The Moon God never intended to create the Islands of Rui Nan.

A long time ago, when the world was only water, the Moon God took his brush, and with great, broad strokes, painted the mighty continent of Kin Ju. He painted and painted as if he were brushing the shapes of decorative leaves upon the face of a rice paper lantern, until Kin Ju covered almost one half of the world. So focused and passionate was he in his masterpiece, that he'd forgotten that there was still empty ocean on the other side.

After he'd finished, he put the brush aside without knowing it was still dripping with paint. The drops from the brush splattered about the empty side of the world. Hundreds of islands in all sorts of shapes and sizes formed from the fallen paint. The Moon God -whom I've been told was an easily pleased deity- was glad for the mistaken blemish, for he felt that Kin Ju was deserving of a little brother. These vast, majestic islands would carry the name, Rui Nan.

Even on her deathbed, my mother told me stories such as these. It was this particular story, one of divine creation, that I held most dear. Not for religious reasons, mind you, but because, in a way, the story is a vague reflection of my life. You see, for all my desires and wants, it is the mistakes, the unintended things that makes it truly memorable.

It is in these pages that I have written the details of my extraordinary childhood and about the fates of those I've met along my journey, whose lives were every bit as incredible as mine.

More importantly, this is a story about a world that has long since faded to obscurity; a world where children were once masters of the sky and where a wayward emperor sought to unite all under heaven. And it begins where God had splattered the paint from his brush.

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"All hail the Emperor!" cried the village leader as he stood at the top of the temple steps, leading everyone in the morning chants.

"May he rule us with wisdom," replied the villagers as they stood obediently in neat rows in the center of the village, bowing at the waist.

"All hail the Emperor!"

"May he rule us with strength."

"All hail the Emperor!"

"May he grant us prosperity and wealth."

Such was the chant my sister and I recited every morning before we began our day. Before morning meals, we always gathered at the temple before the village leader -who was also the leader of our prefecture- and made our loyalties known.

To our nation and to our divine emperor, these were the very things my sister and I, and all the humble creatures of heaven and earth were bound to. Being a naive boy of thirteen under the sole care of a sister that was only five years older than I, we lived during a time where the only certainty, was knowing that the next day, we'd be in morning chants again, renewing our faith in our sacred nation. Even though I thought of our chants as completely mundane, my sister, who was very proud of our country, always made sure that I never forgot the importance of being at the temple with the other villagers just before sunrise.

"Recite the three virtues," she demanded every morning as we returned home from our morning chants.

"Loyalty to the Emperor, honor above self, and spirit in all we do," I once replied in a snarky tone.

She struck me on the shoulder as the brown freckles on her face seemed to turn black, an unmistakable sign that she was upset. "Terr, you'd better take this seriously. Next time you don't answer respectfully, I'll use a stick instead."

I gave her a sour look, which prompted another, much harder strike from her hand.

When our mother passed away to illness two years earlier, it was left to my sister to assume her role. Since then, I'd seen her grow stern and protective, as if our mother's spirit had left its tired body only to inhabit hers. With the disappearance of our father long before I was born and before my sister was too young to remember, we'd learned to accept our fate as abandoned siblings. A brother and sister facing unpredictable times with only our pride left to lose. At least that was how we saw things.

You see, it was during the time of a major depression. Every town that dotted the islands of Rui Nan, except for the capital and a few large cities, suffered due to lack of money, food and even water. The village of Rune, my home, was no exception, and though we didn't fall to such great poverty that we were starving to death, every villager secretly wished for more than just two small meals a day and perhaps a little more money to afford more than just two sets of clothing.

I suppose that was why no one wanted to adopt us. Two new mouths to feed would've been too much of a burden for anyone. But despite all this, I'd grown to admire my sister, for she'd managed to keep the both of us fed, and clothed, as well as keep us warm during the cold winters. She even worked at the local factory in order to make enough money so that I could continue to attend school.

My mother once said that there is no beauty in a pile of twigs. But once a bird has made a nest of such seemingly useless things and fills it with eggs, it then becomes something sacred, as there is no greater beauty than that of life born of nothing. That's how I had come to see our tired, old home. Past the dead vegetable garden and through the broken walls of our house, were the precious possessions of my family, buried snuggly inside. Mother's pottery lay neatly stacked in one corner of the living room. My sister wanted to sell them, but changed her mind after I cried for two days, accusing that if she did that, she'd be giving mother's soul away.

On the other side of the room lay my sister's rice paper paintings. Some were hung on the walls, but most of them sat carefully stacked on the table next to the window. Every few days, she would take a roll of paper and some black ink, and step outside where she would paint the sky in broad, round strokes. Every painting was a picture of how the clouds appeared that day. She believed that certain clouds brought luck, and it was those she copied. Even on days when the sky was empty, she painted anyways, brushing away at white, wispy images she saw in her mind. One painting was worth five days of luck, or so she claimed.

I sometimes imagined her covering the walls with her pictures until not a single speck of wood or concrete could be seen, and then I'd wonder how breath-taking that would've been, to be surrounded from every angle, from ceiling to floor, with wall-papered images of the sky.

"I'm off to the factory now Terr," she said one morning as she packed some rice and fish into her leather bag. "After school, buy some wood for the stove."

Just before she left, she kissed me on the forehead, something my mother constantly did, but coming from my sister, somehow always felt awkward.

"Sister."

She paused at the door.

"Is it worth it? Working at the factory I mean."

She squeezed her bag, letting the rubbery sound it made carry her sigh for her. "I know what you're asking. And now is not the time to talk about it."

"Then when will it be? You're always complaining about work and about how little money we have."

"Then I won't complain anymore," she said suddenly. "Besides, the factory is no place for a little boy.

"I'm not a little boy," I replied in a tone that was probably harsher than I meant it to be. "And if you think that's all I am, then I'll prove to you that I'm not."

"You'll prove nothing." She threw her bag to the floor. "Keep to your studies. Keep to your schooling, and let me worry about the money." She moved towards me, waving her finger. " And I'd better not catch you stepping one foot into that factory."

"Fine, I won't."

She didn't seem convinced.

"I said I won't," I repeated.

She still wasn't convinced.

I was still simmering that day after school while I was returning home from the mill, bringing back a bundle of wood. But the spectacle that awaited me, would soon make me forget about the frustrations of that morning.

The mill was some ways outside of town, so I often found myself going along a dirt road, surrounded by flat, grassy fields. I walked until the crowded, hunched buildings of Rune peeked over the hill in front of me. It was then that I heard the harbor bell ring.

In those days, Rune was considered a port town, even though we were no where near the ocean. This was because the ships we harbored were not the ones from the sea, but rather, from the air. The bell clanged, signaling the approach of one such ship. As I looked up, anticipating the sight of a large, black dot in the distance, I was startled by a heavy rumble, like the sound of a distant earthquake. The sound grew louder and I felt my own body begin to shake. Birds panicked and flew from their hiding places in the grass as the mumbled tremors shuddered the ground beneath my feet. I dropped the bundle, and just before I could cover my ears from the unbearable noise, a great dragon's head peered over the wood mill behind me. When I turned to the direction of the sound, I saw a pair of large, angry red eyes glaring fiercely towards me.

I instantly felt dizzy from the sudden rush of fear that gripped my chest, and stumbled to the ground as the rest of the creature flew by, revealing the enormity of its lizard-like body. I screamed so suddenly, I hardly knew I was crying out until a man nearby, annoyed by my squealing, demanded that I keep quiet.

The man, who was dressed in brown leather overalls, must have been one of the mill workers. He sauntered towards me and abruptly shoved his palm against the side of my head. The slap returned me to my senses, and I instantly frowned in a vain attempt to hide my embarrassment. I looked up and saw that the dragon was actually just an image painted on the underside of an airship as it flew low to the ground. For a brief moment I felt as though I were at the bottom of the ocean, watching as an enormous whale-like creature glided gracefully by. Steam burst out in whirling clouds from its sides as if it were exhaling large, powerful breaths, fatigued from its long, exhausting voyage. I felt the sting of the mans slap against my forehead again and instinctively grabbed his wrist.

"Stop it!" I said.

Upon closer inspection, I realized that he was hardly a man at all, probably barely older than my sister. He yanked his arm from my grasp and laughed, running his hand through his short-cut black hair.

"I've never heard a scream like yours before," he taunted. "It sounds like someone beating a sick dog. Did you think that airship was going to eat you? How about I hit you again? Maybe that'll help cure you of those hallucinations."

"Go away." I stood up, turning my frown into an angry stare. He continued amusing himself with his incessant laughing as I picked up the wood bundle and started back home.

I could still hear the growling sounds of the dragon-painted airship and turned my eyes skyward again, watching it float away as it left a thick trail of steam and smoke in its wake.

There was a time when such ships used to arrive once or twice a month, which I felt was typical, because I didn't think our village was important enough to have many visitors. However, each time they came, I imagined them to be mysterious foreigners from a world far beyond the boundaries of my home. I'd lived in Rune all my life and always wondered if such visitors were just as exotic as the ships they came in. As embarrassed as I was of my foolish reaction to the vessel's sudden appearance, I was glad to have had a chance to see it, for this was the closest I had ever been to one.

"Go home to your mother little boy. Maybe she can protect you from the scary dragon."

I frowned again, trying to hold back the urge to yell back at him. But it wasn't long before I gave in to my impulses, and in a moment of spite, dropped the bundle, picked up a pebble and threw it at him. I think it must've hit his neck, or a sensitive part of his shoulder, because he barked from the pain, then sprinted after me.

I don't remember the details of the chase, nor the pain of his fists when he eventually caught up with me. But what I did remember, was the inspired feeling I had as I ran after the airship. Though I followed the long, snaking trail of steam it had left lingering in the sky, I slowly came to realize that all my efforts were in vain. When it finally disappeared, I was suddenly reminded of the young man I'd all-too quickly forgotten. I felt the grasp of his calloused hand against my sleeve and the blunt thud of the earth as I tripped and struck my head against the ground. I began to regret acting so brashly, because my anger turned to fear as I felt the pale thump of his balled hands against my chest and face. I fought back as best as I could, but my limp arms only struck empty air.

"Say you're sorry! Say you're sorry!" He repeated, each time striking my body. I was too scared to say anything, let alone apologize.

He stopped after his hands were adequately smeared with the blood that oozed from my nose. I writhed on the ground, crying. He cussed and spat, then, feeling satisfied, proceeded to walk away.

I waited until he was some ways away, then, as I slowly stood up, I found myself committing yet another regretful act. I picked up another pebble and threw it at him.

There's a street in Rune I used to walk everyday. It was the only street at the time that was paved with concrete and asphalt, unlike the other roads, which were just dirt and gravel. It didn't matter where I was going or where I was coming from since all the village's paths and trails eventually went through it. On either side of the road, wooden buildings huddled together like bricks in a wall. Most were shops dotted here and there with a few scattered houses. In the evenings the pale lights from their windows seemed to give the street its own life, teeming with humble glows that acted like eyes, blinking and flickering as they pretended to watch people go by. Though it was considered the very center of the village, it was almost always quiet with little of the bustle and noise that we all see and hear in the cities of today. It was in its own way, a serene, sometimes calming place. I passed the fortune teller several times a week, watching her pray near the entrance of her shop, inhaling the wisps of incense and ash that flowed from her open door. There was an old man a few buildings further down that had taught his grand daughter how to play a simple-looking stringed instrument. Sometimes I would hear the girl, pluck tirelessly at it as I walked by. Our eyes would meet and we would nod or smile at each other without a single exchange of words.

This time, however, I was limping down that same street with my throbbing face smeared with blood and tears. I clutched my aching shoulder and walked as if I had accidentally pressed my bare feet onto broken glass. Even though it was a stupid thing to do -throwing that second stone and provoking a second beating from him- I was all-too-glad that I had done it. I felt more alive than ever. Even deep inside, there was a perverse tinge of pride. Surprisingly, there was hardly any pain, but I pretended that my wounds were far worse than they really were, exaggerating my limps and staggering about like an injured, noble animal. I held my head up high as if I were coming back from a great and glorious battle. While people regarded me with great skepticism, the fortune teller, who was sweeping her porch, simply stared with hardly any expression on her face. The grand daughter I had grown familiar with, paused from her practice and gave me a hesitant smile. I returned a wide grin. Her curiosity lasted for barely a moment before she turned her attention back to her instrument.

When I came home, I hurried to the kitchen and washed my face over the water basin, then took a wet cloth and wiped away the dirt from my arms and neck, knowing that if my sister discovered any evidence of what had happened, she would be furious. Though I wiped most of the blood away, I could still feel the sores around my eyes, and cheeks. My body twitched and my eyes watered against the chilly air. I hurried to my room to change into clean clothes, but froze when I saw my sister from the doorway of my mother's bedroom. She was home early that day. Thankfully, her back was to me as she knelt in front of mother's shrine in silent prayer, which was nothing more than a sheet of paper with the characters of my mother's name written upon it, hanging against the wall. She had placed some burning incense sticks in a bamboo cup beneath it.

I had every opportunity to slip past her and yet, it was a sudden feeling of guilt that beckoned me to remain in that doorway. Rarely had I ever seen her in solemn, spiritual reflection. I had always known her to be a strong, determined person, and yet, this was another part of her I always suspected she kept hidden away. I didn't know why she was so secretive about it. I could only guess that she was probably afraid that I would think of her as a more frantic, hopeless person for praying to our mother, maybe even think that I would mistaken her prayer as some manner of shameful pleading or groveling. I waited until she was done. She was quick to suppress her shock when she opened her eyes and found that I was there. Then, as if pretending that she were greeting me at the front door she said, " did you bring the wood?"

I didn't answer. Then the shock she suppressed an instant before, returned when she noticed the blood on my clothes and the purple marks near my eyes. She gasped, darted towards me, then held my face in her hands. She asked me what had happened and who had done this to me. I did nothing to hide it. I told her I was in a fight.

Sister's hands were always stained with dyes from the factory. Sometimes, when she came home from work, her face also had spots of unnatural color. But as she inspected mine, she seemed sad, as if the colors on my face were an unworthy reflection of her. . . of the ones she had on hers. She slapped me hard. Before I had a chance to react, she slapped me again and again, until I could no longer look at her. I thought she was angry, but all I heard was sorrow in her tone as she spoke.

"Promise me you won't disgrace us ever again."

I looked at the ground, bit my lip and clenched my fists until they shook. I tried to say, 'I promise,' but I couldn't find the strength to mouth the words. Instead, I nodded slowly. She then wrapped her arms around my shoulders and hugged me as hard she could. All at once, my pride disappeared, leaving me with the humility to say, "I'm sorry.

Little Dragon Boy, was what he called me after that day. For weeks, I would travel to the mill to fetch wood, only to find that same young man in the brown overalls waiting for me. My sister had told me that his father owned the mill and that he spent most of his days working there, watching over his father's business. Though I never noticed his presence before, I was now left with the dread of seeing his face whenever I went there. At first, he used the name as an insult, saying childish things like, "look at the scared little dragon boy", "watch out, or you might be eaten by one of the sky monsters little dragon boy" or, "poor little dragon boy, all he can do is throw pebbles."

I learned to ignore his words, growing stronger each time I managed to keep from showing him my anger as I simply took the wood from the pile, paid him and bowed respectfully in silence.

Soon, he started noticing my calm, reserved demeanor. Aside from that violent day we traded blows, he never saw me cry or show any anger, especially when he insulted me with his "little dragon boy" comments. One day, he stopped speaking in my presence. We simply nodded to each other as we exchanged wood for money. Perhaps he realized how much I had grown since then, or perhaps he simply ran out of insults, but three months later, before I left with another wood bundle in my arms, he looked at me with the same stone-like expression I gave him and said without a single hint of animosity, "take care, little dragon."

Later, I learned that his father had died from a disease a week earlier -reportedly the same one that had ended the life of my mother- and that he'd become the new owner of the mill. He had to accept that it was his time to grow up, to let go of senseless grudges that would only get in the way of his duties. It was time for him to become an adult.

From that moment on, he simply called me little dragon, a name that I felt was more like an honorary title, than a nickname. I decided it was time to put my own animosity towards him behind me, and maybe even offer him a small measure of respect.

The Summer festival was one of the few holidays the village of Rune honored. Unless you had a job in one of the festival booths or in the town committee, no one was allowed to work that day. This was the one day of the year where I felt truly excited, the day I always looked forward to. Everything about the festival was a celebration of life, prosperity and good fortune for the coming year. It was also one of the few times I was able to see my sister stop acting like an adult and be the older sister she would've been if our mother was still alive.

The celebration didn't start until the lanterns were lit in the evening and the music from side-walk musicians began to play. It was customary to wear colorful, decorative robes during the festival, but no one could afford such things, so instead, we wore our day clothes. My sister however, always wore her make-up and did her hair in two separate buns, both tied off with red ribbons. In the festival of my thirteenth year, she almost looked like an unblemished teenager again, except for the dye stains on her callused hands and one small stain on her cheek. To me, she was the perfect symbol to our town's spirit. Though she worked hard every day, she still found it important to celebrate and enjoy life regardless of how grim things had become.

Though the town couldn't afford much, we still had enough to celebrate and enough to be happy. Food was not plentiful, but the booths still cooked small portions of fried squid, steaming dumplings and fresh pork buns. The town leader always made sure that every possible thing that made a festival, a festival, was preserved in some way, even at the sacrifice to some quality or quantity. I was glad, because the atmosphere was always enchanting and vibrant enough to leave a lasting smile upon my lips. The murmur of bustling crowds and laughing children, the smells of food, the shouts of game booth attendants enticing people to play their cheap games for even cheaper prizes, even the sparse fireworks used to scare away evil spirits, made me swell with laughter, and for a time, even hope.

"The wood mill owner thinks I'm a man now."

She was close behind, with her arms resting on my shoulders as we went down the village's brightly lit main road. It was decorated and crowded on both sides by booths. And on the far end, it even had a performing stage. She laughed, squeezing shoulders. "My brother is a man now? This is the first I've heard of it."

"It's true Sister. He also gave me a nickname. Whenever we meet, he calls me little dragon."

"If he calls you little, then how can you be a man?" She pinched my cheek, and I jerked my head away, annoyed.

"But, he calls me little dragon. Anyone who has 'dragon' in their nickname has to be a man. Maybe he meant I was a little man, not quite old enough to be a great man."

We stopped at a booth, where she bought me some skewered fried squid. When she handed it to me, she smiled, like a mother about to reveal a glorious secret. "Terr, there's no such thing as a little man, or even a great man. You're either a man or you're not. It's just like marriage. You're not partly married or mostly married. You're either a single person or you're bound to the one you love. I'm starting to think your school is making you think about stuff that shouldn't matter. Some things are much simpler than you think."

I wondered if this time she was the naïve one. In my elderly years, I'd come to understand that nothing is ever simple. When a man says one thing, he may mean another, when we do something that we deem as noble, we may, in fact, be doing evil. It's just as if we took a brush and stroked a character on a piece of paper. Is it art, or is it just a word? I later learned, that it's both; that words and art are one and the same, just as I look back to that festival so many years ago and understand now that I was both a child and a man. Certainly, that's what he must have meant when he called me little dragon.

Of course, still being so young, and understanding nothing of the world, I easily took my sister's words to be the truth. I bit down on the fried squid and nodded, grudgingly accepting her wisdom. She then took my hand and for the next few hours we ran from booth to booth, playing games and watching performers entertain the crowds. I saw a man give a wondrous juggling act with sticks of fire, and before he finished, I found myself being dragged towards a game booth, and just as we finished the game, she eagerly pulled me to the next show or booth. It wasn't long before I became annoyed, but she continued to smile or laugh showing no empathy for the frown on my face.

"Sister, wait!"

"There's no time little brother. I want to do everything twice before the festival is over."

It was an impossible task considering how large the festival was and how little time there was left to celebrate. Still, she was ambitious, trying hard to fit so much in one, single night. I was certain that she wanted to make up for all the days she was cooped up at the factory.

There was one particular event, however, one that the both of us always took the time to see. It was a performance so unique, so rare, that the entire village gave pause to its festivities in order to witness it.

It was the dance of the chienkuu ko.

They were known as the children of the sky, or chienkuu ko in the old language. Many of them not much older than I, they possessed certain talents thought to be so amazing, that the Emperor deemed them keepers of the traditions and sacred culture of Rui Nan. At the time, I had only known them as honored performers, for it seemed they only appeared in our village, but just once a year to dance for our festival, then, all-too quickly return to the mysterious place they came from. Since they were direct representatives of our country's pride and demanded the respect of everyone's attention, the village leader always made sure they performed at the end of the festival, closing all the booths and assembling everyone at the massive, wooden stage, built just for them at the front of the temple.

Complete silence. Thousands of eyes were upon the stage, where eight children, four boys and four girls, slowly and ritualistically stepped to their places. The elaborately decorated girls all wore red silk robes with patterns of chrysanthemums, the imperial symbol, woven into the fabric with gold-colored thread. Their hair was neatly tied in single, large buns at the back of their heads, with gold and jade flower decorations dotting the crest of their hair. This was, but the single time of year of my young life where I had a chance to see people wearing actual kimonos. And it seemed strange to me that anyone could wear something that looked so intricate and fragile.

I was at the back of the crowd and could barely make out the girls' faces, as they were mostly hidden behind a vibrant mask of brightly colored make-up. As they kneeled down at the back of the stage, it seemed to me they weren't children at all, but instead, dolls; beautiful and graceful. The boys wore men's kimono's made of heavy blue silk. They also wore kimono trousers, or Hakamas, which were long, pleaded skirts that reached down to their ankles. On their chest was woven a single gold imperial chrysanthemum. Their hair was also tied off into single buns, wrapped with thick, black thread. Their faces seemed rigid and focused, with little trace of emotion as they proceeded to the front of the stage like monks in the middle of prayer, standing side-by-side while facing the crowd.

Without any introduction, the show began with the girls playing drums of all shapes and sizes with rhythmic beats both deep and primal, and light and spirited. The boys then danced with swift arm and leg movements, as if fighting some invisible enemy. All four were in sync with body and limbs moving as one, with motions so fast and deliberate, the full lengths of their arms seemed to disappear in blurs, holding one stance for just a brief moment, then snapping to another. Most of the movements were with the upper body. Like trees, they rooted their legs to the ground immediately after changing their stances. Their torsos and arms twitched and swung like snapping branches. My sister told me that this was the Spirit Tree dance. It honored the spirits of the forest, which made the plants grow and the crops plentiful.

I'd learned in my classes that a few hundred years ago, dances such as these were an important part of our culture. There was a dance for every way of life, from endowing men with courage before the day of battle, to bringing good fortune to a couple on their day of marriage. For something so old, it seemed odd to me that I'd only seen children perform the traditions of the old ways. Watching them dance year after year, I slowly came to understand that the chienkuu ko were more than just performers, they were living visions of who we once were. The drums crescendoed and their thudding echoes grew until the ground shook beneath me. Then suddenly, the drumming stopped and all eight of the children froze in their stances.

As the crowd cheered, the girls moved to the front of the stage in preparation for their part of the performance and the boys moved to the back, kneeling down to pick up stringed instruments. Some were pipas or yuans, which were plucked, others were erhus, which were used with the bow. These instruments were not native to Rui Nan, but instead, came from the Eastern Kingdom in Kin Ju, a large nation that lay across the ocean, who's culture seemed so similar to ours, that the only major difference between us were our languages.

Once the crowd was silent, the music began. This time, the sounds were soft and soothing. The female performers spun red and gold folding fans in their hands, waving them slowly in the air as they moved in circular motions, shuffling gracefully across the stage from one spot to the other. They moved like butterflies, following the steady flow of an invisible breeze and spinning and moving side ways like leaves in fall. Like the one before it, this dance celebrated yet another spirit. Called the Air Spirit dance, it honored the dreams and passions that inspires us all to live without regret. The gentle movements of their bodies represented one of two choices we must all ultimately make. Would we be like helpless leaves, letting the wind take us wherever it wishes, or sprout wings and choose our own direction?

I proudly explained to my sister, the meanings of the dances I'd learned in school. She gave me a prideful look, as if she already knew.

She kept her eyes transfixed on the stage as she spoke. "A dance is just a dance little brother, no matter how beautiful or meaningful it might seem. You should learn to accept things as they are, not as what they might be."

Though it seemed she had no interest in the spiritual meaning of the performance, she was still enchanted by the music, the motions and the beauty of the grand event before her. Her gaze was just as intent as mine. We were peering into another world through a window, it seemed, where people dressed and acted as perfectly as the eight young performers before us.

We were such humble people. We had no jewels, no silk robes, nor did we see anything about ourselves that we considered special. We did common things in the eyes of the Emperor, yet every year, these children, his most valued works of art, came to perform. Whether it was his way of thanking us for all our hard work, or reminding us of his benevolence, I was most grateful for a chance to glimpse at the possibilities that lay beyond our village.

Decades later, I can recall a number of times when my children and grand children asked me about the meaning of their names. Why were they called chienkuu ko? Why were they the children of the sky? Secretly, and with hushed tones I tell them that the answer is simple: with their very will, they can change the motions of the sky. The oldest of my children often laugh and shrug it off as the ramblings of an old man. But amongst my younger ones, my answer sometimes manages to intrigue them and I tell them what was meant by my words by describing the final act of the summer festival performance.

After the Air Spirit dance concluded, the four girls once again went to the back of the stage, then sat down and folded their hands neatly on their laps. They sat completely still, gazing off into the distance, as if pretending to be Buddhist statues. All four of the boys went to the front and stood patiently as monks in red robes placed four large stones, each carved into the shape of fish at their feet. Several other monks, far behind the stage, then began beating a rhythm from their drums. For a moment, everyone on the stage was completely still, as the eight children gathered their focus.

I watched with such eagerness, that I was afraid to blink. Glancing at my sister, I saw that her mouth was open like a fish, entranced by a piece of bait. For several minutes, they did nothing while the drum beats remained steady, simmering the audience's anticipation. Then, I felt the startled grasp her hand as she took my arm. The four stone fish began to rise up into the air as the male performers made slow, vertical hand motions. The objects levitated slowly to the height of their shoulders, bobbing and swaying like a leaf on a wavy pond. It was at this point that a few doubtful words were murmured throughout the audience. Some said they found the wires or a dangling bit of string, but like every year before, I was still unable to find a single trace of evidence proving their claims. Still, I had lingering thoughts, wondering if it was indeed a trick or some sort of illusion. My sister, who was usually a down-to-earth sort of person, thought otherwise. Like almost everyone else in the village, she believed it was real, or rather, maybe she wanted to believe it was.

With great, big, sweeping hand gestures, the fish-shaped stones darted from one direction to the other, imitating the motions of a school of sea creatures. They dove to the performer's feet, then climbed to the tops of their heads, all the while, following graceful, arm and body movements. It was like watching a parent, teaching their child to dance. A performer would step and move a certain way, and the stone fish would follow in their wake, imitating their motions in a similar fashion. Wild cheers were given as the four fish flew from the stage to the very center of the crowd, just above our heads. They circled in wide arches, then small ones, as if they were curious of the gazing people below them. What was once idle stone, had all-at-once, become as alive as any animal.

A year before, the performers used stones carved in the shape of butterflies, and as their exotic shape suggested, they drifted through the air as one would expect butterflies to move. The year before that, it was stone cranes, and they dove and soared as all of us had seen birds do. That night, we were treated to a spectacle that was every bit as enchanting as their past performances. To move stone in such strange and intricate ways, I was convinced that it could not have been done with wires or string.

I explained to my children and grand children that it was magic. The will of the sky had been altered in order to levitate the stones. I never expected them to believe me. But to have my secrets presented before curious ears always felt as if I was somehow passing on all the hidden years of my life to my family, even if it sounded a bit far-fetched.

The end of the festival was marked with the lantern ceremony, the solemn portion of the evening where we honored the one's closest to us who have long since passed away. There was a serene air of respectful silence as everyone gathered by the river to float tiny boats mounted with red paper lanterns. Upon each lantern, was written the name of a loved one. Often, I found myself admiring the tranquility of the lantern ceremony as much as I did the energy of the stone dance performances.

I later learned that Summer Festivals at the capital and other major cities, ended with a grand display of fireworks and exchanges of gifts and money. They danced to bellowing music and watched massive parades march down their streets. It was their tribute to a future filled with good fortune and prosperity. My town had no where near enough money for such a grand thing. And I thought it fitting, that we all remember the past through the loved ones that we've lost in order to understand that good fortune and prosperity does not simply appear out of nothing. Instead, it comes from great sacrifice, from the ones that gave everything, including their lives, so that others can live more fruitfully.

I watched the warm, red glow from the lantern written with my mother's name float down the river with the others. Together, they formed a great trail of red light, stretching deep into the night. My sister had told me, that the trail of red lanterns was there to allow the spirits of the dead to find their way home.

I thought very selfishly then, and wondered why we must give people direction in the after-life, when we had trouble finding our own. I'd thought of everything mother had done to raise us, and since she knew that she was dying, she did everything possible to help us think on our own. For that, I was grateful. But it wasn't enough that we knew how to survive. I wanted her to help me understand what direction my life should take, what I should do beyond just surviving. From the moment our mother passed away, my sister knew the path her life had to follow, and that was to take care of me. Even the young man at the wood mill, who had taken over his father's business, knew the course of his life. It even seemed the girl, whom I often saw practicing her instrument everyday, knew what she was to do with her life as well. Yet, here I was, in my thirteenth year, gazing into the uncertainty of my future.

A few more months past. My fourteenth birthday came and went. I went to school, helped my sister with the chores and watched her paint clouds on rice paper. I saw more dust gather on mother's pots. My studies had made me more attune to the world and I came to envy my classmates and their carefree spirits. While they played, I studied as hard as I could. I wondered every day what my life would become, what job I would be most suited to do. I thought of the only jobs I knew at the time; fisherman, farmer, woodcutter, tailor; all the ones which required the use of my hands. I asked my sister, which one I should become. She said, none of them, and ordered me to keep studying. So I continued my schooling, did my chores and watched her paint more clouds on rice paper. I recalled the girl practicing her music and asked my sister about becoming a musician. She laughed and said that those who make music for a living would be full of spirit, but have empty pockets. Confused, and unable to comprehend what my sister truly wanted from me, I decided that I would seek out the answer myself.

I remember how chilly it was that day, the day I worked up the courage to speak to the fortune teller. It was so cold I could see the breath leave my mouth. Bare trees dotted the withered hills and brown leaves lay everywhere. The sky was a water-color painting with gray blotches covering up the sun. I stood in front of her door with a determined mind, but I imagined, with my shivering and stuttered breath, I must have looked more like a sad little beggar than a proud young man.

I knocked on the sliding door and waited. I heard shuffling inside and after a few a moments, the door slid open, revealing a stern woman, with well-kept, gray hair tied in two neat buns. She wore the same cotton worker's pants and shirt that my sister wore, except there wasn't a single blemish in the fabric to be found. They were clean and without wrinkles. It was as if she had just received her clothes brand new from the factory and hadn't chosen to wear them until today. Her proud eyes seemed so intimidating, that I could hardly bare to look at her face directly.

I bowed as deep as I could without falling over. Though I tried to speak in my most solemn, respectful tone, I must have come across as sounding more like a panting dog, shivering in the cold air. "I'm sorry for the intrusion miss. I was wondering if you could tell me my fortune."

I could feel the woman's ominous eyes looming, and hoped that she didn't think it strange that a child like myself would be asking for her business. I noticed the soft, warm scent of incense through her open door and saw glimpses of fine, polished wood flooring inside. She must've been well off, with her neat clothes and the enticing sweet smells of her home.

"I don't give fortunes to children. Go home and take care of your family." Her voice sounded stern, but I remained where I was.

"Please miss, I want to know my future. I want to know if I'll become anything of worth."

"You're going to be sick. That's what you will be if you stay out here in the cold for too long. Now go home." She went back into her house, startling me as she shut the door behind her.

I knocked on her door again, but got no answer. I waited several more minutes before I knocked again. Still, no answer. I sat down on her porch, hugging my arms to keep warm.

Her high, shrilly voice startled me again as she called out from inside. "I can hear your breathing from in here. Leave now. I don't bother with children, let alone disrespectful ones."

"But I want to know something. Please miss, can you tell me my fortune? I have money."

I heard her feet shuffle from inside as she went from one end of the house to the other, but she didn't reply. I suppose, she decided to ignore me, hoping I'd get tired and eventually leave.

I must have looked like a fool as people walked by and saw my lazy form slumped over on the fortune teller's porch. No one came up to me and questioned why I was in such an awkward position. Perhaps the people that walked by didn't care much for the scene, or thought that I was this lady's son, being punished for something. I was embarrassing myself, and knew that if my sister found out what I was doing, I would surely receive a beating. Yet, it would be a small price to pay, just to catch a glimpse of my future.

I stayed long after the sun disappeared under the hills. I could see the faint glow of the lanterns inside, through the paper door. Her silhouette went back and forth like some grand shadow puppet play that I'd once seen a long time ago. I could hear her sigh and the small stomps of her feet. I imagined she must of thought of me as something of a stalker, waiting for her to sleep so that I may go inside and commit terrible acts. These thoughts discouraged me a little, but it was too late for me to go home now. My sister would already be worried about me and if I went to her now, she would most likely be angry and I'd definitely be punished, and all of this would have been for nothing.

"Are you still out there child?"

I answered as quickly as I could, glad to hear a voice break the uneasy silence. "Yes miss, I'm still here. Please, forgive me for not leaving. I know I've been disrespectful, but I just need my fortune told to me."

She quickly slid her door open and I immediately bowed so low that my forehead touched the ground. I felt the warm air of her house envelope me. It was just enough to keep me from shivering.

"You really are a sad little thing aren't you? 'I want my fortune told', is that the only thing you can say? A person of common sense would at least come back tomorrow and try asking again instead of lying in front of my house like a beggar waiting for scraps of food." I nodded, my forehead still touching the ground. "Sit up. I want to see your face."

As I lifted my head, she knelt down in front of me and looked at every feature of my face against the pale glow of the house's lanterns. Even though I tried not to look at her directly, I saw, for the first time, the details of her face. Pronounced cheek bones, small, brown freckles and just the slightest crease of wrinkles. She looked much like an older version of my sister. She struck her palm against the top of my head. It didn't hurt, but it caught me by surprise and forced a yelp from my lips.

"That's for not obeying your elders. Next time an adult gives you a command, you listen and do it. Do you understand?" Her shrill voice growled like a wild tiger, but seeing her kneeling down to face me, instead of forcing me to stand, made me think about how polite she was.

I nodded quickly. "Yes miss, I'm sorry for what I did. Please forgive me. I just wanted my fortune-"

"Yes yes, you want your fortune told. You sound like an idiot, and you most likely are. But since you're my only customer today, and seeing as you've probably scared off anyone else seeking my services, I will tell you your fortune."

"Thank you miss, I'm very grateful." I smiled and bowed once again. She cupped her hand underneath my chin suddenly, and moved my head in such a direction, that it caught the full light of the house lanterns. She looked at me as if she had found something valuable that she hadn't noticed before. She ordered me to look at her, and I did.

"You have eyes that see the motions of things." She said these words as if she were reading a poem. When she finally let go of my chin, she said, "If I tell you your fortune, there will be a price."

"I have money miss."

"No, not for money." Her voice sounded so serious at that moment, that her words came out like a bark. I had a half confused, half startled expression on my face, that must have further confirmed to the woman that I was indeed an idiot. "The price that I ask for is a promise. You must promise to do something for me after our meeting here is done. Do you understand child?"

"Yes miss, I understand."

She looked at me as if she doubted my sincerity. Even so, she must have been satisfied, because she stood up and motioned me to come inside.

The best way I could describe my feelings as I entered the woman's home, is the feeling that comes with entering a sacred temple, or a great mansion for the first time. I'd never seen so many decorations or glimmering objects gathered in one place before. The floor was clean and pristine with hardly any blemishes. As I took off my shoes and left them at the door, I was afraid that my dirty feet would stain them, so I walked carefully, standing only on my toes. On the walls hung scrolls, written with grand, brush-stroked characters, with meanings I couldn't hope to understand. There were pots, urns, vases and many, many small sculptures of birds, all nestled neatly in corners or on top of tables. At a glance, I suppose anyone would see this woman's home as a bit crowded with these objects lying about, but as I followed my host from room to room, I started to discover an order to the way her things were placed. Each sliding door revealed another completely different part of the house, where objects were placed in their own peculiar order and the decorations were specific to the room in form and color. In one room, there were only crane figurines, made of both wood and metal. In another, there was nothing, but elegant ink-brushed paintings hanging from the walls. It was amazing that such a small home could have so many rooms.

Finally, we came to a place in the farthest part of the house that was completely empty, except for two mats and a single scroll hanging from a wall. Across its face was a picture of a flower that looked like a chrysanthemum and a few characters underneath, none of which I could read. She ordered me to sit on one of the mats. I obediently did as she requested. She gracefully kneeled down on the other mat, placing her hands on her lap, looking much like a geisha I had seen in a picture that was featured in a newspaper once. By the way the she looked, I suppose men her age would have found her attractive, but the minute they would have exchanged conversation, they would have realized that her shrilly voice would be more than enough to ruin the enchantment of her beauty.

She looked at me for one, long silent moment, as if she were inspecting for blemishes on a clean piece of silk. I looked at the ground, trying to avoid gazing at her eyes, shifting uncomfortably on the mat while I waited for her to speak or do something. The stillness made me feel uncomfortable. I felt the urge to ask what she was doing, but before I could open my mouth she asked, "What is your name?"

I kept my eyes to the ground, but answered without delay. "My name is Terr, miss."

"Your full name child. Tell me your full name."

"My name is Terr Wind."

She made a sound in her throat, as if annoyed by the tone of my answer. Her hands moved to the side to pickup a large piece of paper. She flattened it on the ground between us and ordered me to look up at her. I did exactly as she commanded. "Forgetting your ignorant behavior today, it seems you're much more behaved than the other children in this town. Perhaps you're not so much a fool as I thought you to be. Fools don't know they're fools. But I can tell that you judge yourself with less pride than most. I know who you are. I know you're that boy that lives alone with your sister at the far end of town. And now, I have a name to put with that face of yours."

I wanted to ask for her name was as well, but I was afraid of sounding rude. But before I could risk the question, she spoke again.

"Miss Nishio. That's the name you will call me from now on. Calling me just 'miss' all the time is like calling a cedar, cherry or maple tree just, 'tree'. Proper names are much more meaningful and deserve respect, just as you will respect me. Do you understand child?"

"Yes Miss Nishio."

I watched as she placed a bottle of ink and a small brush to the side. She then carefully dabbed the brush in the ink and slowly drew a broad circle around the center of the paper. I was drawn by the graceful movement of her wrist as she moved the brush in wide, effortless curves, much like my sister did when she painted her clouds. She took her time, making sure the circle was completed in one single stroke, and was as close to perfection as her old hands would allow. I had never seen anyone put so much effort into painting a simple circle. After she finished, she put the brush aside and turned her attention back to me.

"I'll tell you your fortune now and name the price afterwards. But before I do this, you have to understand what's going to happen. After we're finished, after I tell you about the path your destiny will take you, your life will no longer be in your hands. The choices you make from now on will be meaningless in the face of what you will become. This is a very big decision for such a young child to make. If you are absolutely sure you want to do this, then we will begin."

I felt like a young bird about to jump from the nest, not knowing if I would learn to fly before striking the ground. She waited patiently for me to say something, but I remained silent.

The fortune teller seemed to sense my hesitation. I think my expression at that moment discouraged her deeply, because she sighed and started putting the brush, ink and paper away. I gasped and quickly nodded in agreement to her proposal, but she acted as though she didn't see me.

I put my hand on the paper before she had a chance to put it away and blurted my words so loudly, that I even startled myself.

"I understand. Please tell me my fortune."

She must have expected me to say those words, because she smiled as if she had just gained ownership over my soul. She placed everything back to where they were in a very neat and prompt fashion. Afterwards, she took out a very small, white feather, about the size of a coin and held it high above her head over the piece of paper. My sister had once told me that fortune tellers often used bones or cards to tell the future. I was expecting her to do just that, but seeing her holding a feather above her head seemed not only surprising, but also a little more absurd than what I was prepared for. I would've giggled like an idiot if not for the harsh gaze she directed at me. She waited until she felt I had given her my full attention, then started to speak slowly and deliberately.

"This feather will land somewhere on that piece of paper. Point where it will land."

I noticed that the feather was held exactly over the center of the circle. Since the air was still, I thought it would fall easily somewhere inside the circle, yet, as she was probably a woman of cunning, I imagined that she was tricking me into thinking that, that was exactly where it would land. I was hesitant to place my finger on the paper, not knowing what would happen if I pointed at the incorrect spot. Maybe if I guessed correctly, something even worse would happen.

"What happens if I guess wrong?"

"I didn't tell you to speak child. I told you to point."

"But I don't know what all this means. How can I make a choice if I don't know what's going to happen?"

I knew what I'd said was very rude, and the annoyed look on her face was proof of that. I pressed my lips together to prevent anymore words from spilling out of my mouth.

"Do what I say, and then I will tell you what it all means. It's that simple." Her voice was much calmer than I thought it would be, but it was evident that I was taxing her patience. "Choose child. Choose quickly."

I looked at the piece of paper, then pointed at the exact center of the circle, but as I lifted my eyes to the feather, I allowed my finger to wander. "There, it will land there."

She dropped the feather, and like a petal, it tumbled for a bit, drifting slightly from one direction to another until my eyes followed it down to the exact place where my finger rested: At the far, right edge of the paper, outside of the circle.

She pondered at the spot where the feather had landed as it lay at the tip of my finger. Her eyes moved back and forth, like she was reading a poem. I froze, afraid to move and risk disturbing her thoughts, as she seemed to be trying to find meaning in what I had done. She waved away my hand and locked her gaze at me.

"You have trouble making decisions child. You chose the center of the circle first, then chose the outside. Why?"

I shifted a little on the mat, wondering if I had offended her somehow. "When I looked at the circle, I thought it was going to land there. But when I looked at the feather, I knew it wanted to go somewhere else."

"And that 'somewhere else', was right where you pointed child. You guessed correctly. You see, this circle represents the common path everyone takes. They do common jobs, they do common things, they lead common lives. This feather represents your life. Wherever it lands, that is the path that your life will take. Where you point is the path that you want your life to take." Her expression dimmed, as if she were about to tell me grim news. "You're not like everyone else, child. Your life will not take a common path. You will not do common things. Because you first chose the inside of the circle, you'll want to do the things that everyone else does, live the life that everyone else lives, but in the end, your destiny will force you to go elsewhere."

She took the ink brush and drew several straight lines, radiating outward from the edges of the circle. "This is your symbol, child."

"It looks like a sun with rays coming out of it."

"Perhaps it does. The circle in the center is the common path. The rays are the people that leave the common path in order to seek a different life. You are one of those rays."

"Does this mean I won't be working in the factory with my sister?"

"It means, that soon, you will have no need for this village, or your sister."

I stuttered back as if she'd dropped small stones down my throat. "What? Why?"

"I won't tell you anything more." She rolled up the piece of paper and tied it with a piece of string. "Now, I will name my price. I'm not going to ask for payment, but rather, I'm going to make a request. For as long as you remain in this village, do not look for work. Do not help at trade shops, or work with the crafters in town. If someone offers you a job, say no. Let your sister do all the work for you. If you want everything that she's done for you to be worth something, then you need to be patient. Go to school and learn as much as you can. In time, a great opportunity will come for you."

She handed me the rolled-up paper.

"Do not lose this child. Keep it with you."

The trip home was a slow one. The icy, cold air bit at my nose as I wrapped my arms tightly around my body, trying vainly to keep the shivers away. I was in no hurry. I knew my sister would be angry with me once I got home and that I would be severely punished. However, when I got back, I was relieved to find she was not there at all. She was working late at the factory again.