#original folktale

The fire was low, hickory popping slow and stubborn, shadows stretched thin as sinew across the clearing. Children sat with knees tucked to chests, watching sparks whirl upward like impatient spirits. Women stirred stew. Men stripped sinew from bows. Someone hummed, soft and off-key, the way people do when nothing is wrong.

It was an ordinary night on the banks of Muhheakantuck, the river that was always there.

Until he was.

No splash.

No footsteps.

Just—there.

A tall stranger at the fire's edge, hair in two long braids, still wet, dripping river-dark down his shoulders. Buckskin clung to him like bark after rain. Beadwork shimmered—turtle-shell diamonds, river-lines—catching the firelight as if it recognized him. And he was grinning, wide and wolfish, like someone who'd just gotten away with something and was daring the world to notice.

The camp stirred.

A hunter's hand found his spear—more reflex than fear.

An elder's breath caught, then released.

One of the children—braver than most—leaned forward and whispered, "Who are you?"

He bent closer, firelight carving sharp angles into his cheekbones, and said it like he was stating the obvious. Like the question was the strange part.

"Me? I've always been here."

No more explanation.

No less.

He reached for a bowl of stew and ate like he'd been invited. When the drumming started, he hummed along, perfectly off-key, like he already knew the song and didn't care if he got it right.

Someone laughed—short, surprised, not quite sure why.

Meanwhile, the moon kept watch, its borrowed shine catching on the river. Same way the firelight caught on the stranger's teeth.

The firelight flickered as the medicine woman—Nikànataemixkwe—leaned forward. Her voice was gentle but insistent, the way roots are gentle: patient enough to split stone.

She asked the first important question: "Who is your mother? Who is the man who wed your mother?"

He didn't hesitate. Didn't even look up from the stew.

"The earth. And the sky."

A few people shifted. Unimpressed.

(The aunties especially. "Cheeky," one whispered to another, not unkindly. "My heart goes out to them, really.")

"That's everyone's mother, and that's everyone's father," Nikànataemixkwe said, one brow arched like a question mark that had learned patience the hard way. "But who is the one who birthed you?"

He looked up then. His grin sharpened, teeth catching the light, and he shrugged like this was the simplest thing in the world.

"I already told you."

The silence stretched—half-frustrated, half-intrigued. Because he wasn't wrong. But it wasn't right, either.

(But what was right?)

The fire crackled louder, like it was listening. And from the dark beyond the circle came the sound of water against the banks—something that usually meant alarm, but here felt like punctuation.

A few heads leaned closer, drawn in despite themselves.

Pwètuwiyus, one of the younger hunters, was brave enough to ask the second important question: "So where is your actual village?"

His voice was careful, deliberate—the tone of a man determined to get a straight answer out of someone who had never given one in his life.

The stranger tilted his head, braids still dripping, eyes bright as river-glint.

"Along the river."

A pause.

Nikànataemixkwe would deny her mouth twitched, so she folded her arms instead, patient but pointed. "…But we're along the river."

The stranger lifted one hand, gestured lazily upriver—then downriver—then let the hand fall like it had made its point.

The stew pot hissed.

The night went very, very quiet—only the current audible now, as if even the animals recognized this was someone worth listening to.

And the stranger continued to grin.

"Exactly," he said, like it explained anything.

Maybe it does.

In the same way tributaries don't explain themselves to the source—they just flow.

Pwètuwiyus would disagree.

His frustrated scowl was edging toward something committed now—the kind that comes from being outmaneuvered by someone who won't even pretend to play the game. He was not going to be the one who gave up first.

He pressed on with the third important question: "Then what clan do you belong to? Wolf? Turtle? Turkey? Which lodge is yours?"

One of the older hunters muttered under his breath, half-laughing: "Look at that grin. Wolf clan, no question."

A few others nodded, grateful for the joke, grateful for something familiar to hold onto. Easier to name him than to leave him floating.

The stranger's eyebrow lifted, amused. "Lodge?" He flung his arms wide, gesturing to everything and nothing—the darkness beyond the fire, the trees, the water, the sky. "I've got miles of lodge! Walk a day, walk a week—still mine."

"That's not—" Pwètuwiyus started.

"Still mine," the stranger echoed, his wink like the skip of a stone.

Murmurs moved through the circle like current.

A few laughs—uncertain and delighted both, though the uncertain half swallowed itself quick. Someone glanced toward the dark water beyond the firelight, then back at the man still dripping onto their dirt, and decided this was not a night for arguments.

Nikànataemixkwe, who was not that someone, tried again. Patient. Stubborn. The kind of stubborn that outlasts mountains and grinds them into valleys.

"So where do you sleep?"

"Wherever the banks are soft."

"Where do you hunt?"

"Wherever the water provides."

"Where are your clothes from?"

"The hands of the people who made them."

Ebb, and flow. Incoming, outgoing.

Every question met with an answer that only raised more. Each time, the stranger pulled the circle in with his grin, like there was a joke no one else had been let in on. Each time, they pushed back, trying to find the man inside the mystery.

(They wouldn't. He's more than the shape they were looking for.)

For the rest? It felt like watching the tide watch them back. Because there was something familiar in the way he spoke—constant, present, whether you needed it or not.

Someone passed the stranger another bowl of stew. He accepted it with a nod, easy as breathing, like he'd been part of this fire his whole life.

Maybe he had.

Nikànataemixkwe set down her stirring stick. Folded her hands. Met his eyes across the fire with the look of someone who had decided, somewhere in the last few minutes, that this was no longer an interrogation.

Finally, she asked the final important question: "And your kin?"

The stranger paused. For the first time all night. Not solemn—just present. Like he wanted this answer to land right.

He set the bowl down. Looked around the fire, deliberate and sure, meeting eyes one by one.

"All of you."

He gestured around the circle, casual as breath, casual as current. "The men who dive for mussels. The women who gather rush and reed. The children who splash in the shallows. The elders who remember when the banks ran different."

His hand came to rest against his chest.

"And the fish who journey from the sea. The reeds that hold the wetlands together. The canoes that carry you home."

He let that settle—heavy as a truth lodged in the chest.

"Family's family."

Silence again. But not the uncomfortable kind.

Pwètuwiyus, unyielding to the end, muttered: "…That's not an answer."

The stranger only shrugged, grin gleaming alongside his beads—shell and bone catching the light like small, patient witnesses. "Sure it is."

But it was fonder, somehow. He raised his bowl in Pwètuwiyus's direction. A toast. A dare. A thank-you for playing.

And that was the moment the tension broke—the circle exhaling as one body, half-exasperated, half-bewitched. Because he wasn't going to give them the answers they wanted.

He was only going to give them something honest.

By dawn, the whispers had already started to shift shape, the way a river shapes the land it has always belonged to.

No one asks anymore.

They already know the answer.

"Who was he?"

"He's always been here."

The Sun and the Moon

An original folktale pmv, featuring the world of Drakes Peak, the novel im slowly working on!

Hungary and Its People…With Illustrations (1892), p. 207 by Louis Felberman, British Library digitized image, flickr

Now Katinka was the most efficient housewife in the village. Before the sun had risen overhead, she had finished the laundering and had set the bread out to rise. Her kitchen and rooms sparkled, and the hearth cracked with a bright well fed fire. It was her habit to air her…

In a land between the east and the west, there lived a king who had two sons.  As the king was out hunting one day, his horse stumbled, and the king fell into a hole.  He tried to lift himself out, but the hole was too deep.  He tried to dig himself out, but the sides were too hard, so that however he tried to dig he couldn’t even make a dent as small as a mouse’s mouth.

The king shouted for help, and along came a pretty woman who had been gathering firewood in the forest. “I will help you out,” she said, “But you must agree for my daughter to marry your eldest son.”  The king thought, “A woman this pretty will surely have a beautiful daughter.  My son would be pleased to have her as a wife.”  And he agreed.  The woman picked a stick from her bundle and said, “Little stick, little stick, grow a ladder fine and thick.”  Immediately the stick grew until it was a ladder large enough, and the king climbed out of the hole and rode home.

Two days later, the woman brought her daughter to the palace to marry the prince.  But the woman was really a witch, and her daughter as foolish as the night is dark, with a face so like that of a cow that people called her Cow-Face.

When the elder son saw Cow-Face, he said, “I will not marry this girl.  “But you must,” the king said.  “I will not,” the prince said.  And the witch became so enraged that her disguise broke, and they saw that she was truly a horrible witch.  “My son will not marry your daughter,” the king said to the witch, “Leave or I will have my guards throw you out!”

“Liars and traitors, the falseness you’ve shown.  ‘Tis your undoing, you’re all turned to stone!” the witch screeched, and the king became stone before her.  The elder son became stone by his side.  And each guard at his post was a stone guard.  Even the cook in the kitchen and the chambermaid became stone.  Only the cat and the dog were still flesh and bone. “Come, my daughter, let us go home,” the witch said in a disgruntled tone.  But the girl was changed too, and the witch was alone.

The younger prince had been out riding, and when he returned he found only stone where there should have been people.  He asked the dog what had happened.  “Oh, prince, a horrible witch turned everyone into stone because your brother would not marry her daughter.”  He asked the cat what he should do.  “Oh prince, there are two trees deep in the forest that are as old as the moon and the stars.  Between them is a pond, and in the pond lives a wise fish who will know the answer you seek."

So the prince rode into the forest.  Soon he came across a nesting sparrow.  “Oh, prince,” the sparrow called, “where are you going and what do you seek?” “I am going to find the fish that dwells in the pond between the two trees that are older than the moon and the stars, because a witch has turned everyone to stone because my brother would not marry her daughter.” “I know the place,” says the sparrow, “but the fish will not speak to you unless you say, “Ancient fish, your wisdom give, so I shall know how to live.”

The prince thanked the sparrow and continued on.  As the sun dropped in the sky, he came to a pond.  On either side of the pond was a tree.  One tree glowed like the moon.  The other shone like the stars.  The prince called out, “Ancient fish, your wisdom give, so I shall know how to live.” The fish appeared. “What do you seek?” the fish asked. “A witch has turned everyone to stone because my brother would not marry her daughter, and I seek a way to return them to life.” “Take one of my scales.  Tap each stone with it and say, 'Scales fall like leaves of tree, return this person now to me.'” The prince took a scale from the fish, thanked the fish, and returned home.

The prince entered the palace and tapped his father with the scale.  “Scales fall like leaves of tree, return this person now to me,” he said, and stones fell from his father until he was again a man standing in their midst.  Then the prince tapped his brother with the scale and said, “Scales fall like leaves of tree, return this person now to me.”  And stones fell from his brother until he was a man again standing among the stones. And the younger prince went through the palace, freeing each person who had been turned to stone.  The cook, the chambermaid, and even Cow-Face were soon alive and breathing once more.

But what was to be done with Cow-Face?  “I’ll still not marry her,” said the elder prince.  “We will find her work in the town,” said the younger prince.  And so they did.  A farmer hired her to look after his cows, for the cows took quite a liking to her.

Idän ja lännen välisessä valtakunnassa asui kuningas jolla oli kaksi poikaa.  Eräänä päivänä, kun kuningas oli metsästämässä, hänen hevosensa kompastui ja kuningas putosi kuoppaan.  Hän yritti kiskoa ulos itsensä mutta kuoppa oli liian syvä.  Millä tahansa tavalla hän yrittikään kaivaa, hän ei voinut tehdä edes hiiren suun kokoista lommoa.

Kuningas huusi apua ja paikalle saapui kaunis nainen polttopuita metsästä keräämästä.  "Minä autan sinut pois," hän sanoi, "Mutta sinun täytyy luvata että minun tyttöni nai sinun vanhimman poikasi."  Kuningas mieti, "Näin kauniilla naisella on varmasti kaunis tyttö.  Minun poikani olisi mielissään saadessaan hänet vaimokseen."  Ja hän suostui.  Nainen poimi risun nipustaan ja sanoi: "Puuta olet ja puuksi tulet, tikkaiksi tikku kasvanet." Nopeasti tikku kasvoi tikkaiksi asti ja kuningas kiipesi ulos kuopasta ja ratsasti kotiin.

Kaksi päivää myöhemmin nainen toi tyttönsä linnaan naittaakseen tämän prinssille.  Mutta nainen oli oikeasti noita, ja hänen tyttö yhtä hölmö kuin yö on tumma, hänen kasvonsa niin samanlaiset kuin lehmän, että ihmiset kutsuivat häntä Lehmänaamaksi.

Kun vanhin poika näki Lehmänaaman hän sanoi, "Minä en nai tätä tyttöä.  "Mutta sinun täytyy," kuningas sanoi. "En aio," prinssi sanoi.  Ja noita tuli niin raivostuneeksi että hänen lumottu valeasunsa rikkoutui ja he näkivät että hän oli oikeasti hirveä noita.  "Poikani ei nai tyttöäsi," kuningas sanoi noidalle, "Lähde tai minun vartijat heittävät sinut ulos!"

"Valepukit ja petturit, harhanne ja uhmanne. Teidän turmioksi tekeepi, kaik' kiviksi korjaapi!" kirkui noita, ja kuningas muuttui kiveksi hänen edessään. Vanhin poika muuttui kiveksi hänen vieressään. Ja jok'ikinen vartija oli asemallaan kivinen vartija. Jopa kokki keittiössä ja huonesiivooja muuttui kiveksi. Vain kissa ja koira olivat vielä lihaa ja verta. “Tule tyttöni, menkäämme kotiin,” sanoi noita. Mutta tyttö oli muuttunut kiveksi myös, ja noita oli yksin.

Nuorempi prinssi oli ollut ratsastamassa ja kun hän palasi hän löysi vain kiviä ihmisten sijasta.  Hän kysyi koiralta mitä oli tapahtunut. "Oi, prinssi, hirveä noita muutti jokaisen kiveksi, koska veljesi kieltäytyi naimasta noidan tyttöä."  Hän kysyi kissalta mitä hänen pitäisi tehdä.  "Oi, prinssi, kaksi puuta on metsässä, jotka ovat yhtä vanhoja kuin kuu ja tähdet.  Niiden välissä on lampi, ja lamessa asuu viisas kala joka tietää etsimäsi vastauksen."

Siispä prinssi ratsasti metsään.  Pian hän kohtasi pesivän varpusen. "Oi, prinssi," varpunen kutsui, "Minne menet ja mitä etsit?" "Minä etsin kalaa joka elää lammessa, kahden puun välissä, jotka ovat vanhempia kuin kuu ja tähdet, sillä noita muutti kaikki kiveksi koska veljeni ei nainut noidan tyttöä." "Minä tunnen paikan," sanoi varpunen, "mutta kala ei puhu sinulle ellet sano, "Vanha kala, viisas kala; mietteitäs mulle jaa, eväitäsi elämään."

Prinssi kiitti varpusta ja jatkoi.  Kun aurinko laski taivaalla hän tuli lammelle.  Kummallakin puolella lampea oli puu.  Yksi puu säteili kuin kuu.  Toinen loisti kuin tähdet.  Prinssi kutsui, "Vanha kala, viisas kala; mietteitäs mulle jaa, eväitäsi elämään." Kala tuli esiin.  "Mitä sinä etsit?" kala kysyi. "Noita muutti kaikki kiveksi koska veljeni ei nainut noidan tyttöä, ja etsin tapaa tuoda heidät henkiin." "Ota yksi minun suomuistani.  Napauta jokaista kiveä sillä ja lausu, 'varisevat suomut hänet takas tuo nyt.'" Prinssi otti suomun kalalta, kiitti kalaa, ja palasi kotiin.

Prinssi pääsi linnaan ja napautti hänen isäänsä suomulla.  "Varisevat suomut hänet takas tuo nyt," hän sanoi, ja kivet putosivat hänen isänsä päältä kunnes hän oli jälleen mies seisomassa niiden joukossa.  Sitten prinssi napautti hänen veljeään suomulla ja sanoi, "Varisevat suomut hänet takas tuo nyt."  Ja kivet putosivat hänen veljensä päältä kunnes hän oli jälleen mies seisomassa kivien joukossa.  Ja nuorempi prinssi meni linnan lapi, vapauttaessaan kunkin henkilön jotka olivat muuttaneet kiveksi.  Kokki, huonesiivooja, ja jopa Lehmänaama olivat pian elossa ja hengittivät jälleen.

Mutta mitä tehdä Lehmänaaman kanssa?  "Vieläkään minä en aio naida häntä," sanoi vanhin prinssi.  " Aiomme etsiä hänelle töitä kylästä," sanoi nuorempi prinssi.  Ja niin he tekivät.  Viljelijä palkkasi hänet hoitamaan lehmiä, sillä lehmät tykästyivät häneen.