by Ellen Oh
“I’m sorry,” I replied. “But I can never give you what you want.” I spoke without any divine amplification, and my throat felt bruised. I did not want to give him up. With graceless motions, I gathered dark clouds at my feet and rose into the air, as if I rode on a thunderstorm. “Good-bye, Cowherd,” I whispered, knowing he would not hear me.
I surged into the clear morning, the deeper indigo sky just easing into a light blue. Within a breath, the earth was already a league beneath me. Not only did I wield the most gorgeous colors among my sisters, I was the fastest, too. A light breeze swept over my face, tingling my skin. I brought a hand to my cheek, and it came away wet. Astonished, I watched my teardrops rise from my fingers, shooting heavenward, streaking silver behind them. I had never cried before that fateful day, Dear Reader, and the tears kept coming, as delicate as dewdrops, turning silver and blue and red and gold as they lifted into the skies, disappearing from sight.
“Hongyun!”
Cowherd’s shout startled me. I was high above the earth. How could I possibly be hearing his voice?
Then I looked back and my heart stopped. He was sitting astride Ox’s strong back as the animal galloped up through the air. My thundercloud slowed.
They drew up beside me, the beast treading in place, its hooves moving gracefully, like a bovine dancer. The sight was so ludicrous I burst into laughter. “What?” I said. “How?”
Grinning, Cowherd replied, “Ox is magical. He speaks to me and can fly.” He patted Ox’s thick neck.
“But you were so shocked when I put words into his mouth the morning we met,” I said.
Cowherd laughed. “I was surprised because that sounded nothing like Ox!”
Ox lowed, then said, “It is true. I did not know what to make of it when I said words I did not intend in a voice not my own.” While I had made Ox’s fake voice a low rumble, the beast’s true tone was a rich tenor.
“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” I asked.
Cowherd’s features turned serious. “Because I had always kept his magic a secret. I was going to, eventually . . .” His dark eyes narrowed a touch. “You’ve been crying.” He reached out and caressed my face; I closed my eyes, resting my cheek against his palm. “Won’t you reconsider?” he asked, his voice gone rough.
I opened my eyes, and we both watched as my tears rose from his palm, leaving a shimmering trail in their wake. “I only want you to be happy,” I whispered.
“Hongyun, whatever I might make for myself in this life—hearth, home, or family—they would mean nothing without you.” He grasped my hand and kissed my inner wrist. “I know that we can be happy together.”
I stroked his dark head, then trailed my fingertips down the nape of his neck. “But my mother . . .”
He lifted his gaze to me and smiled. “I can’t imagine you ever not getting your way.”
In the end, Cowherd was right.
We were happy together. We bought land a few leagues from the lake where we had met, with fertile ground surrounded by terraced fields. Cowherd spent half a year building a house for us, hiring workers and managing the entire project. He asked me what I desired in our home, and I told him I wished for nothing but a small garden to plant flowers and a deep stone tub to soak in. I got both.
The farm thrived as only a farm under a goddess’s benevolence could. But truth be told, Cowherd worked so hard, it would have flourished on its own. Four years after we built our home together, we adopted a little girl who we named Rose. Then two years after that, we adopted a baby boy into our family who we called Hailan.
I did not live always with my mortal family, but visited as often as I could. By the time we were blessed with our children, Cowherd had hired enough hands to help with running the farm and took care of Rose and Hailan the majority of the time.
As for my parents, my father, the Jade Emperor, never noticed my long absences, and my mother, the Heavenly Queen, might never have as well, if my fourth sister hadn’t ratted me out. But I refused to give in, and I got my way. After our third and final argument, my mother said in exasperation, “Do as you like, youngest daughter. Besides, mortal lives are as short to us as a flower’s bloom.” She lifted her arms in a swirl of silken sleeves and disappeared.
My mother, too, was right.
I do not know how it seems from a mortal’s eyes, Dear Reader, but it felt like one day my children were fat and chortling in delight at everything they saw or picked up in their dimpled hands, and in the blink of an eye, they were sixteen and eighteen years, willful and believing they knew everything about the world. I glanced away another moment, and they had left us to make their own homes and families. Then, suddenly, one day, Cowherd’s hair had gone white, and although he would be strong well into old age, the years had marked deep grooves in his face and filmed his beautiful dark brown eyes. He lived eighty-six years, a long life by mortal standards, full and happy—or whatever nonsensical platitudes people say when someone you love dies.
Only Ox could console me in the centuries that followed. Ox missed Cowherd as much as I did. It was so easy to love, but no one had ever warned me of loss. My immortal family knew nothing of it, as our lives were infinite.
It has been two thousand years since my time with Cowherd, and memory is strange. I cannot remember his face any longer. What I do recall are fragments in time: the crinkling of his eyes against the sunshine or when he smiled, the ghost of his unrestrained laughter if I said something goddesslike when I wasn’t trying to be amusing, the feel of that callus on his palm beneath the finger where he wore my gold ring. I am left with pieces of remembering though I loved him whole.
So the river of stars in the night sky was formed by the tears I have shed through all the centuries since that first time I cried, in pain or sorrow, but also from joy and love—even in the reminiscing.
This, Dear Reader, is the true story of Cowherd and me.
And I swear upon my crimson cloak, I saw him first.
The Cowherd and the Weaver Girl
A Chinese Legend
There are several variations of this story, but the one that is probably best known and that I used for inspiration is this: Cowherd was an orphan, cast out by a cruel sister-in-law who disliked him. His only possession and friend was a golden-coated ox. Cowherd grew and survived on his own, but one day lamented that he would never be able to find a wife. To his surprise, the ox spoke, and told him to travel to a lake where the fairy maidens often bathed. If Cowherd stole the crimson cloak, which belonged to the youngest fairy maiden, she would agree to marry Cowherd. Cowherd did exactly that, and the youngest fairy maiden was obliged to marry him. They moved into a village, and she had two babies with Cowherd and they were happy together. Everyone loved the beautiful fairy maiden and admired her skills in weaving. But one year on earth was only one day in the heavens, and on the third day in the heavens, the Heavenly Mother noticed that her youngest daughter had disappeared. When she discovered her daughter had married a mere mortal, she was furious and sent heavenly soldiers to seize her daughter and force her to return to the heavens. Thus, the fairy maiden was once again ripped away from the life she had been living. Cowherd chased after his wife (different versions have him riding the magical ox or wearing ox’s magical pelt, which he keeps after the ox had died from old age), and when the Heavenly Mother saw this, she let a river of stars spill forth, separating the two lovers, thus creating our Milky Way. Legend says that each year, on the seventh day of the seventh moon, Cowherd and Weaver Girl are reunited. A bridge of magpies forms so that the lovers can cross the Milky Way to be together again. In all the versions of this tale I came across, even Ox spoke more than the fairy weaver girl ever did. I wanted to give her her voice in this retelling.
—Cindy Pon
Eyes Like Candlelight
Julie Kagawa
Takeo stood at the top of the rice terraces watching his mother and sisters wade through the ankle-high water, shoving green rice-seedlings into the mud in neat rows. Fr
om his vantage point, he could see the whole village, its thatched-roof huts scattered haphazardly along both sides of the stream that wound lazily through the valley, sheltered on three sides by mountains and dark pine forest. The summer sun beat down on his head, cicadas droned in his ears, and while the rest of the village planted the rice necessary for their survival, Takeo swung his bamboo stick at imaginary enemies and dreamed that he was a samurai.
A distant bark interrupted him. Pausing, the boy turned, gazing down the hill as a streak of orange darted across the paddy bank, heading for the storehouse at the edge of the forest. Two village dogs, lean and mangy with curly tails, followed at its heels. The orange-and-white creature reached the storehouse and squeezed into the narrow gap between the floor and the ground, barely outpacing the dogs, who howled and dug frantically at the spot where their quarry had vanished.
Takeo sprinted down the hill, crossed the narrow berm between two paddies, and jogged toward the storehouse. The dogs were still worrying the same spot when he approached, bamboo stick held in both hands like a sword.
“Hey!” he shouted, over the din of snarls and scrabbling claws. “Stop it!”
The smaller dog put its ears back and slunk off without hesitation. The larger one, a big brown-and-white cur with a blocky muzzle, lowered its head and growled, showing sharp yellow teeth. Takeo stood his ground. Meeting the creature’s flat glare, he stepped forward, raising his bamboo sword over his head. The dog’s growls grew louder. Its lean body tensed, either to attack or flee. Takeo took a deep breath, tightening his grip on his weapon.
“Get out of here!” he bellowed, and lunged forward, sweeping the rod down like he was slicing something’s head from its body. The dog leaped backward, and with a last defiant snarl, turned and fled, vanishing around the storeroom wall and out of sight.
Triumphant, Takeo lowered his stick, then walked to the hole the dogs had been pawing at. Dropping to his knees, he put his head to the dirt and peered inside.
In the shadows beneath the storehouse, two golden eyes stared back. Takeo could just make out the pointed muzzle and lean orange body of a fox, white-tipped tail curled around itself in fear. When it saw him, it trembled and pushed itself farther back into the hole, making itself as small as it could.
Takeo smiled. “Hello,” he said softly, and the fox’s long black ears twitched at the sound of his voice. “You don’t have to be scared of me; I won’t tell anyone.” He glanced over his shoulder, making sure no grown-up would see him and wonder what he was doing. If anyone discovered the fox, they would kill it. Takeo knew the stories. He knew what kitsune, the wild foxes of the forest, were capable of. Kitsune could possess the weak, slipping under someone’s fingernails to take control of their body. They could make you see things that weren’t there. Sometimes, if the fox was strong enough, it could change its shape and become human, appearing as a beautiful mortal in order to lead the faithful astray.
But the creature cringing in the dirt under the storehouse didn’t look evil or malicious or conniving. It just looked scared. “It’s all right,” the boy murmured. “A dog bit me when I was a baby, so I don’t like them, either.”
The fox tilted its head, an eerie intelligence shining from its amber gaze, as if it were trying to understand. Takeo smiled and scooted back on his knees. “You don’t have to come out,” he said to the hole. “I’ll make sure the dogs don’t come sniffing around again. You can leave when it’s safe. But if you want to go now, I won’t stop you.”
He backed up a safe distance and watched the storehouse. For a few heartbeats, nothing happened. Then a narrow muzzle peeked out of the opening, gazing warily around. As the fox looked at him and froze, Takeo held himself very still, trying to be as unthreatening as possible. For just a moment, their gazes met, child and kitsune. Then, in a streak of orange and white, the fox zipped out of the hole, darting across the field to the edge the forest.
At the edge of the woods, it paused, looking back once. Takeo saw the flash of golden eyes as the kitsune’s gaze found him again. With a faint smile, he put his arms to his sides and bowed, like a samurai would when saying farewell to a guest.
The fox blinked, cocking its head again in that surreally intelligent fashion. Then, with a twitch of its tail, it turned and ghosted into the trees, vanishing as if it had never been there at all.
Takeo never saw the fox again. But sometimes, on warm evenings when he was outside, he could almost imagine he was being watched.
The seasons passed. Summer turned to autumn, which faded to winter, which eventually gave way to spring. The cycle of planting, harvest, and death continued, as it had for hundreds of years. Takeo grew into a young man, broad shouldered and tall, hands calloused from years of work in the field. Childhood fantasies of becoming a samurai were replaced by the daily struggles of farming: tending the fields, nurturing the seedlings, and most importantly, making sure the village had enough food to live on after the daimyo’s men arrived for the rice tax every fall. As the only son of the village headman, he knew that the responsibility of protecting and providing for the village would soon fall to him.
The autumn of Takeo’s seventeenth year was brutal. Drought took the valley; the rains of the wet season stubbornly refused to come. The rice withered in the fields, bright green shoots turning an ominous yellow, until the villagers worried that not only would they be unable to pay the rice tax at the end of the season, but that they all might starve the following winter.
In desperation, Takeo decided that he should take an offering to the shrine of Inari, the god of rice, at the top of the mountain and beseech the great kami to save his village. He had nothing of value himself, so for three nights, he went without rice to save enough of the precious resource to make an offering. On the morning of his third day without food, he accepted a bag of uncooked rice from his little sister, Hitomi, and entered the forest.
The climb to the top of the mountain was steep and unforgiving, and by the time Takeo reached the small wooden shrine at the top of the steps, flanked by mossy statues of Inari’s kitsune messengers, he was trembling. Setting the little bag of rice beneath the prayer rope across the entrance, he fell to his knees and pressed his face to the ground in supplication.
“Great Inari,” he murmured, feeling the eyes of the stone foxes on his back, “please forgive this intrusion into your affairs. My name is Takeo, and I am nothing—a humble farmer who does not deserve your thoughts or compassion. But I beg that you hear this plea: my village is in danger of starving. With the drought, we will not have enough rice for the daimyo’s men when they come to collect it. My father, the headman, will be severely punished if we cannot pay the tax. If you can hear this worthless man’s plea, please take pity on us. I would offer my own life for my village, if that is what you desire.”
The forest around him was silent. The kitsune statues gazed at him with empty stone eyes, unmoving and impassive. But Takeo, with his face still pressed to the cold steps, suddenly felt like he was being watched. It was not unlike those times when, as a child, he could sense he was not alone. For a moment, he was certain that Inari had heard his request and had come for him, to take his life as he had offered. If that is what it takes, he thought. If it will save my village, I am willing to exchange my life for theirs.
But several heartbeats passed, and nothing happened. No kami stepped out of the shrine in a blaze of light and thunder, demanding his life. The feeling of being watched faded away, leaving Takeo kneeling on the steps, alone.
Shivering, he sat up, feeling the ground sway beneath him as he raised his head. Three days with almost no food, combined with the long hike up the mountain, was finally taking its toll. Forcing himself upright, Takeo staggered from the shrine, but a wave of dizziness struck him as he was walking down the steps, and the last thing he remembered was falling.
He awoke to darkness, except for a soft orange glow somewhere to his left: a brazier that flickered with dying coals. He was warm, lying on his back on som
ething soft, and there was a blanket draped over him that smelled faintly of leaves. Turning his head, he met the concerned gaze of a young woman kneeling beside his mattress, and he drew in a sharp breath.
The girl blinked at him. She was, Takeo noticed after his initial shock, beautiful, with luminous dark eyes and straight black hair cascading down her back like a waterfall of ink. Her robes were very fine: deep red patterned with threads of silver, with tiny leaves flitting playfully across the fabric. They were perhaps the same age, but there the similarities ended. She looked poised and elegant and lovely, and Takeo was suddenly all too aware of his grubby appearance, his simple farmer’s clothing, and work-calloused hands.
“Forgive me.” Her voice was a caress, the murmur of wind through the branches. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” She tilted her head, and for a split second, to Takeo’s sleep-addled mind, her eyes seemed to flash gold in the darkness. “How are you feeling?”
“I . . .” Takeo pressed a palm to his forehead, trying to recall what had happened. “Where am I?” he muttered.
“My family’s home.” The girl shifted closer, gazing down at him like she would at a curious bug. “We found you lying on the steps to the Inari shrine and brought you here. Are you all right? Are you sick?”
Carefully, Takeo sat up, wincing as the room spun a bit. “No, I’m fine. Thank you, my lady.” He avoided looking at her face, keeping his gaze on the blankets beneath him. He had never seen this girl and had no knowledge of any family living in the mountains close to the shrine, but from her appearance she was obviously the daughter of an important house. Perhaps even a samurai or noble family. He was unfit to gaze at such loveliness.
The door panel slid open, and a woman entered the room. Like the girl, she was poised and elegant, her raven-wing hair styled atop her head, speared in place with sticks of ivory. Her robe was the green of pine forests with blood-red berries climbing up the sleeves.