Once upon a time, there was a village in which there lived a man named Mikio. Day after day, he herded his cattle freely from pasture to pasture, sometimes crossing through woods to find hidden clearings, or hiking up to mountain fields, but always returning home to his village eventually. He spent much of his time alone lost in thought and plucking at the instrument he carried everywhere on his back. He spoke with his cattle too, in whose companionable silence he so often found answers.
On the day of his nineteenth autumn, the harvest finally done, he gathered his courage and went to speak to his parents.
“I know well every field and stream and mountain path that surrounds our village but I long to venture beyond these lands that I know. There are masters that could teach me to play songs I could bring back to our village, and I wish to see for myself the grand cities that I have only ever heard of from stories told by visitors. Please, mothers of mine, give me your blessings so that I may go seek knowledge and fortune in the wider world.”
“This, we cannot give you,” his moon mother replied in a firm tone. “You are needed here.”
His blood mother reached out a warm hand to place upon his shoulder. “That is true, but also: the human world is a wilderness of its own, and you will not always find kindness or shelter in it. We cannot, in good conscience, allow you to leave the safety of our village.”
“You have taught me well, have you not? To honour my word, to share when I am able, to judge the character of a person fairly, to be sensible and apologize when I am wrong.”
“This we have taught you, and more,” his moon mother agreed.
“Then it stands to reason that by taking these teachings into the human wilderness of the world, I will sow these values there and enrich it, in my own small way.”
His moon mother appeared as though she were about to retort, but thought better of it and set her mouth into a troubled frown instead. Nearby, the cattle were lowing as a breeze swept down from the mountain to rustle the grasses in the fields; when it reached their doorstep, it caused the talismans made of wood and bone hanging from the roof to knock softly against the siding of their home. As though the mountain itself were trying to take part in the conversation.
“My child, as ever, you are wise beyond your years,” his blood mother finally said with a measure of regret. “Though it will pain me greatly to see you go, and while I will be able to offer you no succor beyond the lands that we inhabit, I do understand.”
His mothers each accepted a hug from him in turn.
“Remember always that you have a home here,” his moon mother finally said with a tired sigh of assent as she let go, turned away.
It is not everyone that can wholeheartedly support a momentous decision at the offset, even when it is the right one. An unusual path is by its very nature inscrutable and uncertain — at first. Even when it ends up being the best path to take. There is thus beauty and wisdom to be found in the choosing of it.
Decision made, Mikio said farewell to his friends and neighbours, said farewell to his beloved animals, packed some provisions, strung his instrument and his hunting bow up over his back, and said farewell to his family. Ready to depart from home, there was but one farewell left to give. And so, just before embarking upon his journey, to his sweetheart, he said, “I will return. Think of me when a breeze causes the buckwheat fields to murmur, and when you are weaving by the fire. I will think of you when birds sing, and when the moon lights my path at night; remember that snow and rain passes, and that every season has its purpose. I will return.”
“I trust your word,” his sweetheart said, “and I give you mine: I will prepare. I will find a plot and cultivate a garden there, leave space for a home. I will remind your animals of your name, weave village stories into tapestry, and dream poetry into the clouds above, will the wind to carry them to you. Think of me when a meal sates you after a long day, when you play songs by morning light. I will prepare.”
They sealed this promise with a kiss, a twining embrace by firelight.
Before dawn, Mikio awoke and drew the furs back over his sweetheart’s shoulder while she continued to sleep soundly by the embers of the fire they’d made the night before. The wolf that had chosen her as a companion looked up at him and then settled its head back onto its forepaws, closing its eyes. The gentle beast would allow no harm to come to her, of that he was certain. He pressed one last kiss to her temple, careful not to startle her. She let out a sigh and shifted, but didn’t open her eyes — somewhere in the inner lands she was chasing the idea of a thought, weaving together a dream out of imagination and memory. Her subconscious had always taken her deeper into liminal spaces than his ever had. He would have to trust to his feet and his waking eyes instead.
It was time.
Their paths would diverge just as surely as they would meet again.
He reminded himself of this, willed himself finally to go.
Thus, he took the mountain road, and took it further than he ever had before until it became a valley road, until it snaked through a forest, until it became the cobblestones of a city street.
He began his journey, traveling far and wide to see and learn what he could of the world, making of his memories songs. Committing to memory the songs and the stories of others.
When one winter had passed, and another began to thaw, he found himself in the walled city of a large kingdom, his skills as a bard having earned him enough repute to warrant an audience with the king himself.
On the appointed day, Mikio climbed the grand stone steps that led to the castle and felt very small indeed. Through the gargantuan doors of oak he went. The entrance hall was magnificent, draped as it was in furs and finely embroidered linens, encased as it was in a skeleton of wooden beams intricately carved with beasts and symbols both. The stories he had heard of the castle’s splendor could never have prepared him for the reality of it.
A royal attendant led him dutifully to the ornate doors that enclosed the throne room and opened one carefully to announce him.
“Enter,” came a command from beyond, filled with quiet assurance.
The tallest stained glass windows that Mikio had ever laid eyes on stretched up to the rafters behind the king’s throne, casting light of every colour upon the stone floors. A fire burned in a hearth twice the size of the kitchen of his mothers’ home. Delicate sculptures of spun glass on either side of it caught and reflected the firelight up the stone walls and wooden support beams, making them glisten and dance.
In his ornate chair, the king watched Mikio’s approach with a steady gaze, posture wooden. An exceptionally shrewd ruler, Mikio had heard — honest almost to a fault. And without an heir, without any surviving family at all.
“The citizens have taken to calling you The Wise Bard. What is your true name?”
“Mikio Mountainvale, your excellence.”
“Hmm. And where do you hail from?”
“Why, my lord, I simply call it Home.”
“Yes, I imagine you do,” the king remarked in a dry tone. “What would a cartographer call it?”
“Zenda. Though I have yet to come across a map that captures the details or the beauty of the mountain vale that cradles my village.”
“That is to be expected,” the king conceded. “This world yet holds a great many mysteries and wonders undiscovered.”
“Pray tell, my lord, to whom?” Mikio asked with bewildered deference. “I know every path and field, every hidden grove and mountain cavern in the place that I call Home. It holds many mysteries and wonder, and changes with every hour and season, but it is not undiscovered. It is protected, it is loved.”
“I see,” said the ruler, though Mikio was not sure that he did. “Do you know why I have asked for you?”
“I do not. If I were to hazard a guess however, I would think that you have called upon me because you wish to hear a song. Though I do not know whether any of mine would be fit for your presence, for a hall as grand as this.”
“I have heard your song waft into this hall through an open window from the city streets below. That, and your reputation precedes you. Worry not, and sing.”
“If it please you, your excellence,” Mikio conceded, bowing his head in deference as he sank to his knees and pulled his instrument from over his shoulder. “I will sing to you of Home.”
Mikio lifted his gaze to the stained glass windows behind the throne, plectrum in-hand.
Then began.
“ Golden-red,
So fall the leaves
Into the mountain bed ”
The chords he plucked echoed throughout the hall, melding with his voice.
“ Sweet cradle of memory
Where lay we children
Our eyes made of the sea ”
His voice suddenly rose above the chords.
“ Made of the first misty morning
Our souls rolled in with the fog —
There danced the seasons,
Our home to fill with song ”
He let out a soft howl of a note, then dove into another line of his song, plucking at his instrument again.
“ I long to be
Where my heart roams free ”
Again his voice went up in a howl, falling again into the pluck of a chord.
“ My love breathes in the valley ”
Mikio howled for home.
“ Breathes of the morning, noon, and night ”
The trailing note of his voice shivered with the chord he had plucked, then rose again with the last verse.
“ If ever there were
A heaven upon earth
Twould be a harvest feast
With her by my side ”
His voice intertwined with the plucking of his instrument, filling the hall and holding the attention of the king. Then, for a moment, all was silent. Mikio bowed his head and slung his instrument back over his shoulder, rose to his feet.
“Your reputation is well-earned.”
“You honour me with such praise, your excellence.”
“It is but the truth. And because you have so proven your skill with poetry and song, I will ask of you something more: a discussion. It would please me to speak with you about the nature of the physical world.”
“That would be an honour as well. I must admit that I have heard that you are well-versed in the asking of questions for which there are no clear answers.”
The king gave him a level look, as though trying to determine whether Mikio had meant him any offense, steepled his fingers, sat back in his throne. Mikio willed himself not to flinch under the ruler’s unwavering gaze, concentrated solely on keeping his breathing slow and even. At last, the king afforded him a reply.
“Perhaps. An answer is an easy thing to fashion — an answer that is fitting and which rings true for the posed question however, is another matter altogether.”
“And what question would you pose me, your excellence?”
His hands parted, and he ran each of them down the arms of his throne, fingers curling over the edges in a firm grip. The corners of his lips turned up slightly, a challenge in his expression. “How many drops of water are there in the ocean?”
Mikio clasped his hands behind his back and let his gaze lose focus, the colours of the stained glass windows becoming soft and indistinct under his stare.
“Were you to stopper every river mouth and beg every cloud not to weep during a storm, were you to ask the sun not to heat the waters of the ocean and turn them to shimmering vapour every noon, I could count its every drop. But the number I would give you would be true for only an instant; the ocean is less an object than it is a deity alive, ever-changing. Divinity cannot be quantified.”
“Long ago, we prayed to the seas as though they were gods, stopping only when science and alchemy gave us an understanding of the natural world…” the ruler mused in response. ”But perhaps this granular understanding should have fueled our wonder and our prayers rather than dimming them.”
“It is because I know my lands and my people that I love them so. It is because I understand the cycles and the lengths to which waters go to reach my village that I revere them so. Scientific knowledge does not impoverish the spirit, but rather nourishes it.”
The king said nothing, appearing as though he were considering Mikio’s answers. Then he remarked, “perhaps we have been taking down knowledge in note, and neglecting to ingest it.”
Mikio nearly replied, but thought better of it upon seeing the faraway look that had overtaken the king’s features. He was no expert in etiquette, but figured that breaking the king’s concentration would be frowned upon. His patience was rewarded when, several moments later, the ruler once again addressed him.
“I have for you a second question, if you would humour me.”
“Gladly.”
“Tell me, Mikio Mountainvale — how many stars are there in the sky?”
This was a difficult question indeed, and Mikio frowned slightly as he considered it, then lowered himself back to the floor and took out his instrument again. “I shall think better if I play,” he explained, plectrum again poised on the strings. “May I?”
The king nodded in assent.
Several wondering notes made the hall shiver. “Why can we not see the stars after our star the sun has risen?” Mikio asked, his answering question couched in the echoing music. “Perhaps… it is because the sun’s light is so powerful that it masks that of any other star from our eyes. If that is so, then how many stars must be masked under the light of those we can see?” He filled the quiet of his pondering with a melody he’d often played in front of the hearth after having been away for several days herding. “If I moved nightly with the turning of the stars and counted each one methodically, I could give you their number. But behind each star our eyes can see, there must be untold others,” Mikio reasoned, thinking of all the nights he’d spent outside under the stars — the last one he’d spent with his sweetheart in his arms, especially.
“One day,” he went on, the melody reminding him of home in a way that made his heart ache, “we may create the means with which to see those hidden stars, but they are as yet beyond our reach. So too is the true answer to your question. And because that is the case, it is necessary to start by finding a question that can be answered instead. No grand answer is arrived at without a trail of smaller ones having been answered first.”
The melody ebbed, then flowed back to him like waves upon a shore. “I wonder: why does the sun rise and set?” Mikio looked back up at the king. “I wonder: do the stars and bright, distant planets in the heavens move, or do we, safe on our world? If we cannot yet answer these questions, we do not yet have the wisdom to understand the deeper mysteries of the cosmos.”
Mikio played for some time more, but no other thoughts came to him, his mind instead floating weightless in the current of the song, as though he were no longer in the king’s great hall.
“That is a wise manner of thinking indeed,” the ruler at last remarked, bringing Mikio’s attention back to the present. “Though one of those questions has been answered. The great philosopher Kebyursolevyn wrote of it in their tome Heavenly Astrologics: A Survey of Cosmic Movement. It is not widely read, but highly regarded by astronomers who come to this land to study. You could borrow it from the city archives and read it for yourself.”
“Would that I could, your excellence. First, I would need to learn how to read.”
“You cannot read?”
“None in my village have this skill. We communicate and share our knowledge orally, through poems and stories, and songs. Through tapestries and paintings and pictographic symbols. But not through writing. It was very strange to see knowledge and history housed in so methodic a way.”
“And you did not feel inclined to learn to read or write?”
“Perhaps it is strange to say so, but I did not. I have spent my days listening to stories, histories — learning to play the songs in the villages and cities that I have visited. Every place I visited felt rich with life.”
The king considered Mikio, brow furrowed. “I confess,” he finally said, “that I learned to read as a child, and have never known how it felt to experience these lands without relying on letters. You are an interesting man, Mikio Mountainvale.”
“Certainly not as interesting as you, your excellence.”
Again, the ruler was silent, appearing lost in thought as he curled the end of his beard around his index finger and gazed at the stone steps that led to the foot of his throne. Then he looked back up and said, “I have one more question to ask you.”
“I will answer it to the best of my ability, your excellence.”
“How many seconds of time are there in an eternity?”
Unbidden, an image from a story often told by fireside in his village burst into his mind, vivid with texture and colour.
“In my Home, there is a mountain that we call Volzaan. It is two days high, four days wide, and one day deep; every nine hundred years, a magnificent firebird named Zholemendeis comes to sharpen its beak upon it, causing the mountain to shiver off its old boulders and to cry fire down into the valley in wonderment. When the whole mountain has been worn away by this and a new one has formed in its place, then the first second of eternity will be over.”
“You have answered each question with a wisdom beyond that of any of my advisors, Mikio Mountainvale.”
“I am honoured that my answers have pleased you.”
“Henceforth, you shall reside with me in the royal palace, and I shall look upon you as my own son.”
“You bestow upon me a gift beyond measure.”
It was silent for a moment, in the throne room.
“A gift I have offered no one else,” the king finally added, sounding somewhat reproachful. “And yet I sense from you hesitation.”
“You are perceptive, your excellence.”
“I offer you wealth, comfort, and the power to use your wisdom to shape the world around you. Why would you consider refusing this?”
“The song I played for you earlier was born out of a longing to return home. A longing so strong that I have already decided to begin my journey back three days hence. I must confess as well, my honoured father, that I have no desire to shape the world. I wish to learn from it, and to be its child and protector both. I trust that it will shape itself as long as we respect its waters, the life in its soils, its winds and fields and mountains.”
“It is the world of civilization that I offer to you to shape, not the natural world,” the king corrected Mikio plainly, perhaps assuming that he had misheard.
“But my lord, these are one and the same. I came from sea, river, and soil just as surely as I will return to them. Humanity and its civilizations cannot exist apart from them, and neither can any other living creature. Have you ever grown and gathered food with your own hands, watched it feed your loved ones? We cannot eat jewels, and neither can we drink gold. There is no currency capable of reversing the flow of time, that most precious resource. And I have spent enough of mine away from Home, from the woman that I love and would share my life with.” Mikio bowed his head as a show of respect. “I cannot stay here.”
The king said nothing, and when at last Mikio decided to lift his gaze, he saw the ruler looking down upon him with displeasure. He lowered his eyes again, wondering how he might politely extricate himself from the room.
“Though you wound my pride by turning down so singular a gift,” the king finally admitted, “your words stir a long-forgotten sentiment in me that I cannot quite explain. And since you are a child of my choosing, I must learn to love you as you are, not force upon you a mantle that would stifle you. Would that my fathers had given me choice rather than destiny.”
“Choice is a divine right, one that, at times, we forget we possess. You have chosen to look upon me as a son, just as I have chosen to look upon you as a father. My mothers expected me to stay in our village and tend to our lands and animals, but I chose a different path, one that will lead me back home, all the wiser. You have chosen to be the sole ruler of this kingdom for many years, your mind on the welfare of your people — but perhaps there is another choice you could make, that would free you and be of benefit to your lands and your people. Why not put your kingdom in the hands of your advisers for a time and travel with me to experience the beauty of my village and see the world from a new vantage?”
The king appeared to consider his words seriously for a moment, but then his expression turned resolute. “That is a bold suggestion, Mikio Mountainvale, and also one I cannot take. I am burdened with responsibility that I cannot entrust to others but with great consideration and preparation. I cannot go with you three days hence, nor even three moons hence, though the prospect intrigues me.”
Mikio did not try to offer a rebuttal, recognizing immediately that the ruler would not be willing to budge. Recognizing, too, his own lack of understanding at what the holding of a kingdom involved.
“Perhaps, one day, I will make the journey.” To Mikio’s eyes, the king appeared doubtful, but his expression softened somewhat with his next words. “You are welcome here always, should you choose to return.”
“It would please me to visit again when I am next able, my honoured father.”
“I give you my word, as well, that your lands will be left in peace.”
It was not a platitude, but a statement of quiet assurance.
“Volzaan is by no means a defenceless mountain — nor is the forest that blankets it. I pity anyone who would try to cross through them with evil in their hearts. With your word, perhaps even the wicked may be spared and reformed.”
“Perhaps,” the king agreed. “After you have gone, I will send scribes to your village who will read to you my letters, and record your replies in ink. If you so choose, they will teach you the art of reading, or how to sign your name. Though whether or not you learn these skills, I will continue to hold your thoughts in high regard.” He stood and gripped a pole next to the throne that Mikio had taken for decoration, pulling it from a hole in the stone floor. He leaned his weight upon it as he descended the steps. “For the time being, I invite you to stay here, that we may talk longer of the deepest mysteries of the world, that we may share bread and memories of our lives with one another.”
“It would be my honour.”
And so they retired to a smaller study, where Mikio prefaced the second leg of their conversation with another song, one for the city, its intricate waterways, and its ruler — a very powerful man who had chosen to name Mikio as his honourary son. Love was not something that Mikio felt for the king, but there was curiosity and respect enough between them to build a genuine rapport.
And that was worth its weight in salt, or spice, or water.
————————————————————————
The journey home was filled with familiar faces and the exchange of many tales, with stops to play in taverns that Mikio had visited many moons before. It was when the season began to turn that Volzaan at last came into view, growing larger, reaching ever higher toward the heavens as he approached. Leaves fell and fluttered onto the mountain path before his feet as he followed a road that had been familiar to him since childhood.
He waved at several people he had grown up with where they toiled out in the fields, but did not stop to speak with any of them, so intent was he upon reaching his first destination.
There, seemingly-untouched by time, was his mothers’ home, a tendril of smoke drifting up, unhurried, from the chimney.
He grinned to see it again, his chest filling with a nervous sort of excitement when he spotted his blood mother rounding the side of the tool shed, laying the handle of a rake against the weathered wooden siding as she went. She caught sight of him and stopped, mouth opening wide before her expression lit up with joy. “Oh, my son!” she cried, the relief and happiness she had been overcome with melting the hard lines of worry from her face. She turned, taking only one eye off of him. “Yuna, my darling, come quickly! Mikio is home!” She returned her full attention to Mikio, and it was as though the reality of the situation struck her a second time. “Yuna!” she cried out again in an insistent sob, no longer able to stop herself from running toward Mikio.
He hurried forward with a warm chuckle, catching his blood mother in a hug.
She gripped him and cried, wrapped her arms around his torso as though he would otherwise float away.
“Mother, I am here to stay,” he assured her, rubbing her back. “You needn’t worry.”
“I missed you dearly,” came her watery reply, muffled by the fabric of his clothing.
“You look well,” he remarked in a gentle tone. “I am glad.”
“As do you,” she said, finally pulling away somewhat to take his face in the palms of her hands, her gaze brimming with affection. “Though tired — I daresay you must be famished.”
“Not nearly as much as you might think. Many along the way spared me provisions for a song or two, and I foraged for the rest. It was an incredible journey, and I am tired, it is true. But I must—”
“Mikio, my son!” His moon mother interrupted him in a cry of delight, sweeping him and his blood mother into a hug so fierce Mikio’s breath was forced out in a huff of surprise. Then she let go, stepping back to give him a soft look filled with so much emotion, he could not decide what it was that she must have felt. “It is good to see you,” she finally said, in a tone just as soft.
“I have missed you both.”
The house was much the same, but these women were not the mothers he had left. They had learned to care just for one another again, had packed motherhood into a jewelery box like a precious heirloom and learned again to be adults responsible only for their own growing.
Likewise, he had become an adult in his own right, had become known as a man instead of as a son.
There was a beauty in realizing that though they had chosen to reunite, and though their love had not dissipated, they did not need one another anymore. His mothers had raised him. They had let him go. And he had flown off, buoyed by all that they had taught him — then caught currents all his own.
He felt certain his mothers would graciously invite him to stay and in so doing speak true; he also knew in his heart that his home lay in the arms of another. That his mothers would be happier on their own too.
“Hahaue, please, I must know — where is she?”
“You must understand,” his moon mother began in a placating tone, “that things have changed since last you were home, my son.”
His heart sank, a sick feeling curdling in the pit of his stomach.
It must have shown clear on his face because his moon mother immediately corrected herself. “I did not mean it that way! My apologies, Mikio. She is not ill, and she has not taken the hand of another, do not worry. I mean only that — things have changed. She has changed, or been changed. Who can say? Many were alarmed when the wolf she keeps gave birth, fearing that their children or they themselves would be hurt by the wild beastlings, having only barely grown tolerant of the one. The pup grew and ran away or was lost, I do not know; everyone except for her was relieved. Then, the wolf gave birth to two more — there were rumours that a male wolf had begun living just on the outskirts of the village — then livestock began going missing here and there. The elders demanded then she release all of the beasts back into the wild where they belong, but were dismayed when she refused outright. And in refusing to part with them, she was forced from her family home, off into the tree line. As her own garden grows, she visits us less and less. I confess, even I fear to pay her visit because of those wolves, and my fear wins more and more as the days wear on,” his moon mother admitted. “And then… and then there is—” she stopped herself, shaking her head in visible discomfort. “Forgive me, speaking of it unnerves me too deeply. Thought is simply not meant to be bound to the physical realm. I will say no more, my son.”
“Where is she?” his whole body buzzed with energy — with impatience, with uncertainty, and with a desire to run to her.
“But Mikio, it’s—”
“Stella. He knows his own mind,” his moon mother reminded her wife gently. “We raised him well.”
His blood mother, the woman who had given birth to him and taught him how to herd cattle, deflated a little. “Go past her parents’ home, and away out into the fields until you reach the forest line. You will know it when you see it,” she explained, laying a comforting hand upon his shoulder, expression still somewhat troubled.
“Thank you.”
Without another word, he set out.
And for the second time, his mothers let him go.
—————————————-
It was a new garden, nestled within a clearing in the trees, but there was something familiar about it in the plants that grew there. So many of her favourites, but some of his too. Ducks waddled past the greenery, chattering amongst themselves; bees murmured as they worked, while butterflies flitted from flower to flower before disappearing into the thick of the leaves.
Two wolves wrestled in a winding stream of clover but lost interest in their game once they caught wind of him; they both began to growl, getting to their feet and blocking his way.
A voice called out from behind some trees.
“Pitou! Koinu! What is it?”
And suddenly, there she was, plain as day.
He fell to his knees.
“Scarlet… my love.”
He could but gaze at her, stunned for a moment into silence. Then, at last feeling the weight of their time apart, said, “I should have returned sooner.”
Staring back at him as though at a ghost, she nodded, tears welling in her eyes as emotions played over her face wordlessly. She opened her mouth to speak, but closed it again after a moment, apparently unable to put words to her thoughts.
“I was selfish,” he said in a muted tone, drinking the sight of her in.
“No,” she replied in a shaking whisper, “no, you were not selfish.”
He could tell that it was not a platitude. She meant it. And that was what made tears well in his own eyes.
Scarlet came to stand before him and took him by the hand, pulling him back up onto his feet, then said, voice thick with emotion, “maybe I should have gone looking for you.”
Mikio shook his head, tears rolling down his cheeks, reaching out to steady her by the shoulders.
“I missed you, missed your voice,” she told him, the last words coming out in a sob as she placed her hand on his chest; his heart beat suddenly faster.
Mikio rested one hand over hers. “I would hear you in my dreams and wake, filled with longing.”
“I still believed, even when everyone—”
Scarlet stopped herself, unable to say the rest, and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, stretching up on the tips of her toes to bury her face into his neck.
“Why did you not accept another hand? Why bear this loneliness?” He was surprised to hear misery in his own voice, and she pulled away slightly, giving him a look that was confused, maybe even a bit hurt.
“For the same reason you have returned to me, I dare to hope. Loneliness was preferable to the arms of someone who was not you.”
“It was,” he agreed, subdued. “Though you were made to bear far more of that than I was, I fear.”
“Hardship is not a contest,” she reminded him, sinking into his arms again.
“No,” he agreed quietly, smoothing the hair at the back of her head with reverent affection. “No, it isn’t.”
“Tell me of your grand adventure, my love.”
Mikio told her of how he had felt stepping foot beyond their mountain range for the first time, of the warm welcomes he had received in settlements along the way. He told her of meeting other musicians and traveling bards, and of the songs they had played together, of new creations and exchanges. He recited for her a poem, and then regaled her with a description of the grandest city he had set foot in, of its stone walls, its castle, its bustling markets and mix of so many different peoples all living in one place. He told her of his conversation with the king, and of how they had claimed one another as honourary kin. He told her of sand dunes he had crossed with the help of a guide, and of a bog he had skirted with a band of fellow musicians that he had bid adieu to when they had reached the next town. He described some of the strange flowers he had seen, and some of the dishes that stood out in his memory; he tried to describe the smell of the sea meeting a city, and of coffee, and of the one library he had set foot in, filled floor to ceiling with mysterious scrolls and books, the air indescribably solemn and strange.
Scarlet asked many questions and marveled audibly at what he recounted, but at last, as the sun was beginning to set, she interrupted him, seeming troubled.
“Mikio, I must tell you something.”
The worry in her tone made him feel apprehensive, but the worst of his fears had already been swept aside — she was alive, and she still loved him the way that he loved her — whatever came next, they would face together. He stroked a hand lovingly down her back in silent encouragement.
“The longer you were away, I…” she trailed off, and then seemed to regain her courage. “Please understand, I was so very lonely, and so many had become afraid to approach me… I cannot abide living alone the way my grandmother is content to, and I craved more companionship than her company or that of our wolves could provide. When a traveler came bearing books, I—” she hesitated again, and he gave her a squeeze of reassurance, kissed her temple, murmured, “go on.”
“I asked her to teach me letters in exchange for a tapestry and provisions, which she did as best she could while she was visiting. She even gifted me one of her smallest books for practice when she left. But a single book? I could only pore over it so many times. And so I went on my own short journey to the largest village in our area, and there I obtained another book, even learning how to make paper and ink from one of their artisans. Everyone in Zenda, they can appreciate a traveler having such strange skills, and sealing words on paper — but one of their own…? They kept their distance. They keep it still. Even my grandmother feels discomfort at the subject and has asked me not to speak of it when I visit. I don’t like to be so isolated, but I cannot bear to give up this art, so much like weaving, but of a quality that I cannot well explain. It has added a dimension to the world and to my heart and mind — it is beautiful. And no one will allow me to speak my mind on this. Or on much else, if I am honest. I… I hope that you will love me and listen to me still.” He could feel her heart beating faster against his chest, and she held on to him tighter as if afraid he would disappear. Her voice rose again in a fearful whisper. “Mikio?”
He could hardly believe his ears.
“But this is magnificent,” he breathed reverently, seeing her again as if for the first time; a stranger, and also the person he knew more intimately than any other.
“You are not… appalled?” the weight of holding that truth, that secret, the weight of being alone in her understanding and how it had ostracized her must have compounded into misery and he watched it melting now into a relief so strong it seemed painful, as he held her there in the warmth of his admiration.
“Of course not,” he murmured, shaking his head and kissing the corner of her eye for emphasis. “I trust your judgment. Which is to say, read to me and tell me your every thought, no matter how mundane. Bind the moments of wisdom that drift into our life and conversations to paper. I would learn this skill from you if you would teach me.”
She nuzzled his neck, pressing a kiss there; he could feel the curve of her smile. Then she lay her cheek against his chest, letting out a long sigh, her next words warm against his skin. “I could cry, for the way your love wraps me up in full as I am, holds my every vulnerability in easy reassurance. I could cry. They do not say so to me openly, but I have heard murmurs, accusations of my being marked by devilry and witchcraft because of my growing knowledge of letters as well as for the way that the wolves behave with gentleness toward me. Yet still some seek my knowledge when they have need of it. My family…” she grimaced. “They attempt to hide their distaste. They love their daughter, their sister — but Scarlet is a woman they fear and can no longer understand.”
“Whereas I find myself admiring your vanguard cleverness, your wisdom, and the bond you have nurtured with a creature once beyond our ken.”
She smiled up at him, tired, but sure. He leaned down to press a kiss to her forehead.
“I myself am much changed after my journey,” he admitted as he stroked her cheek, and in so doing found that continuing his train of thought was less important than simply imbibing her presence. He gazed at her and then lent down to brush his lips to her own.
“Mikio, I can tell by the look in your eyes,” came her reply, voice as powdery soft as the dust on a butterfly’s wings. “There can be no doubt that you touched the hearts and minds of countless people during the course of your travels and were transformed, in turn, by them. I admire the courage, the determination it took for you to walk a path without precedent. And here you stand before me, handsome in the composure self-assurance has given you. All the wiser.”
“The Home in my memory was not the one that greeted me when I arrived. It was as though my recollections had crystallized it into something greater than what it was — or I had changed too much to fit into the village I had so loved before leaving. But you… you have grown beyond my memory in beauty, and in skill — and it pains me to learn that you have faced a loneliness here that I had not imagined possible.”
“Neither of us could have known,” she reminded him gently.
“No,” he agreed, “but now you will never be without safe harbour, regardless of whether the outside world welcomes us as guests or ostracizes us entirely. I would live the rest of my days with you, if you would still have me. Wherever that may take us.”
“My love,” she murmured tenderly, stroking his cheek and letting her palm slide down over his chest to where his heart lay beating. “Look around you. Safe harbour, I had already made. For myself. For us both, in the hope that you would return. For the dream of what we together could become. For hollow safety, I could have cast off and buried every part of myself that was genuine, and accepted another hand, a halfhearted life. But I did not. I have lived each day with the memory of you, and an eye on each dream that I nurture with the hope that they may unfold in this lifetime. I do not wish for the safe harbour of your protection, but for the reality of your touch, for the heat of your voice, for your song, and for the hidden depths you show no one else. For the most beautifully ordinary of touches. I wish for your presence, and for your love. That you ever existed at all has been my safe harbour. That you have kept your promise and returned to my loving arms is the first of many dreams we will together realize.”
Mikio could not catch his breath
looked into Scarlet’s eyes, willing her to understand that he had held every word she had spoken sacred
and was moved to find that same love mirrored back at him in her gaze.
His mind finally supplied words that could hold a candle to the feelings that had welled up in him.
“I intend to give you all those things that you wish for, and more besides, as they are things that I wish for, myself. Perhaps you have no need for protection but whatever I have, I give you freely nonetheless, adding to the safe harbour you have created for yourself — for us. You were true to your word; it is thanks to you that I had a home to return to.”
“My love, it was just a safe harbour until you kept your own word and returned. My Home was exploring cities, and seasides, and collecting songs like you would shells or flowers. And oh, how I love your spirit filled with song. How I long to listen to you for the rest of my life. Now that you are here, this safe harbour is Home.”
Some things, words alone cannot well convey.
They looked into one another’s eyes again, intimate strangers, their souls alight.
Mikio brought Scarlet’s hand to his cheek, kissed the inside of her wrist, and then gave her space to pull free. Within his featherlight grip, she turned her hand in order to lay a finger upon his lips, and then replaced that finger with her own lips in a kiss.
As would-be-sovereign and sorceress, they made of their garden a bed, while skin to skin, their hearts beat as one. Bathed in the light of a full moon, their exultant cries of pleasure rose up into the night sky and enticed heaven to reunite with the earth.
.
The End
.
July 13, 2024.
The 73rd episode of The Side B Anthology podcast.
Part of the Sable’s Tales fairytale anthology.
If you feel so inclined, I would gladly welcome a comment below, or a tip.
Liberal adaptation by Janique EA Bruneau (Jea)
of the Grimm fairytale known by the name,
The Shepherd Boy.
Special thanks to Yuta Yoshimatsu (Plugmon) for an elucidating conversation about songwriting that helped me finish the demo for Mikio’s song.
You can listen to the original demo for the song melody (which is slightly smoother) on Youtube if you’re curious.
I’d also like to mention that the book Braiding Sweetgrass by Robin Wall Kimmerer and the conversations that Elliot Page documented in his film There’s Something In the Water (most notably some of the statements made by the Mi’kmaq activist group The Grandmothers) have been deeply influential, and I crafted some of Mikio’s dialogue in this story thinking, with great respect, of the love and indigenous wisdom with which both of the aforementioned pieces explain how our relationship to Mother Earth should be. I highly recommend reading and watching both.