[story] the cherry tree and the boy
author: flamebyrd (flamebyrd)
email: flamebyrd [at] gmail.com
Long ago, in a time before memory reaches, all history was stories and all stories were history. Superstition was the same as fact, although there were still some that did not believe - as there always are, whether the story is fact or fiction.
The woodlands cherry tree grew tall and strong. It flowered in spring and fruited in early summer, and its berries were held as the possessor of the sweetest, most divine of flavours. Yet nobody would ever dream of taking a seed and growing a tree of their own, so deeply rooted were the stories of the time. So the cherry grew wild and free, and their berries sold in the city at prices so high it could keep a small village fed throughout the entire winter from the profit of a single tree's fruit.
Still, time passes, and people forget the importance of stories, dismissing them seconds after they are heard. The fruit of the cherry tree became rarer and more expensive, and thus the tree was all the more desired. Yet, none could ever entice the tree to bear fruit when grown in an orchard and so wild trees were the hope of every village.
When a sapling sprang up in the woods of Oakmeadows, the villagers were anxious to ascertain its nature. Years passed, the tree grew, and they identified it as being that most coveted of trees, the woodlands cherry.
However, the branches bore no blossoms and in spring yielded no fruit. The villagers let their hopes melt with the winter snow, and turned their attention to the future once more.
Nine months from Midsummer's Eve, a new-born child was left beneath the tree. It cried for attention, for the warm arms that had held it and comforted it and wrapped it in warm blankets before abandoning it to the night. The cries echoed through the forest until the moon rose and lit the branches of the tree. Then, everything was silent.
In the morning, when the villagers came to see what had caused the wailing, the child was gone, yet the Tree was blooming.
The villagers praised the day, and looked forward to summer when they would have the fruit.
Of course, nothing so idealistic can be entirely perfect and nothing beautiful is entirely pure of heart. The first people they sent to gather the fruit from the tree's branches fell ill the very next day, and most died before the week was out. The ones that survived lived half-lives, unable to find the energy or motivation to live in joy.
The grandson of the village wise-woman - the one who had never fit in with the rest of the village and spent most of his time either in his grandmother's house listening to her stories or in the woods composing stories of his own - he knew what the villagers had done wrong. Yet when the villagers had approached the wise-woman for her counsel, she had simply smiled and told them the answer was in their childhood. So he did not tell them, because his grandmother was wise and knew what was best for people.
Although he had always avoided that side of the woods, one bright summer's day seemed to call him to the Tree. So he took his summer's hat and basket, and skipped to the Tree, humming the song of the cherry his grandmother had taught him. He lay his basket in front of the tree, and bowed before its branches.
"Woodlands cherry, great and strong that you are, spare a few berries for a child who wishes to know their magic?" he said, softly.
The wind whipped through the branches, dislodging some leaves, but the berries remained firm on their branches.
"I will not steal from you, fair cherry. I only wish for your gift."
"Will you sing for her in return?" asked the fair young man who sat in the branches of the tree as if it were his home. "She heard your melody before, she would like to hear it sung."
The boy bowed again. "I will sing for her, if you will tell me who you are."
The young man laughed, a silver sound like birdsong. "But in that case you must tell me who you are, for one favour deserves another."
The boy nodded his head in acceptance of the exchange, and raised his voice in song. He chose not the villager's song of the cherry he had been thinking of earlier, for it was full of warnings of the danger of such entrancing beauty, but instead the song of the cherry tree on the frozen mountain that had saved the life of the boy from the sea. The beauty of that song, his grandmother had told him, was music's closest equal to the beauty of the cherry tree.
Leaping from the branches and landing on the grass beneath as softly as a cat, the young man picked up the boy's basket and filled it to the top with freshly plucked cherries. "Here," he said, "these are her gift."
The boy took the basket with gratitude. "You are the child of the cherry, are you not?"
"I am the one she has taken as her companion, yes," said the young man, cocking his head. "You are from the village, no? There are not many that know the song of the cherry well enough to know who I am."
"My grandmother is the wise-woman of the village, she tells many stories. I am one of the few that listens and the only one that remembers."
"You are most fortunate, then, to be gifted with a mind that can listen."
"Tell me," asked the boy, "why do the people that steal from the cherry die?"
The young man smiled, as if the answer were the most simple thing in the world. "That is because the cherry takes a tiny piece of the soul for every berry that is stolen. So if you steal but one, two, three berries, you would not even notice the change. But those who steal for profit, they are the ones that suffer."
"Why does the cherry do so?" the boy continued. "Is it not cruel?"
"Cruelty is the invention of humans. The cherry extracts the same price from all the birds and beasts of the world. This is how it has always been, it is just that humans have forgotten."
It is the nature of something fascinating to draw a person to return to it over and over again. This is how the boy and the young man became good friends. The ever-present shadow of the cherry tree clouded their conversations, and the boy would always have a new song ready to sing to her. But her favourite was always the song of the boy from the sea and the cherry of the frozen mountain.
In case there are those who do not know it, the story of the boy from the sea and the frozen mountain tells of a boy who lived in a small fishing village in the south of the land. Their idyllic life ended the day disaster fell and fire rained from the sky, destroying the entire village. The villagers fled in their boats to the south sea islands, accidentally leaving behind a young boy, who vowed, as he stood on the shore and watched the last of the boats disappear, that he would find a way for his people to return. Yet the fire mountain continued to burn, and so he set course for the frozen mountain, where he could approach the palace of the Moon King and request an end to the rain of fire.
After many years of searching, the boy finally located the frozen mountain. But after days and nights scaling the mountain, growing colder and more weary each day, the boy began to lose hope. The higher he climbed, the less food he could find, and the air became difficult to breathe. To pass through to the shrine of the Moon King, he had to defeat three trials - the first of the body, the second of the mind and the third of the spirit. At the end of the third trial, he came across a lone cherry tree nestled in among the rocks. Too tired and weary of heart to even speak, he stole from her branches the best of her fruit.
Seeing the boy's pain, the tree took pity on him and sheltered him beneath her branches for the night, refusing to even take the usual payment for the theft of her fruit. In the morning, the boy felt refreshed and with renewed energy, he made his way to the top of the mountain and into the shrine to make his request.
So impressed was the Moon King with the boy's spirit and determination, he granted the boy the power to be his apprentice, and sentenced the fire mountains to be dormant once more. In thanks to the cherry tree that had saved him, the boy granted it many powers and the promise that while it stood on the mountain, none would ever harm it.
The song of the cherry tree and the boy from the sea told of the cherry tree's dilemma and eventual decision to protect the boy, and how it fought to keep him alive for that one final night. The traditional accompanying melody was acknowledged as being one of the most beautiful compositions in the world.
The young man that belonged to the cherry tree in the wood of Oakmeadows said that the particular story of the boy and the cherry tree was so famous that even cherry trees knew it, and all were full of delight and respected the way the story had been preserved for all time in song.
The boy that sang it smiled, and said he was glad to make such a beautiful lady happy with the gift of his music.
And so a summer passed in song and quiet conversation, and autumn began to fall in the wood. Slowly, the cherry tree's leaves turned from green to shades of yellow, red and brown before slipping to the ground to carpet the grass in colour.
Then winter came, and then spring, but the cherry tree did not bloom as plentifully as she had in other years. As the seasons slipped by, the tree became more and more ill. It wasn't immediately obvious on the outside, but the tree was worried, and thus the young man worried too. When the young man confided his fears in the boy, he became anxious.
"There must be some way we can save her," said the boy, with feeling.
The young man frowned, as if in deep thought. "She says, you must find the cherry tree on the frozen mountain and request from it a basket of berries. You must eat none of the berries, and must bring them all back to her and bury them at her roots."
Knowing that not all stories were lies, the boy did not question him. So he returned home and prepared for the journey. He spent the winter months copying his grandmother's book of stories, while his grandmother knitted him warm clothing for the journey up the frozen mountain. By the time spring came again he was ready to leave.
The morning of his departure he gave his grandmother a hug, and made his way to the wood to wish the cherry tree and its young man farewell.
By the time the sun was half risen in the sky, he was gone.
The young man watched the boy leave with fear in his heart. "You are cruel," he told the tree, "having him sacrifice his life for you. Even if he finds the frozen mountain, you know how dangerous it will be to climb."
The pale pink blossoms of spring fell like rain, or tears. The cherry tree did not want the boy to die, but she did not want to die either. Cherry trees are, by nature, selfish.
His grandmother's book had but one thing to say about the location of the frozen mountain.
Deep in the forest under the sun, through lands far beneath the ocean yet dry as the desert.
After much time studying older and older maps, in country after far away country, the boy decided that the lands beneath the ocean but dry as the desert referred to the desert that lay directly below the northern sea.
If he followed the path through the desert, he would eventually reach the forest of the world, that surrounded the white mountains.
He asked many scholars before he came across the final piece of the puzzle - the forest of the world was an ancient, ancient forest, and its name had been passed from language to language as the countries around it shifted. In the oldest record the scholars had, the word for world had been rendered, poetically, as "the entirety of land that lies under the sun".
Armed with the knowledge of the tallest mountain in the white mountains, the boy began his journey.
He managed to hire on with a travelling fair as they wound their way through the cities of the eastern kingdoms. Once they parted ways, the boy joined a party of traders. Trading on his knowledge of stories and songs, the boy made his way across the land to the forest of the world. Winter had come and gone by the time he stood on the threshold of the forest.
The boy had used as much coin as he dared in buying dried meat, breads and cheeses for the journey through the forest and up the white mountain. He did not want to risk anything by harming a creature of the forest of the world, for in this area it was widely considered a sinister place. Would-be hunters often found themselves facing bears or impossibly large cats instead of the harmless deer they expected, said the stories.
The warmth of the sun seemed to slip away as soon as the boy entered the forest. He shivered, and pulled his cloak tighter around him.
Although the boy tried his best, using the small snatches of sun he could see through the canopy to guide himself, he was soon hopelessly lost. Every time he climbed one of the trees to mark his location, the mountain range had shifted in direction.
Collapsing at the base of the tree, he closed his eyes. In the distance, he could hear water running. Knowing that his water skins were starting to run dry, he made his way to the water.
At first he thought the creature kneeling to drink at the water's edge was a unicorn, but after he rubbed his eyes he saw that it was no more than a white deer.
He rubbed his eyes again. The deer seemed to shimmer and waver before his eyes.
The boy took a step closer, and a twig snapped loudly beneath his feet.
The deer raised its head to regard him with placid silver eyes. Or perhaps they were brown eyes? The boy was never certain, afterwards.
After a moment, it lowered its head and continued to drink, its tail twitching nervously from side to side.
The boy frowned. Something seemed strange about that. It could just be the unusual behaviour of the deer - the deer in the forest around Oakmeadows were skittish creatures that would bolt at the mere sight of a human.
If there were no hunters in this forest, the boy wondered, perhaps the animals had lost their fear of humans?
He blinked at the deer in confusion. For some reason, this explanation did not sit well with him.
The boy took a few steps closer to the water. From this distance, he could see that the deer was attached to a nearby tree with a silver chain.
The stream was not deep, so the boy removed his shoes and waded slowly across to the other side.
The deer regarded him warily, and pawed at the ground with a cloven hoof.
"You are no deer," said the boy, as he realised what had seemed strange about the deer's tail. When he squinted, he could see the tail of this creature was long and thin, with a tuft of hair at the end.
The unicorn bowed its head.
"Will anything happen if I unchain you?" said the boy. From from his grandmother's book, the boy knew that a unicorn could only be bound with a silver chain.
"Perhaps not, boy, but the wizard would be most displeased were you to deprive him of his captive," came a deceptively pleasant voice.
The boy turned around swiftly, searching for the source of the voice.
"You have none of the look of magic about you, boy," said the wizard who had spoken, stepping out from behind a tree, "so one supposes you are merely a lost imbecile. Unfortunate, but perhaps I can make use of you nonetheless."
The boy started to back away slowly. "I'm travelling to the frozen mountain," explained the boy.
"This forest is a maze," said the wizard. "It will take a long time to find the frozen mountain in here."
The boy came to a stop as he felt the tree behind him, and turned briefly to steady himself. A thin chain slipped through his fingers.
The boy looked to the side. The unicorn pulled at its chain, then turned to look at the boy with patient eyes.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" said the wizard. "It took me many days to lure it into this trap."
"You must not!" said the boy. "The Moon King will not stand for you treating a unicorn so." The chain was thin and weak, but the unicorn acted like it was made of the heaviest iron.
"The Moon King?" the wizard laughed unpleasantly. "Do you not see? It is the Moon King's attention that I am trying to attract with this farce."
"But we are right by the frozen mountain!" said the boy. "Could you not seek the Moon King there?"
"I do not have the time to play the Moon King's games," said the wizard. "The Moon King would not teach me his secrets, so I must use other methods to convince him." The wizard shook a hand at him impatiently. "I tire of this conversation. Go, boy, if you wish for your life to be spared. It would take too long to take your worthless life."
The boy took a deep breath, and snapped the chain. He grabbed the neck of the unicorn as it dashed by him and somehow managed to clumsily pull himself onto its back.
He barely had time to see the unicorn fell the wizard with a perfect strike to the heart with its horn before he found himself having to clutch his arms around the unicorn's neck as it took off into the forest.
The boy was not an inexperienced horseman, but this was nothing like a horse ride. The unicorn travelled in leaps and bounds, lurching from side to side as it made its way through the trees.
At last, when the boy was certain he could not hold on any longer, the unicorn came to a halt.
The boy tumbled off onto the soft earth and retched numbly.
When he looked up, he saw that the unicorn was wiping its horn on the soft moss, and the boy retched again at the memory of the wizard's death.
When the boy finally got to his feet, he looked up and saw the side of the frozen mountain etched into the sky.
It is the nature of moments of high stress for a person to become focussed on the smallest of worries.
"Shoes," said the boy, wretchedly. "I don't have my shoes."
It would be tantamount to suicide to attempt to climb the frozen mountain without shoes.
Still reeling from the mad dash through the forest and shaken by the death of the wizard, the boy fell into a fitful sleep.
However, it would not do for a person to start the trial of the frozen mountain at a disadvantage, particularly not when he had helped a unicorn and so the Moon King took pity on the boy.
When the boy awoke, the unicorn was nosing at a bundle of cloth. The boy crawled over and unwrapped it gingerly. Inside, he found a thick fur coat, some heavy leather boots and socks.
"Did you bring this?" asked the boy, but the unicorn did not reply.
The first days of climbing the frozen mountain were some of the most relaxing the boy could remember since starting on his journey. The ground sloped gently towards the sky and the grass beneath his feet was lush and green.
Occasionally he would shade his eyes against the sun to look at the white tip of the mountain and despair at its distance.
As he climbed higher, he found streams of snow-melt and the occasional patch of frozen snow on the ground. It was almost with relief that he finally felt the crunch of fresh snow beneath his feet.
A week after the boy began climbing the frozen mountain, the first trial began.
The boy noticed the signs long before he saw the creature. Large footprints, like that of a giant cat, followed by a sort of slithering wave that reminded him of a snake. Nearby he sometimes saw boulders, scored as if with massive claws.
None of it served to prepare him for the sight of the creature as it blundered out from a copse into his path.
The creature had a massive cat's body and three heads - a dragon, a goat and a cat with a large, hairy mane. Its tail dragged behind it, long and snakelike.
The boy froze in terror.
The creature roared - the incongruity of the goat's bleating in contrast to the screams of the cat and the dragon somehow even more horrifying.
The boy fled for the cave in which he had taken shelter the previous night.
It felt like he ran for hours, with the creature lapping at his heels, but at least he stumbled into the hollow and crawled into the cave. The entrance would be far too small for the creature to fit through, and he thought if he was lucky it would simply lose interest in him and go away.
The boy waited, hardly daring to breathe, until at last - at last - he heard the creature turn away.
Without the massive shadow of the creature to block his view, he could see that night was falling outside the cave.
The boy ate his rations and lamented his misfortune, for he had no training to use a sword or any other kind of weapon.
By candlelight, he read the story of the boy from the sea and the frozen mountain again. The boy from the sea had defeated a dragon on the frozen mountain by slitting its throat, but the boy from Oakmeadows had no knife.
Being an orphan and raised by his grandmother, he had not had a farmer's upbringing like the rest of the village. In harvest season, he was put to work in passing messages back and forth, not in tending the fields.
He read his grandmother's book from cover to cover, searching for a way to defeat a chimera. He did not stop until his candle had burned to a mere stub and his eyes were gummed up and burning.
"I cannot give up now, not when I have come so far," he said. "There must be a way to defeat that creature."
But despite his words, the boy felt despair snapping at his heels, and he was painfully conscious that he had been lucky merely to have reached the cave alive.
The boy thanked the stars that he was such a fast runner.
In time, it occurred to the boy to wonder if he could perhaps outrun the chimera. After all, the creature could not be tremendously fast, not with three heads to coordinate, and if it were a trial of the body, surely being able to outrun the creature would pass. He would simply need to run up the mountain until he found a place the creature could not follow.
When morning came, the boy packed up his things and ate enough that he would have the energy for sprinting, but not enough that it would make him sleepy, in the same way he would during harvest season in Oakmeadows.
He took the same path he had the day before at a leisurely pace, saving his energy.
When he saw the creature again, he had to fight his own body to run towards it, not away, for instinct is a terrible thing and the creature was extremely large and fearsome.
The boy threw an arm over his eyes to hide them from the sight of the creature and plunged forward.
Once he judged he was past the creature, he opened his eyes again and ran as fast as his legs would carry him.
The creature blundered along behind him, crashing through trees and bushes as if they were no more than dry leaves and twigs.
Still the boy ran, until he thought his chest would burst from the pressure of his heart.
The creature did not seem to tire at all, and still the boy ran, although his legs felt like lead and his chest felt like fire.
At last, at long last, the sun began to set. The boy was not certain when he noticed that the creature was no longer behind him, but the joy of that moment would not be eclipsed for some time.
He collapsed to his knees, knowing that he should stretch to prevent his limbs from seizing up but not having the energy for even that.
The boy slept in the forest without shelter, but again the Moon King took pity on him, and nothing harmed the boy that night.
In time, the boy came across an old man sitting on a rock, head bowed as he whittled away at a lump of wood. His hair was white like the snow and his skin tanned as dark as the trunks of the trees around them.
"Good morning," said the boy, cheerfully.
The old man looked up. "Good morning to you, boy."
"Are you headed up the mountain too?" asked the boy.
The old man smiled. "Something like that. Walk with me a while, boy."
The boy nodded. "Of course."
They trudged through the snow in silence for a while before the old man spoke again.
"Tell me, boy, why is the Sun Queen's palace in the empty desert?"
The boy considered that for a moment. "Because the desert is hot," he said, positively.
The old man grunted. "And why is the Moon King's palace on the frozen mountain?"
"Because the moon is cold."
The old man patted him on the back. "You understand, boy. The most simple answer is most often correct."
The boy smiled, as he realised that this must be the second trial, the trial of the mind.
"The Moon King and the Sun Queen are siblings, are they not?" The boy nodded. "Are they gods?"
The boy shook his head. "Some of the legends say they are descended from the gods, but they are just powerful magicians."
The old man grunted again. "The Moon King is a king, yes? What does he rule over?"
The boy hesitated. "I don't think he rules, exactly, at least not in the way kings rule people. But he has power over the elements of water, cold and darkness. And the Sun Queen rules over fire, heat and light."
The old man stabbed at the ground with his staff. "Why did the boy from the sea ask the Moon King for help with the mountain of fire, not the Sun Queen?"
"Because asking the Sun Queen to quell fire would be an insult to her," the boy concluded. "Or perhaps it would cause her sorrow, to douse a flame."
"So why would the Moon King risk the wrath of his sister to help the boy from the sea?"
The boy thought and thought and thought, but at last he shook his head in defeat. "I do not know. The stories say was impressed with the boy's determination, so he took him as an apprentice. But..."
"It does not ring true, does it?"
"It feels like part of the story is missing. Anybody who climbs the frozen mountain has spirit and determination. There must be something else."
The old man smiled. "You are a most perceptive young man," he said, stopping to lean against a tree. "Here I will leave you. Take the low path," he said, pointing with his staff at the lower of two ways in the fork of the road.
The boy bowed. "Thank you, sir."
The account of the journey of the boy from the sea to the frozen mountain in his grandmother's book was uncertain on the details of the trial of spirit. It merely said that the boy had passed the trial.
As he rounded a loop of the winding path up the mountain, the boy had his first glimpse of the cherry tree.
With some horror, he realised that the tree was in full bloom, and it would be some time before there would be any cherries.
He hoped the tree in the woods at Oakmeadows would not succumb to her illness before he could return home.
The low path grew worse and worse the further the boy travelled along it. Roots and rocks distorted its surface such that every step had to be taken carefully to avoid slipping over the edge of the path.
From time to time, the boy saw what appeared to be new paths beaten through the brush on the edge. He wondered if the going would be easier on those paths, but then he remembered the old man's advice to take the low path.
The nights were colder this high up the mountain, and the air was growing thinner and harder to breathe. It was harder to maintain his confidence when every step seemed to be against him. His clothing became less and less effective in fighting off the chill of the wind and snow, and the boy's feet were soon black and blue with bruises.
At night, the boy cried at the stars above him for mercy, but there was no response.
Once, he thought he saw a staircase in the brush, leading straight to the cherry tree.
If this was the test of spirit, it was a particularly cruel one, thought the boy. To be so close to his goal that he could see it and yet still have so far to go was a peculiar kind of torture.
Still, he persevered along the low road, until at last - at last - he reached the cherry tree.
The boy collapsed into the falling blossoms with relief. "My lady," he said, "I am pleased to make your acquaintance."
The blossoms fell silently, and the boy wondered what he was to do while he waited for the tree to fruit. His food would not last forever, and he knew that food supplies at the top of the mountain would not be plentiful.
With these thoughts in his head, the boy fell asleep.
His first few days at the summit of the frozen mountain passed easily. The boy made a comfortable camp not far from the cherry tree - he did not think it would be polite to light a fire at her base - and started making plans for rationing his food.
On the third night, he was awakened by a stranger.
The man was very tall, with long silver hair that flowed over his shoulders in waves. His robes consisted of many layers of fabric in silver, white, grey and pale blue. His eyes sparkled with amusement as he looked the boy over. "You have climbed the Frozen Mountain. You would come all this way and yet you will not grace the Moon King with your presence?"
The boy scrambled to his feet and bowed deeply. "My King, I mean no insult. It is merely that my purpose is to ask a boon of the cherry tree on the frozen mountain."
The Moon King, for that was who he was, frowned in thought. "How unusual. What is it that you need from the cherry tree?" The king patted its trunk with obvious affection.
"In my hometown Oakmeadows, there is a woodlands cherry. She is gravely ill, and she told me that I must go to the cherry tree on the frozen mountain and obtain a basket of cherries in order to cure her." The boy looked up at the falling blossoms. "But it will be some time before this tree has bears fruit."
"You can talk to cherry trees?" said the Moon King, raising an eyebrow in surprise.
The boy shook his head. "No, my king. I was informed of her wishes by the child of the cherry."
The Moon King nodded. "I understand." He tapped a finger on his chin as he looked at the cherry tree.
"Your Majesty," came a second voice, laced with amusement. "I realise your pride has been injured, but if you will not ask her to help this boy, I will." A second man walked over to join the Moon King, this one with tanned skin and black hair.
The Moon King snapped his fingers in irritation. "I have already asked her, but she is ignoring me."
The second man closed his eyes for a moment. "Cherry trees are contrary, are they not? She thinks that since she helped me once, I must return that favour before I may ask another." The man shrugged. "No matter. Come, boy from Oakmeadows," he said, beckoning with his hand. "I will teach you how to talk to cherry trees. You will have plenty of time to learn while the fruit grows."
The boy gathered up his packs and followed obediently.
"She is embarrassed, you know," said the man, as they walked. "She is ashamed of her weakness and fears that all the other cherry trees in the world no longer respect her."
The boy shook his head. "But that is simply not true. I have sung the song of the boy from the sea and the cherry tree on the frozen mountain to my cherry tree many times. It is her favourite song." He stopped, and looked up at the man. "Sir, I did not mean..."
"Perhaps you should tell her that," said the man, who was once the boy from the sea. "And I would hear that song, if it pleases you. I believe the minstrel that composed it was once a guest on the frozen mountain, but he never returned. Of all the travellers to this far mountain since, none have had the musical gift."
"He died, I think," said the boy. "That song was his life's work, he spent decades perfecting the melody and the words. They say even when he was on his deathbed he was not satisfied with it."
"Is that so?" said the man, thoughtfully. "You should tell her that, too. She would like it. Cherry trees are exceedingly vain."
The Moon King's hospitality was simple, but it was still the most comfortable sleep the boy had had since leaving Oakmeadows so many months ago.
"We do not have many visitors here," said the Moon King. "In return for our help I would simply ask that you share as many tales of the outside world that you can spare."
The boy was only too pleased to obey.
At long last, the cherries ripened and the Moon King proclaimed that the tree would part with them - if the boy could convince her to do it.
With his new knowledge of the language of cherry trees, boy told the tree about the cherry tree in Oakmeadows, and his friendship with the young man who belonged to her.
The cherry tree on the frozen mountain did not seem impressed. "You would not come all this way just for that."
"But I did!" the boy protested. "And because I know the story of the boy from the sea and the frozen mountain and the Moon King, and because I heard the song of the cherry tree on the frozen mountain."
The cherry tree seemed doubtful. "What is this song of which you speak?"
And the boy remembered that the man who had once been the boy from the sea had said that the cherry tree would like to hear that song, so he raised his voice to sing.
The tree's leaves rustled appreciatively, and as if in spite of herself she said, "That is a lovely song."
"It was the life's work of a famous musician," said the boy. "He tried his very best to do your story justice. It is the favourite song of the cherry tree in Oakmeadows."
"That song?" said the cherry tree on the frozen mountain. "About me?"
"Yes," said the boy. "She admires you greatly."
The tree sighed deeply, and before the boy knew it he was being peppered with falling cherries. "Go, save my sister," she said.
The boy bowed deeply. "Thank you, my lady."
It was winter once more when the boy stood again beneath the boughs of the cherry tree in the woods at Oakmeadows.
With the young man's help, he buried the cherries at her roots, and hoped that it was not too late - that when the snows melted the tree would bloom again.
The boy's grandmother demanded the boy write his story into the back of her book, which he did with pleasure. The villagers gathered around to hear of his adventures in the world outside Oakmeadows, and for the first time the boy felt that his stories actually reached their hearts.
The following spring, the cherry tree came into full bloom again, and all the villagers gathered beneath her branches to celebrate. The village wise woman told them what they had forgotten about the cherry tree's price, and they vowed that from then on the villagers and the cherry tree would always have a relationship built on mutual respect. Under the care of the village, the cherry tree grew strong and tall, and every summer the villagers had cherries to share.
And so it came that the entire world knew of the village of Oakmeadows and its cherry tree, and people came from thousands of miles away to see the cherry tree and admire her beauty.
As for the boy, once he was a man the cherry tree released her child, and the two left the village to travel the world as storytellers. In time they were to once again visit the frozen mountain, and they would eventually be responsible for healing the rift between the Moon King and his sister.
But that is another story.
the end
email: flamebyrd [at] gmail.com
Long ago, in a time before memory reaches, all history was stories and all stories were history. Superstition was the same as fact, although there were still some that did not believe - as there always are, whether the story is fact or fiction.
The woodlands cherry tree grew tall and strong. It flowered in spring and fruited in early summer, and its berries were held as the possessor of the sweetest, most divine of flavours. Yet nobody would ever dream of taking a seed and growing a tree of their own, so deeply rooted were the stories of the time. So the cherry grew wild and free, and their berries sold in the city at prices so high it could keep a small village fed throughout the entire winter from the profit of a single tree's fruit.
Still, time passes, and people forget the importance of stories, dismissing them seconds after they are heard. The fruit of the cherry tree became rarer and more expensive, and thus the tree was all the more desired. Yet, none could ever entice the tree to bear fruit when grown in an orchard and so wild trees were the hope of every village.
When a sapling sprang up in the woods of Oakmeadows, the villagers were anxious to ascertain its nature. Years passed, the tree grew, and they identified it as being that most coveted of trees, the woodlands cherry.
However, the branches bore no blossoms and in spring yielded no fruit. The villagers let their hopes melt with the winter snow, and turned their attention to the future once more.
Nine months from Midsummer's Eve, a new-born child was left beneath the tree. It cried for attention, for the warm arms that had held it and comforted it and wrapped it in warm blankets before abandoning it to the night. The cries echoed through the forest until the moon rose and lit the branches of the tree. Then, everything was silent.
In the morning, when the villagers came to see what had caused the wailing, the child was gone, yet the Tree was blooming.
The villagers praised the day, and looked forward to summer when they would have the fruit.
Of course, nothing so idealistic can be entirely perfect and nothing beautiful is entirely pure of heart. The first people they sent to gather the fruit from the tree's branches fell ill the very next day, and most died before the week was out. The ones that survived lived half-lives, unable to find the energy or motivation to live in joy.
The grandson of the village wise-woman - the one who had never fit in with the rest of the village and spent most of his time either in his grandmother's house listening to her stories or in the woods composing stories of his own - he knew what the villagers had done wrong. Yet when the villagers had approached the wise-woman for her counsel, she had simply smiled and told them the answer was in their childhood. So he did not tell them, because his grandmother was wise and knew what was best for people.
Although he had always avoided that side of the woods, one bright summer's day seemed to call him to the Tree. So he took his summer's hat and basket, and skipped to the Tree, humming the song of the cherry his grandmother had taught him. He lay his basket in front of the tree, and bowed before its branches.
"Woodlands cherry, great and strong that you are, spare a few berries for a child who wishes to know their magic?" he said, softly.
The wind whipped through the branches, dislodging some leaves, but the berries remained firm on their branches.
"I will not steal from you, fair cherry. I only wish for your gift."
"Will you sing for her in return?" asked the fair young man who sat in the branches of the tree as if it were his home. "She heard your melody before, she would like to hear it sung."
The boy bowed again. "I will sing for her, if you will tell me who you are."
The young man laughed, a silver sound like birdsong. "But in that case you must tell me who you are, for one favour deserves another."
The boy nodded his head in acceptance of the exchange, and raised his voice in song. He chose not the villager's song of the cherry he had been thinking of earlier, for it was full of warnings of the danger of such entrancing beauty, but instead the song of the cherry tree on the frozen mountain that had saved the life of the boy from the sea. The beauty of that song, his grandmother had told him, was music's closest equal to the beauty of the cherry tree.
Leaping from the branches and landing on the grass beneath as softly as a cat, the young man picked up the boy's basket and filled it to the top with freshly plucked cherries. "Here," he said, "these are her gift."
The boy took the basket with gratitude. "You are the child of the cherry, are you not?"
"I am the one she has taken as her companion, yes," said the young man, cocking his head. "You are from the village, no? There are not many that know the song of the cherry well enough to know who I am."
"My grandmother is the wise-woman of the village, she tells many stories. I am one of the few that listens and the only one that remembers."
"You are most fortunate, then, to be gifted with a mind that can listen."
"Tell me," asked the boy, "why do the people that steal from the cherry die?"
The young man smiled, as if the answer were the most simple thing in the world. "That is because the cherry takes a tiny piece of the soul for every berry that is stolen. So if you steal but one, two, three berries, you would not even notice the change. But those who steal for profit, they are the ones that suffer."
"Why does the cherry do so?" the boy continued. "Is it not cruel?"
"Cruelty is the invention of humans. The cherry extracts the same price from all the birds and beasts of the world. This is how it has always been, it is just that humans have forgotten."
It is the nature of something fascinating to draw a person to return to it over and over again. This is how the boy and the young man became good friends. The ever-present shadow of the cherry tree clouded their conversations, and the boy would always have a new song ready to sing to her. But her favourite was always the song of the boy from the sea and the cherry of the frozen mountain.
In case there are those who do not know it, the story of the boy from the sea and the frozen mountain tells of a boy who lived in a small fishing village in the south of the land. Their idyllic life ended the day disaster fell and fire rained from the sky, destroying the entire village. The villagers fled in their boats to the south sea islands, accidentally leaving behind a young boy, who vowed, as he stood on the shore and watched the last of the boats disappear, that he would find a way for his people to return. Yet the fire mountain continued to burn, and so he set course for the frozen mountain, where he could approach the palace of the Moon King and request an end to the rain of fire.
After many years of searching, the boy finally located the frozen mountain. But after days and nights scaling the mountain, growing colder and more weary each day, the boy began to lose hope. The higher he climbed, the less food he could find, and the air became difficult to breathe. To pass through to the shrine of the Moon King, he had to defeat three trials - the first of the body, the second of the mind and the third of the spirit. At the end of the third trial, he came across a lone cherry tree nestled in among the rocks. Too tired and weary of heart to even speak, he stole from her branches the best of her fruit.
Seeing the boy's pain, the tree took pity on him and sheltered him beneath her branches for the night, refusing to even take the usual payment for the theft of her fruit. In the morning, the boy felt refreshed and with renewed energy, he made his way to the top of the mountain and into the shrine to make his request.
So impressed was the Moon King with the boy's spirit and determination, he granted the boy the power to be his apprentice, and sentenced the fire mountains to be dormant once more. In thanks to the cherry tree that had saved him, the boy granted it many powers and the promise that while it stood on the mountain, none would ever harm it.
The song of the cherry tree and the boy from the sea told of the cherry tree's dilemma and eventual decision to protect the boy, and how it fought to keep him alive for that one final night. The traditional accompanying melody was acknowledged as being one of the most beautiful compositions in the world.
The young man that belonged to the cherry tree in the wood of Oakmeadows said that the particular story of the boy and the cherry tree was so famous that even cherry trees knew it, and all were full of delight and respected the way the story had been preserved for all time in song.
The boy that sang it smiled, and said he was glad to make such a beautiful lady happy with the gift of his music.
And so a summer passed in song and quiet conversation, and autumn began to fall in the wood. Slowly, the cherry tree's leaves turned from green to shades of yellow, red and brown before slipping to the ground to carpet the grass in colour.
Then winter came, and then spring, but the cherry tree did not bloom as plentifully as she had in other years. As the seasons slipped by, the tree became more and more ill. It wasn't immediately obvious on the outside, but the tree was worried, and thus the young man worried too. When the young man confided his fears in the boy, he became anxious.
"There must be some way we can save her," said the boy, with feeling.
The young man frowned, as if in deep thought. "She says, you must find the cherry tree on the frozen mountain and request from it a basket of berries. You must eat none of the berries, and must bring them all back to her and bury them at her roots."
Knowing that not all stories were lies, the boy did not question him. So he returned home and prepared for the journey. He spent the winter months copying his grandmother's book of stories, while his grandmother knitted him warm clothing for the journey up the frozen mountain. By the time spring came again he was ready to leave.
The morning of his departure he gave his grandmother a hug, and made his way to the wood to wish the cherry tree and its young man farewell.
By the time the sun was half risen in the sky, he was gone.
The young man watched the boy leave with fear in his heart. "You are cruel," he told the tree, "having him sacrifice his life for you. Even if he finds the frozen mountain, you know how dangerous it will be to climb."
The pale pink blossoms of spring fell like rain, or tears. The cherry tree did not want the boy to die, but she did not want to die either. Cherry trees are, by nature, selfish.
His grandmother's book had but one thing to say about the location of the frozen mountain.
Deep in the forest under the sun, through lands far beneath the ocean yet dry as the desert.
After much time studying older and older maps, in country after far away country, the boy decided that the lands beneath the ocean but dry as the desert referred to the desert that lay directly below the northern sea.
If he followed the path through the desert, he would eventually reach the forest of the world, that surrounded the white mountains.
He asked many scholars before he came across the final piece of the puzzle - the forest of the world was an ancient, ancient forest, and its name had been passed from language to language as the countries around it shifted. In the oldest record the scholars had, the word for world had been rendered, poetically, as "the entirety of land that lies under the sun".
Armed with the knowledge of the tallest mountain in the white mountains, the boy began his journey.
He managed to hire on with a travelling fair as they wound their way through the cities of the eastern kingdoms. Once they parted ways, the boy joined a party of traders. Trading on his knowledge of stories and songs, the boy made his way across the land to the forest of the world. Winter had come and gone by the time he stood on the threshold of the forest.
The boy had used as much coin as he dared in buying dried meat, breads and cheeses for the journey through the forest and up the white mountain. He did not want to risk anything by harming a creature of the forest of the world, for in this area it was widely considered a sinister place. Would-be hunters often found themselves facing bears or impossibly large cats instead of the harmless deer they expected, said the stories.
The warmth of the sun seemed to slip away as soon as the boy entered the forest. He shivered, and pulled his cloak tighter around him.
Although the boy tried his best, using the small snatches of sun he could see through the canopy to guide himself, he was soon hopelessly lost. Every time he climbed one of the trees to mark his location, the mountain range had shifted in direction.
Collapsing at the base of the tree, he closed his eyes. In the distance, he could hear water running. Knowing that his water skins were starting to run dry, he made his way to the water.
At first he thought the creature kneeling to drink at the water's edge was a unicorn, but after he rubbed his eyes he saw that it was no more than a white deer.
He rubbed his eyes again. The deer seemed to shimmer and waver before his eyes.
The boy took a step closer, and a twig snapped loudly beneath his feet.
The deer raised its head to regard him with placid silver eyes. Or perhaps they were brown eyes? The boy was never certain, afterwards.
After a moment, it lowered its head and continued to drink, its tail twitching nervously from side to side.
The boy frowned. Something seemed strange about that. It could just be the unusual behaviour of the deer - the deer in the forest around Oakmeadows were skittish creatures that would bolt at the mere sight of a human.
If there were no hunters in this forest, the boy wondered, perhaps the animals had lost their fear of humans?
He blinked at the deer in confusion. For some reason, this explanation did not sit well with him.
The boy took a few steps closer to the water. From this distance, he could see that the deer was attached to a nearby tree with a silver chain.
The stream was not deep, so the boy removed his shoes and waded slowly across to the other side.
The deer regarded him warily, and pawed at the ground with a cloven hoof.
"You are no deer," said the boy, as he realised what had seemed strange about the deer's tail. When he squinted, he could see the tail of this creature was long and thin, with a tuft of hair at the end.
The unicorn bowed its head.
"Will anything happen if I unchain you?" said the boy. From from his grandmother's book, the boy knew that a unicorn could only be bound with a silver chain.
"Perhaps not, boy, but the wizard would be most displeased were you to deprive him of his captive," came a deceptively pleasant voice.
The boy turned around swiftly, searching for the source of the voice.
"You have none of the look of magic about you, boy," said the wizard who had spoken, stepping out from behind a tree, "so one supposes you are merely a lost imbecile. Unfortunate, but perhaps I can make use of you nonetheless."
The boy started to back away slowly. "I'm travelling to the frozen mountain," explained the boy.
"This forest is a maze," said the wizard. "It will take a long time to find the frozen mountain in here."
The boy came to a stop as he felt the tree behind him, and turned briefly to steady himself. A thin chain slipped through his fingers.
The boy looked to the side. The unicorn pulled at its chain, then turned to look at the boy with patient eyes.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" said the wizard. "It took me many days to lure it into this trap."
"You must not!" said the boy. "The Moon King will not stand for you treating a unicorn so." The chain was thin and weak, but the unicorn acted like it was made of the heaviest iron.
"The Moon King?" the wizard laughed unpleasantly. "Do you not see? It is the Moon King's attention that I am trying to attract with this farce."
"But we are right by the frozen mountain!" said the boy. "Could you not seek the Moon King there?"
"I do not have the time to play the Moon King's games," said the wizard. "The Moon King would not teach me his secrets, so I must use other methods to convince him." The wizard shook a hand at him impatiently. "I tire of this conversation. Go, boy, if you wish for your life to be spared. It would take too long to take your worthless life."
The boy took a deep breath, and snapped the chain. He grabbed the neck of the unicorn as it dashed by him and somehow managed to clumsily pull himself onto its back.
He barely had time to see the unicorn fell the wizard with a perfect strike to the heart with its horn before he found himself having to clutch his arms around the unicorn's neck as it took off into the forest.
The boy was not an inexperienced horseman, but this was nothing like a horse ride. The unicorn travelled in leaps and bounds, lurching from side to side as it made its way through the trees.
At last, when the boy was certain he could not hold on any longer, the unicorn came to a halt.
The boy tumbled off onto the soft earth and retched numbly.
When he looked up, he saw that the unicorn was wiping its horn on the soft moss, and the boy retched again at the memory of the wizard's death.
When the boy finally got to his feet, he looked up and saw the side of the frozen mountain etched into the sky.
It is the nature of moments of high stress for a person to become focussed on the smallest of worries.
"Shoes," said the boy, wretchedly. "I don't have my shoes."
It would be tantamount to suicide to attempt to climb the frozen mountain without shoes.
Still reeling from the mad dash through the forest and shaken by the death of the wizard, the boy fell into a fitful sleep.
However, it would not do for a person to start the trial of the frozen mountain at a disadvantage, particularly not when he had helped a unicorn and so the Moon King took pity on the boy.
When the boy awoke, the unicorn was nosing at a bundle of cloth. The boy crawled over and unwrapped it gingerly. Inside, he found a thick fur coat, some heavy leather boots and socks.
"Did you bring this?" asked the boy, but the unicorn did not reply.
The first days of climbing the frozen mountain were some of the most relaxing the boy could remember since starting on his journey. The ground sloped gently towards the sky and the grass beneath his feet was lush and green.
Occasionally he would shade his eyes against the sun to look at the white tip of the mountain and despair at its distance.
As he climbed higher, he found streams of snow-melt and the occasional patch of frozen snow on the ground. It was almost with relief that he finally felt the crunch of fresh snow beneath his feet.
A week after the boy began climbing the frozen mountain, the first trial began.
The boy noticed the signs long before he saw the creature. Large footprints, like that of a giant cat, followed by a sort of slithering wave that reminded him of a snake. Nearby he sometimes saw boulders, scored as if with massive claws.
None of it served to prepare him for the sight of the creature as it blundered out from a copse into his path.
The creature had a massive cat's body and three heads - a dragon, a goat and a cat with a large, hairy mane. Its tail dragged behind it, long and snakelike.
The boy froze in terror.
The creature roared - the incongruity of the goat's bleating in contrast to the screams of the cat and the dragon somehow even more horrifying.
The boy fled for the cave in which he had taken shelter the previous night.
It felt like he ran for hours, with the creature lapping at his heels, but at least he stumbled into the hollow and crawled into the cave. The entrance would be far too small for the creature to fit through, and he thought if he was lucky it would simply lose interest in him and go away.
The boy waited, hardly daring to breathe, until at last - at last - he heard the creature turn away.
Without the massive shadow of the creature to block his view, he could see that night was falling outside the cave.
The boy ate his rations and lamented his misfortune, for he had no training to use a sword or any other kind of weapon.
By candlelight, he read the story of the boy from the sea and the frozen mountain again. The boy from the sea had defeated a dragon on the frozen mountain by slitting its throat, but the boy from Oakmeadows had no knife.
Being an orphan and raised by his grandmother, he had not had a farmer's upbringing like the rest of the village. In harvest season, he was put to work in passing messages back and forth, not in tending the fields.
He read his grandmother's book from cover to cover, searching for a way to defeat a chimera. He did not stop until his candle had burned to a mere stub and his eyes were gummed up and burning.
"I cannot give up now, not when I have come so far," he said. "There must be a way to defeat that creature."
But despite his words, the boy felt despair snapping at his heels, and he was painfully conscious that he had been lucky merely to have reached the cave alive.
The boy thanked the stars that he was such a fast runner.
In time, it occurred to the boy to wonder if he could perhaps outrun the chimera. After all, the creature could not be tremendously fast, not with three heads to coordinate, and if it were a trial of the body, surely being able to outrun the creature would pass. He would simply need to run up the mountain until he found a place the creature could not follow.
When morning came, the boy packed up his things and ate enough that he would have the energy for sprinting, but not enough that it would make him sleepy, in the same way he would during harvest season in Oakmeadows.
He took the same path he had the day before at a leisurely pace, saving his energy.
When he saw the creature again, he had to fight his own body to run towards it, not away, for instinct is a terrible thing and the creature was extremely large and fearsome.
The boy threw an arm over his eyes to hide them from the sight of the creature and plunged forward.
Once he judged he was past the creature, he opened his eyes again and ran as fast as his legs would carry him.
The creature blundered along behind him, crashing through trees and bushes as if they were no more than dry leaves and twigs.
Still the boy ran, until he thought his chest would burst from the pressure of his heart.
The creature did not seem to tire at all, and still the boy ran, although his legs felt like lead and his chest felt like fire.
At last, at long last, the sun began to set. The boy was not certain when he noticed that the creature was no longer behind him, but the joy of that moment would not be eclipsed for some time.
He collapsed to his knees, knowing that he should stretch to prevent his limbs from seizing up but not having the energy for even that.
The boy slept in the forest without shelter, but again the Moon King took pity on him, and nothing harmed the boy that night.
In time, the boy came across an old man sitting on a rock, head bowed as he whittled away at a lump of wood. His hair was white like the snow and his skin tanned as dark as the trunks of the trees around them.
"Good morning," said the boy, cheerfully.
The old man looked up. "Good morning to you, boy."
"Are you headed up the mountain too?" asked the boy.
The old man smiled. "Something like that. Walk with me a while, boy."
The boy nodded. "Of course."
They trudged through the snow in silence for a while before the old man spoke again.
"Tell me, boy, why is the Sun Queen's palace in the empty desert?"
The boy considered that for a moment. "Because the desert is hot," he said, positively.
The old man grunted. "And why is the Moon King's palace on the frozen mountain?"
"Because the moon is cold."
The old man patted him on the back. "You understand, boy. The most simple answer is most often correct."
The boy smiled, as he realised that this must be the second trial, the trial of the mind.
"The Moon King and the Sun Queen are siblings, are they not?" The boy nodded. "Are they gods?"
The boy shook his head. "Some of the legends say they are descended from the gods, but they are just powerful magicians."
The old man grunted again. "The Moon King is a king, yes? What does he rule over?"
The boy hesitated. "I don't think he rules, exactly, at least not in the way kings rule people. But he has power over the elements of water, cold and darkness. And the Sun Queen rules over fire, heat and light."
The old man stabbed at the ground with his staff. "Why did the boy from the sea ask the Moon King for help with the mountain of fire, not the Sun Queen?"
"Because asking the Sun Queen to quell fire would be an insult to her," the boy concluded. "Or perhaps it would cause her sorrow, to douse a flame."
"So why would the Moon King risk the wrath of his sister to help the boy from the sea?"
The boy thought and thought and thought, but at last he shook his head in defeat. "I do not know. The stories say was impressed with the boy's determination, so he took him as an apprentice. But..."
"It does not ring true, does it?"
"It feels like part of the story is missing. Anybody who climbs the frozen mountain has spirit and determination. There must be something else."
The old man smiled. "You are a most perceptive young man," he said, stopping to lean against a tree. "Here I will leave you. Take the low path," he said, pointing with his staff at the lower of two ways in the fork of the road.
The boy bowed. "Thank you, sir."
The account of the journey of the boy from the sea to the frozen mountain in his grandmother's book was uncertain on the details of the trial of spirit. It merely said that the boy had passed the trial.
As he rounded a loop of the winding path up the mountain, the boy had his first glimpse of the cherry tree.
With some horror, he realised that the tree was in full bloom, and it would be some time before there would be any cherries.
He hoped the tree in the woods at Oakmeadows would not succumb to her illness before he could return home.
The low path grew worse and worse the further the boy travelled along it. Roots and rocks distorted its surface such that every step had to be taken carefully to avoid slipping over the edge of the path.
From time to time, the boy saw what appeared to be new paths beaten through the brush on the edge. He wondered if the going would be easier on those paths, but then he remembered the old man's advice to take the low path.
The nights were colder this high up the mountain, and the air was growing thinner and harder to breathe. It was harder to maintain his confidence when every step seemed to be against him. His clothing became less and less effective in fighting off the chill of the wind and snow, and the boy's feet were soon black and blue with bruises.
At night, the boy cried at the stars above him for mercy, but there was no response.
Once, he thought he saw a staircase in the brush, leading straight to the cherry tree.
If this was the test of spirit, it was a particularly cruel one, thought the boy. To be so close to his goal that he could see it and yet still have so far to go was a peculiar kind of torture.
Still, he persevered along the low road, until at last - at last - he reached the cherry tree.
The boy collapsed into the falling blossoms with relief. "My lady," he said, "I am pleased to make your acquaintance."
The blossoms fell silently, and the boy wondered what he was to do while he waited for the tree to fruit. His food would not last forever, and he knew that food supplies at the top of the mountain would not be plentiful.
With these thoughts in his head, the boy fell asleep.
His first few days at the summit of the frozen mountain passed easily. The boy made a comfortable camp not far from the cherry tree - he did not think it would be polite to light a fire at her base - and started making plans for rationing his food.
On the third night, he was awakened by a stranger.
The man was very tall, with long silver hair that flowed over his shoulders in waves. His robes consisted of many layers of fabric in silver, white, grey and pale blue. His eyes sparkled with amusement as he looked the boy over. "You have climbed the Frozen Mountain. You would come all this way and yet you will not grace the Moon King with your presence?"
The boy scrambled to his feet and bowed deeply. "My King, I mean no insult. It is merely that my purpose is to ask a boon of the cherry tree on the frozen mountain."
The Moon King, for that was who he was, frowned in thought. "How unusual. What is it that you need from the cherry tree?" The king patted its trunk with obvious affection.
"In my hometown Oakmeadows, there is a woodlands cherry. She is gravely ill, and she told me that I must go to the cherry tree on the frozen mountain and obtain a basket of cherries in order to cure her." The boy looked up at the falling blossoms. "But it will be some time before this tree has bears fruit."
"You can talk to cherry trees?" said the Moon King, raising an eyebrow in surprise.
The boy shook his head. "No, my king. I was informed of her wishes by the child of the cherry."
The Moon King nodded. "I understand." He tapped a finger on his chin as he looked at the cherry tree.
"Your Majesty," came a second voice, laced with amusement. "I realise your pride has been injured, but if you will not ask her to help this boy, I will." A second man walked over to join the Moon King, this one with tanned skin and black hair.
The Moon King snapped his fingers in irritation. "I have already asked her, but she is ignoring me."
The second man closed his eyes for a moment. "Cherry trees are contrary, are they not? She thinks that since she helped me once, I must return that favour before I may ask another." The man shrugged. "No matter. Come, boy from Oakmeadows," he said, beckoning with his hand. "I will teach you how to talk to cherry trees. You will have plenty of time to learn while the fruit grows."
The boy gathered up his packs and followed obediently.
"She is embarrassed, you know," said the man, as they walked. "She is ashamed of her weakness and fears that all the other cherry trees in the world no longer respect her."
The boy shook his head. "But that is simply not true. I have sung the song of the boy from the sea and the cherry tree on the frozen mountain to my cherry tree many times. It is her favourite song." He stopped, and looked up at the man. "Sir, I did not mean..."
"Perhaps you should tell her that," said the man, who was once the boy from the sea. "And I would hear that song, if it pleases you. I believe the minstrel that composed it was once a guest on the frozen mountain, but he never returned. Of all the travellers to this far mountain since, none have had the musical gift."
"He died, I think," said the boy. "That song was his life's work, he spent decades perfecting the melody and the words. They say even when he was on his deathbed he was not satisfied with it."
"Is that so?" said the man, thoughtfully. "You should tell her that, too. She would like it. Cherry trees are exceedingly vain."
The Moon King's hospitality was simple, but it was still the most comfortable sleep the boy had had since leaving Oakmeadows so many months ago.
"We do not have many visitors here," said the Moon King. "In return for our help I would simply ask that you share as many tales of the outside world that you can spare."
The boy was only too pleased to obey.
At long last, the cherries ripened and the Moon King proclaimed that the tree would part with them - if the boy could convince her to do it.
With his new knowledge of the language of cherry trees, boy told the tree about the cherry tree in Oakmeadows, and his friendship with the young man who belonged to her.
The cherry tree on the frozen mountain did not seem impressed. "You would not come all this way just for that."
"But I did!" the boy protested. "And because I know the story of the boy from the sea and the frozen mountain and the Moon King, and because I heard the song of the cherry tree on the frozen mountain."
The cherry tree seemed doubtful. "What is this song of which you speak?"
And the boy remembered that the man who had once been the boy from the sea had said that the cherry tree would like to hear that song, so he raised his voice to sing.
The tree's leaves rustled appreciatively, and as if in spite of herself she said, "That is a lovely song."
"It was the life's work of a famous musician," said the boy. "He tried his very best to do your story justice. It is the favourite song of the cherry tree in Oakmeadows."
"That song?" said the cherry tree on the frozen mountain. "About me?"
"Yes," said the boy. "She admires you greatly."
The tree sighed deeply, and before the boy knew it he was being peppered with falling cherries. "Go, save my sister," she said.
The boy bowed deeply. "Thank you, my lady."
It was winter once more when the boy stood again beneath the boughs of the cherry tree in the woods at Oakmeadows.
With the young man's help, he buried the cherries at her roots, and hoped that it was not too late - that when the snows melted the tree would bloom again.
The boy's grandmother demanded the boy write his story into the back of her book, which he did with pleasure. The villagers gathered around to hear of his adventures in the world outside Oakmeadows, and for the first time the boy felt that his stories actually reached their hearts.
The following spring, the cherry tree came into full bloom again, and all the villagers gathered beneath her branches to celebrate. The village wise woman told them what they had forgotten about the cherry tree's price, and they vowed that from then on the villagers and the cherry tree would always have a relationship built on mutual respect. Under the care of the village, the cherry tree grew strong and tall, and every summer the villagers had cherries to share.
And so it came that the entire world knew of the village of Oakmeadows and its cherry tree, and people came from thousands of miles away to see the cherry tree and admire her beauty.
As for the boy, once he was a man the cherry tree released her child, and the two left the village to travel the world as storytellers. In time they were to once again visit the frozen mountain, and they would eventually be responsible for healing the rift between the Moon King and his sister.
But that is another story.
the end