?”

Lee and Ami were frightened to hear again the beautiful voice which came from the great elm, but they did not run or hide. With joined hands they walked to the hollow, and together they held up the dish of cream and berries. “We have brought you this to eat, but we do not know what we may find you to keep.”

For a moment there was only silence within the hollow, until the children heard a clicking and sliding and rustling sound, as if a goat’s hoof and an eagle’s claw were being dragged over rocks and ancient bark. They waited, trying to see in the dark, but not a single glimmer of light penetrated, and so they saw not a thing until the shadows cleared and they stood face to face with Baba Janous.

One head was an ancient crone, just as the stories had described, and the other was a beautiful woman. Her body was hidden in the darkness, but they could see it was the body of a dire wolf, and her left front leg was an eagle’s claw. Baba Janous inclined her heads, and the children set the plate before her. The woman’s head smiled, and they saw how she had a mouth filled with bright, sharp teeth, and how her smile seemed wider than it ought to be, and then her head lowered to the plate to eat the berries and drink the cream, and they saw no more of her teeth that night.

“You are kind, little children, to bring me such delights every night,” said the crone, in her beautiful voice. Lee and Ami saw, as she spoke, that she had not a single tooth in her mouth. “But all the sweats and treats are nothing like the finest sunlight tea. It has been more years than I have teeth since I had a pot of sunlight tea. If you would only fetch for me the makings of my sunlight tea, we could brew a pot together and drink it beneath the newborn leaves.”

Though Lee and Ami both trembled, being now confronted with the same Baba Janous of all the children’s tales and all the campfire stories, they looked first to one another and then to Baba Janous as they agreed as one to fetch the ingredients for her tea. The old crone’s head looked pleased, and the woman’s head (now finished her repast) favored them with a close-mouthed smile. “First go to the lake,” said the crone, “where the reeds sway and the fish grow fat. Find therein the most ancient turtle, with terrible jaws that go snicker snap. He lives in the mud, under the depths, and grows moss on his back since the gods’ first breaths. Scrape a bit off, and bring it to me, and soon we shall brew a pot of sunlight tea.”

Their bargain was struck, and the children dashed back home so that they would not be late to bed and their parents would have no cause to keep them in the next evening. Their time at school could not pass quickly enough, on the following day, and they rushed through all the tasks set for them in the afternoon so that they could go to the lake while the sun was still high overhead.

They were not sure how to call the most ancient turtle from the depths of the lake. Lee said, “If it is true that Baba Janous knows always of lies, we must not lie to the turtle.” And Ami agreed that this was true. “But if the turtle sleeps so deep in the mud, perhaps he has not seen the great, fat bass who swim by the shore. Perhaps he will come up out of the mud if we make a fine meal for him, such as he would never see so far below the depths.” Lee saw this was a fine idea, and so the children fetched their fishing poles which had never seen a winter’s sun and baited the hooks with worms gone lazy from the cold, and cast their lines out into the lake.

The first fish they caught was a wide, round perch, but though it was fat and healthy it was too short (they knew) to tempt out such an ancient turtle. The second fish they caught was twice over and half again as long as the perch, but it was a pikefish, and too skinny to tempt out such an ancient turtle, and bad luck to keep besides. At last the third fish they caught was a bass as long as the pikefish and even fatter than the perch. They lay the flopping fish in the grass by the lake’s shore and called out over the water: “Come up, come out, great ancient turtle. We have made a fine dinner for you and wish you might spare a word or two.”

Lee and Ami waited, their hands linked, and the sun moved across the sky. They worried their parents might call them in to eat before the turtle found its way from the mud to the shore, but soon enough they saw the waters of the lake swell, and waves moved from the middle to the reeds and back out again. A boulder, torn and cracked by wind and rain, grew in the middle of the lake, and moved to shore as the waves had, as some force of nature and no living thing. The most ancient turtle rose from the depths, and they saw how its eyes were as large as a strong man’s fist, and it had jaws which might cut in twain the pines which grew a ways from the shore. Yet they did not shy back from the turtle, though his eyes were a fierce yellow and his legs were nearly as tall as either of the children.

“Who calls?” asked the turtle, “And what have you to offer?” Its eyes and head swung to the children of Dumaz and Mari as it spoke, and they knelt together and held up the bass. “We have caught you a meal, most ancient turtle,” said Ami. “We ask only a word and a favor if you are amenable,” said Lee.

The great yellow eyes seemed to sparkle with something in a turtle that may pass for glee, and it held open its mouth. They tossed the fish, and its jaws went snicker snap, and the bass was no more. “Ah,” said the turtle, “I have not eaten so well since these saplings took root. Please, would you be so good as to catch me another?” Lee and Ami agreed, and in no short order they had caught a second bass. They threw it to the turtle, and its jaws went snicker snap, and the bass was no more. “Please,” said the turtle, “I have such small morsels below, in the mud, would you be so good as to catch me another?” And thus, once more, Lee and Ami cast their lines, and in no short order another bass was gone, like that, snicker snap.

The turtle then let forth a great gust from its nostrils, and looked as content as a turtle might look. “You have my thanks,” it said, “and so now speak what words you will. I will do what you ask if it is in my power.”

Ami bowed to the turtle and gave him thanks. Lee said, “We ask only a bit of moss from your back, great turtle, and then we will see you on your way.” The turtle said, “That is easily enough done. Come, swim out to my sides and climb upon me and cut all you desire.” Thus Lee stepped through the marshes and swam to the turtle’s shell. They had seen how its jaws moved, and the children knew it could swallow them up in a gulp, but its great head did not move or dart, and if its eyes sought out any mischief, Ami could not see it. Lee soon had their moss and returned to the shore.

“If that is all you desire,” the turtle then spoke, “I shall return to the depths. But I will always think well after you, and see that no harm comes to you in all the waters where my brethren dwell.” And so saying, the great and ancient turtle went below the lake once more.

Lee and Ami went home directly for dinner, and afterwards took their table scraps to the great elm along with the moss from the ancient turtle’s back. But though they called out to Baba Janous, she did not come, and so they left the scraps and moss at the hollow and returned home in time for bed. Each evening that week they came to the elm and called to Baba Janous, and each evening she did not appear, until the seventh evening, when they heard the curious clicking and scratching she made. Her heads parted the darkness of the hollow not long thereafter, and the beautiful woman once more gave them a smile all of wicked teeth before taking her meal. Now the children saw that she had a pair of small wings folded on her back, just as they had been told. The old crone’s head said in her beautiful voice, “You have brought me the moss, but we are not yet done. It takes more than moss to make tea out of sun. You will find a blue rose at the top of this tree. Fetch it down while it blooms and soon we will make sunlight tea.”

Another night and another day rushed by for Lee and Ami, time walking at his steady pace, no matter how they tried to pull him along. At last the afternoon sun found them below the leaves of the enormous elm. Lee and Ami had no questions for one another, as there was no doubt between them as to what must be done. They began to scale the tree, finding purchase with hands and shoes easily upon its bark. The sun moved across the sky, and they wondered if they would even see the top of it before their parents became most anxious in calling them to dinner, but they had determination and youth, and so they came to the highest branches of the tree before Dumaz or Mari had even called them to dinner once.

They each saw the blue rose, with a tiny bloom at the end of a great vine with many thorns. Lee said, “We must be careful when we pluck the rose.” Ami agreed, and then said, “Let us not take without giving, for in all the stories Baba Janous punishes the greedy. Have we anything we may leave for the rose?” Lee thought on this, and then said, “I will pluck a strand of my hair, and you of yours, and we will leave a knot of it about the treetops, and perhaps a new rose will grow in its place.” Ami saw this was a fine idea, and so they plucked hairs, and tied them together about the blue rose’s vines.

No sooner had they tied the last knot, then all but a few of the rose’s thorns fell from the vine. The children plucked it with ease, but with no less care than they otherwise would have, so as not to harm what vine remained. When they held the rose, Lee asked, “How will we climb down with it? Surely we shall need both hands.” Ami said, “I will carry the rose for both of us, brother.” And so speaking, she placed the rose in her long hair, and wove it into a braid. The children were pleased, and wasted no time in climbing down the tree, for they knew their parents would soon call them in.

Once again, Lee and Ami took their table scraps and the blue rose to the old elm as soon as they had finished dinner. But though they called to Baba Janous that night, and every night that week, it was not until fourteen days had passed that the clicking and scraping of Baba Janous came from within the hollow, and her heads appeared from the darkness. As ever, they saw the teeth of the beautiful woman, and the eagle’s claw, and the dire wolf’s body, but now they saw the right rear leg of Baba Janous was a goat’s hoof as surely as they had always been told. Spoke the crone’s beautiful voice, “You have brought me the rose, but we are not yet done. It takes more than moss and flowers to make tea out of sun. Go deep into the forest, where the sun has never been, and seek out the tallest onion stalks you have ever seen. Bring me the largest onion you see, for it is the last ingredient of sunlight tea.”

The night and day passed, but neither Lee nor Ami remembered a bit of it, so eagerly did they wish for the afternoon sunlight. They fetched a pair of flashlights from a dusty cupboard and walked out to the forest when they were free from obligations again. “Where shall we find the place where the sun has never seen?” asked Ami. Lee did not know, but he said, “Perhaps the owl knows such a place, as she sees so well in the dark.” Ami saw how this might be true, and so they walked into the forest, searching all the trees, until they found a sleeping owl.

“How shall we wake her?” asked Lee. “If she must hunt at night,” said Ami, “let us bargain for her daylight hours. We will skip our dinner tonight, and give it to the owl, so that she may lead us to the place the sun as never seen, and sleep the night through.” Lee saw this was a fine idea, and so together they called up to the owl, saying, “Please owl wake, we know you sleep to hunt at night, but we beg a guide where there has never been light. If you wake from your slumber, we will bring meat, and for the day you give us, you will have night to sleep.” Soon enough the owl stirred from her slumber, and opened her great blue eyes to look down upon Lee and Ami. She heard their bargain again, and thought long upon it, turning her head this way and that. But at last, without a sound, she left her perch in the tree and flew deeper into the forest. As she flew, she dropped pale feathers, and so the children followed her trail.

Some time passed, and perhaps the sun moved overhead, but the branches of the forest were so thick, that not a solitary sunbeam passed through them. Lee and Ami cast about with their flashlights, and the owl’s feathers glowed in the beams until they came to a place in the forest where all the trees were nearly the size of the great elm, and where mushrooms grew in abundance, and they saw no more owl feathers. They knew it was the place where no sun had ever been, and thus they began to look for onion stalks. It was Lee who found them, for he looked to the last feather the owl had dropped, and discovered it pointed directly at the onions.

“We must take them from this place,” he said to his sister, “but what can we give them in exchange?” Ami thought on this for some few moments before she turned to the onions and said, “Onions and earth, let us take you from this place, and let us have your largest onion. If you grant us this favor, we will plant your children in the sun where they will grow even larger still.” Lee thought his sister’s exchange for the onions was just, and whether or not it was, who was to say, save that the onions all came readily from the earth, and not one of their stalks broke. The children carried the onions out of the darkest forest and planted them near the lake, in the fertile soil where they would always see the sun, and where they would grow healthy and strong. They kept the largest onion for Baba Janous.

Their parents called them to dinner then, and they went, but Lee remembered their promise to the owl, and so they only pretended to eat. They hid their food in napkins, and ate only the smallest of morsels, and not any of the meat. When supper was done, they rushed out once more, but stopped at the edge of the woods and called the owl: “We have promised you food so that you may sleep. Come out from the woods so that you might eat.” They were rewarded by the flapping of wings as the owl landed and began to eat the food they had brought her. There was a great deal of it, so much that even the owl could not eat it all. Still, she looked pleased and though she landed and departed without a sound, she left the children two feathers.

The hour had grown late, but there was time enough for Lee and Ami to rush to the ancient elm and call for Baba Janous. As so many times before, she did not appear, and so they left their offerings for her. Still and again they came to the hollow every day of the week and called the Baba Janous, but it was fully twenty one days before she appeared again.

On the twenty first evening, as the days had begun to grow long indeed, they found Baba Janous sitting before the hollow of the old elm tree. They saw her entire now, a great dire wolf with the head of a woman and a crone, vulture’s wings on her back dwarfed by her body, one goat’s hoof next to her eagle’s claw as she sat, and three snakes curling about her body. “Welcome, welcome, dear little ones,” she said. “I am glad you have come, for today is the day we make tea out of sun.” Both of her heads smiled upon Lee and Ami, and the beautiful woman graciously accepted their offerings.

Baba Janous had the moss, the rose, and the onion all set before her, and a large glass jar of water was propped in the elm’s roots, though neither Lee nor Ami could imagine where she found such a thing. Because the day was long, the sun was still bright overhead, and the very first green leaves of spring were appearing on the trees’ branches. “The onion must be peeled,” said the old crone, “and all of it in the jar without a tear spilled.” Lee picked up the onion and placed it in the jar of water. He held it there, as he peeled off the layers, but as he came to the middle he felt a hard shape. At the center of the onion was a pearl, and he offered this to Baba Janous. “The onion is yours,” he said, “peels and pearls.”

The beautiful woman smiled, and opened her mouth as wide as she could. Lee saw endless rows of teeth, each one seemingly more wickedly sharp than the next. Yet he placed the pearl in Baba Janous’ terrible, beautiful mouth, and the jaws did not close about his wrist. When he took his hand from them, there was a terrible crunching and she swallowed up the pearl. “Such a meal is rare indeed, young and generous Lee,” said the old crone’s head. “But now the petals of the rose must be plucked, and not a petal by a mortal flesh touched.”

Ami then picked up the blue rose by its stem and, one by one, plucked off the petals with her teeth. She did not tear a single one, and placed them all in the jar. As she plucked the last few petals, she felt her teeth click against something like a stone. She did not even look to see what might lie at the rose’s center until all the petals were in the jar, but when she looked, she found a sapphire growing from the rose’s stem. She plucked this last, with her fingers (for it was no petal) and said, “The blue rose is yours, petals and sapphires.”

The mouth of the beautiful woman yawned open once again, white and wide and sharp, and Ami felt how easily Baba Janous could gobble hear up. Yet she placed the sapphire in her terrible, beautiful mouth, and the jaws did not close about her wrist. Only after she withdrew her hand did the terrible crunching of her mouth sound as she swallowed up the sapphire. “Such a meal is rare indeed, young and generous Ami,” said the old crone’s head. “And now let each of you take the moss in hand, and add the lake to the sky and the land. When this is done, you will see how we make our sunlight tea.”

Lee and Ami each took a handful of moss and crumbled it into the glass jar. No sooner had they done so, then a beam of sunlight shone down between all the new and green leaves of the ancient elm. As the sunbeam struck the water in the jar, the onion peels caught it at the bottom, so it did not seep into the earth. The blue rose petals floated at the top of the water, and so the sunlight did not spill back out into the sky. And the moss floated in the water and kept the sunlight from shining through the glass. The water in the jar turned golden, and in this way Baba Janous made them all sunlight tea.

Baba Janous bowed her heads to the children, and Lee and Ami drank the sunlight tea, feeling its warmth filling them. They held the jar up to Baba Janous, and she too drank off a draught. Then the old crone spoke again: “Children of Dumaz and Mari, you have shown courage and cleverness and honesty. You have not taken without giving and given always more without any need of asking. We have brewed the tea of the sun and thus you and the light are one. You will never be chilled on a winter’s night, and never be in darkness without a light. But more you have given me tea and jewels to eat, and none of these did you try to keep. Know this, little dreamers, I will be true, and wherever you may sleep I will watch over you.”

Together Lee and Ami and Baba Janous, the monster of campfire tales, drank the sunlight tea, and the warmth stayed forever within the children of Dumaz and Mari. Baba Janous was ever their guardian, and their children’s children’s guardian, and watched over all the families who came and went from that home thereafter. So long as the great elm with its dark hollow lives, Baba Janous watches over them, and so long as her stories are told about campfires and in darkened bedrooms, so she will remain, waiting, in the dark, to be found ever anew.

A princess lived in the highest tower of the northernmost island of the great Island Nations. This island was the smallest and the coldest of the isles, where the Lady Night would come to rest her weary legs for many weeks in the winter, and where all the towers glittered like icicles. Every winter, before the Lady Night spread her cloak to sleep, the most beautiful woman on the island would vanish, never to be seen again. It was said the Winter King carried them away and turned them to ice, so that their beauty would remain with him eternally in his palace. When the King and Queen of the northernmost island bore a girlchild, they prayed for her to be homely. But the child grew more beautiful with every passing day, until the royal family could see there was no hope for her. She would be such a beauty as to outshine all others as the sun outshone the stars.

The King and the Queen brought all the greatest stonemasons and metalworkers from the whole of their small island and set them to work building the highest tower in the land. They brought the greatest silversmiths in the kingdom and all the silver of the island to the tower, and thus the tower was filled from top to bottom with silver bells, and the princess’ room had silver bells on every wall. The Winter King would not be able to pass the silver bells, for if he tried they would all be set to chiming, a harmony which the howling Winter King could not abide. The princess was taken to the top of the tower before she saw her tenth birthday, and she lived there for many years. At the slightest tinkling of a silver bell all the guards of the palace would come running, and there were no other silver bells in the kingdom. Every man and woman of the small island knew the tinkling of silver bells meant the Winter King was about his mischief, but that very same sound meant they were safe, as he made his mischief in the princess’ tower.

The rumors of the princess’ great beauty leapt from lips to ears and from markets to farms, so that her beauty was known across the land. One young boy, simple by his nature, and apprenticed to a silversmith for his trade, heard one such a tale of the princess’ beauty as they worked. “I tell you, my lad,” said the old silversmith, “no mirror can be polished bright enough to reflect her beauty. When she looks upon them it as if the silver were rusted tin, so much does it pale by comparison. And the bells! What use have we for silver bells anymore. All a man need do is stand below her window a fortnight and he is sure to hear the princess’ laugh. The purest silver bell sounds like naught more than the smith’s hammer against his anvil after hearing such a laugh.”

The boy was simple by his nature and thus he took the old silversmith at his word, and went to stand below the princess’ window, which was so high he could only see it at night where it became the brightest star in the sky. He waited each night before going to work all day, but the only sounds he heard were the tinkling of silver bells. On the third night the boy said to himself, “This wait is interminable. I have had my fill of silver bells, and I must hear her laughter or my heart shall burst.” Having become determined, the boy whistled a jaunty tune such as he had heard the birds sing on the first morning of the spring, far beyond the palace gates. It did not take very long for his tune to reach the princess’ window, and in a moment he heard her laugh, just as melodiously the old silversmith had said.

The boy had heard her laugh, but rather than being satisfied he found he desired nothing else but to look upon her face. Night after night he returned to whistle a tune to the princess’ window, listening for her laughter as a dying merchant will cling to his last penny. Thus it happened that on the third night her voice called down to him, “Who is it that so diligently whistles below my window every night all the birdsongs I cannot hear in the day?”

His heart tried to leap into his throat, but the boy swallowed it down and spoke in a clear voice to the window above: “I am your knight, fair princess, and I have come to protect you from the Winter King!”

“Oh, are you?” she replied, and he heard laughter in her voice, but it was not unkind. “Well, if you are my knight, you may climb the stairs of my tower. But if you serve the Winter King I think you will find the bells drive you quite away, and even if they do not, only the pure of heart pass them without a sound.”

“I shall be up to see you in a trice!” said the simple boy. He ran up the stairs of the tower two steps at a time. There were no guards in the tower, for they all knew the bells would warn of trouble. There were only a few lights in the tower, but the boy did not stumble in the darkness. The door to the princess’ room was open, and she sat by the window. She looked out over the city, for she was still waiting to hear the chimes of her silver bells.

“My lady,” said the boy.

The princess turned with a start, and the boy saw she was more beautiful than any rumors. He saw truth in her eyes, and found the beauty therein greater than any other beauty he could conceive. She saw honesty and courage in his eyes, as she had seen in the eyes of no other living man. The young princess and the simple boy fell in love immediately. He came to see her every day, and they spent many long afternoons watching the lives they could see from her window. The princess asked the boy to tell her of life beyond the palace, and he told her of all the marshes and forests and lakes he had seen. “If you wish, I will take you into the forest and we shall watch the sun set over the ocean,” he would say. But every time the princess had to refuse. “I cannot leave the tower,” she would tell the boy. “For if I leave the Winter King shall snatch me away.”

As it happened, the Winter King had heard rumors of how beautiful the princess of the Northern Island had grown. Many times he had sent his servants to carry off the beautiful princess, but each time the chimes drove them back. In those days the four Winds were all very young, else the South Wind should have merely drowned the tower, the East Wind should have torn it asunder, or the North Wind should have cut it to pieces. The West Wind was as gentle as he ever would be, and thus the Winter King had no use for him. Yet one day as he looked into the icy mirror in the heart of his castle, he saw the princess’ knight was not unlike the West Wind in his aspect. The Winter King immediately hatched a plan from his cold heart, and he sent the West Wind to the princess’ tower.

The West Wind hid himself away in the shadows below the princess’ tower until he saw the simple boy leaving, as rosy dusk painted the sky. With only a gentle sigh, the West Wind crept out of the shadows and whispered up to the princess’ window in his soft voice: “Please, my princess, I have slipped and fallen on the ice below your tower. Come and help me up or I shall freeze to death in the night.” Now, because the West Wind always carries the words of lovers, even his faintest whisper reached the princess’ ears, and it was as if the voice of the boy spoke to her. She did not hesitate, but flew from her room, down the dark steps, and out of the tower to see what had befallen the boy to whom her heart belonged.

The instant her foot, still shod in slippers, touched the cobblestones outside the tower, the East Wind rushed through the streets and swept the princess into his arms. He lifted her high into the air and carried her off, followed by his brother the West Wind. The two Winds rushed through the forest as quickly as they were able, but the branches soon made them tired, and they were young Winds besides. They stopped to rest, and the East Wind immediately fell into a deep and dreamless slumber. But the West Wind was not so tired as his brother, for he did not rush furiously into every crevice, or try to push aside every tree in his path. The princess could see the West Wind was gentle, for the truth in her eyes sought out the truth of all she beheld, and so seeing she spoke with him.

“Please, gentle wind of the west, aid my escape. You know not what evil designs the Winter King has for me. He will turn me to ice, and I will be cold and unmoving the rest of my days. I beg of you, gentle wind, spare me from this fate.”

Well, the West Wind was shocked to hear such a thing. He could see the truth in the princess’ eyes (as all could), and so he knew he must aid her escape, for he could no more force any evil on another living soul than the Lady Night could force the sun not to rise. He freed the princess from her bindings, but said to her, “My brother will pursue you to the ends of the earth. I will change you into a swan so that you may find the arms of your true love. Only then may he be bested in single combat.” Speaking thus, the West Wind changed the princess into a swan, and she flew away.

When the East Wind awoke, he was furious with his brother. He battered and beat the West Wind until he was barely a gust, but there was no helping it. The princess was gone and they had nothing to do but return to the Winter King with only empty hands and failure.

When dawn found the princess’ tower, the young boy was there to greet the first warm touch of the sun. He rushed up the stairs as he always did, but the princess’ room was empty. He knew the cold in his heart was the Winter King, as surely as he knew there could be no other reason for the princess’ absence. Ice in his blood made him shiver and grow fearful, for he was a mere silversmith’s apprentice, but the boy made his decision in seven breaths. “Silversmith be my trade, but for my princess I am a knight. I will seek her out and take her from whosoever holds her against her will.”

The boy took down all the silver bells from the princess’ chamber, and from these he made himself a suit of armor. He took down the silver bells from the stairwell and hammered these into a shining silver sword and helmet. “I shall find her in the north,” he said, and set off from the tower. Every step set his armor chiming, and each swing of his arms was like the pealing of bells. He made his way through the streets about the palace, bells heralding his passage, and with every house he passed men and women would look at one another and say, “The Winter King is making mischief again.”

The boy walked into the forest, ringing and chiming until a small fox crept onto his path. “Your armor makes a lot of noise,” said the fox. “How shall you ever find your way through such a symphony?” The boy bowed to the fox and said, “My armor sounds the death knell for the servants of the Winter King, and it will find them soon enough.” With these words, he walked on and the fox vanished into the woods.

The boy walked on, chiming and ringing, until a great wolf stepped onto his path. “Your armor makes a lot of noise,” said the wolf. “How am I to hunt during such a frightful symphony?” The boy bowed to the wolf and said, “My armor sounds the death knell for the servants of the Winter King, and I shall hunt them down soon enough.” With these words, he walked on and the wolf returned to the woods, assured of the folly of men.

The boy came to a lake as the sun began to fall towards the horizon, and on the lake he saw a swan. He went to drink by the lakeshore, expecting the swan should chastise his musical armor for scaring the fish, but she did not. The boy saw, in fact, that the swan was quite sad and so he asked, “Are the chimes of my armor so very mournful swan, that you cannot even chastise me as the wolf and fox both did?”

“They are not mournful,” said the swan. “They remind me of the silver bells in the room where I once lived. They remind me that I shall never see my true love again.”

Hearing these words, the boy recognized the princess immediately and cast off his helmet. The princess swan was overjoyed, and flew into her love’s arms. The instant her feathers touched the silver of his armor, the West Wind’s spell was broken and she became a lover again. “I had thought I would never lay eyes on you again,” she said. “But now we must hurry, for the servant of the Winter King will know the spell is broken. Listen! He comes!”

And it was so. A great howling rose from the east and the branches of all the trees rattled like bones. The East Wind roared from the forest, tearing branches from trees and hurling leaves about the boy and the princess. “I have found you out at last, fair princess! Now you shall belong to the Winter King!”

The East Wind reached out to pluck the princess from the ground, but the boy stepped between them and struck the East wind with his silver sword. It made a sound like a churchbell and the East Wind howled in agony at the perfect note and pitch. The boy struck again, and a second chime joined the first. The East Wind struck at the boy’s armor, but this lead only to a third chime. Over and over the boy struck the East Wind until the Wind was exhausted and nothing was left of it.

“I promised you I would show you the sun setting over this lake,” the boy said to the princess, and so I have. He took her hands in his and, as the sun set and the bells chimed, they swore love eternal to one another, and the Winter King’s power over the princess was broken forever.

They returned to the palace together, where they were married, and the princess could travel anywhere she wished on the island. The city was strung with silver bells, and the servants of the Winter King never troubled another girl of the Northern Island, for the bells still chime through all the city’s streets to this day.