red string。two

"Way back in an ancient dynasty, before your grandparents' grandparents were born, there lived an old man with a bag of red string."

Raven Haired Boy frowns.

"That wasn't how the story started last time."

The Storyteller looks once at the book, twice at the Boy, and back at the book again. Brushes the well-worn pages with his fingertips; smooth, inked characters a far cry from his sandpaper hands. Perhaps he will forgo the text in the book before him tonight. Perhaps it is time for some more of the truth to be told.

In his hands, the book radiates a soft light — he pretends not to see. Instead, he looks up at the Boy once more, holding his gaze.

"Are you telling me a new part of the book?"

A slow, imperceptible nod. The Storyteller smiles; the story continues.

"Nobody knew where he was from, this peculiar old soul, but legend says that he was blessed by moonlight from the heavens above, and descended from the Jade Palace high atop the starry river where the Queen Mother resided in splendor and serenity. They called him by many names; he was a sage man from the mountains, an immortal responsible for marriage and love, a scholar, a truth-bringer, a storyteller."

"Like you!" Says the Boy.

The Storyteller nods once, a knowing smile on his face. "Like me."

"You know, some other fables talk of the Old Man still wandering among us in this day and age, keeping his bag of red string close and his Book even closer."

"What's in the book?" Asks the Boy.

"The Book is just that — a book," explains the Storyteller. "Whatever the Old Man desired to read, the Book would show it to him. It could tell him about the history of his world, admonishing the failures of the dynasties before him. It could be a fortune telling device, unfolding events that were yet to come."

"Most of the time, though, it was a record book. The Old Man carried an account of all the people that ever walked on this earth, listing their birth, death, life, love, and fate. He was responsible for two of the five categories — and the red string could change both."

The Boy leans in closer, intrigued. Love and fate are a peculiar combination.

"Our story begins at the foot of a never-ending mountain. It was nighttime when the Old Man was reading his book."

Raven Haired Boy closes his eyes. He sees the faint silhouette of a man in front of a monstrosity; jagged rocks and formidable peaks, jutting cliffs and hidden trails leading up the hulking mountain. Crickets fill the silence, shrill chirps emanating from the trees.

It is peace, serenity, perfection. Under the glow of the moonlight, the Old Man reads without a care in the world. Turns the page of his book; lost in thought, calculations swirl in his mind. A match for him, a match for her, a match for them. He strokes his beard, silver with age and a millennium of knowledge from wandering the land. Red string spills out from his bag attached to the leather belt on his hip — he ties the knot around two figurines that pop out from the pages of the book. It glows, brighter, brighter, brighter...and then, the couple vanishes. Match secured: hook, line, sinker.

It seems painfully easy, this process of tampering with fate, but the Boy knows better. Everything in this world has a system; everything has its meaning, whether or not he understands.

"What happens next?" The Boy is ready to hear more.

"The Old Man heard the sound of someone clearing their throat."

The Storyteller coughs into his arm, once, twice.

" 'Who's there?' He said, not looking up from his book."

"I know, I know," the Boy raises his hand excitedly. "The prince."

"Yes, the prince," the Storyteller smiles. "It was clear from birth that he'd grow to become a scholarly fellow — he was always inquisitive and curious, poking his nose into everyone's business. The prince wanted to learn about the world, so he'd set off away from the palace to explore the land. He was not yet fifteen years of age when he encountered the Old Man on his journey back home."

" 'What are you reading?' Asked the prince."

" 'You wouldn't understand,' replied the Old Man, eyes never leaving the page."

" 'Oh, but I'll try.'"

"And seeing that the young prince truly meant no harm, the Old Man invited him to sit down beside him. He explained to the boy how the Book worked, and how he was responsible for the fate of humankind. By connecting souls together with his red string, he could secure someone's happiness or sadness with a single knot. That way, he knew of everyone's destiny."

" 'Can you give me an example?' The young prince asked."

" 'Yes,' the Old Man answered with a twinkle in his eye. He took the prince to the nearby village and pointed to a small hut on the edge of town, where a small girl was resting near the glow of the fireplace. It was evident she'd fallen asleep while reading the book in her hand, slumped on the table, arms outstretched to the warmth in front of her. The book dangled haphazardly between her index and middle finger, just over the edge of the table. She shook her hand ever so slightly, and the book went falling with a resounding smack against the wooden floor."

"The girl sat up quickly, startled by the noise. She looked around and noticed the prince and the Old Man out of the corner of her eye. Blushing furiously, she picked up her book, went back to the table, and began to read again."

" 'What is she reading?' The prince wondered."

" 'A book of folktales,' whispered the Old Man. 'It's a collection of stories told by mouth that have been recorded on paper. She's reading her favorite story about the Goddess who Patched the Sky.'"

"The prince smiled. 'I like that story.'"

" 'The Book foretells that you will be a perfect match,' said the Old Man. 'It tends not to lie.'"

" 'Are you saying I'm going to marry her?'"

" 'When the time comes, yes. It says it here in the Book.'"

"And sure enough, when the Old Man pointed to the girl's name, the prince found his name written beside it."

" 'Now take a look at your ankle,' the Old Man instructed."

"The prince did as he was told, and found a piece of crimson thread tied to his ankle. The string seemed to stretch on and on, but the prince traced the line until he found the other end tied around the girl's foot."

" 'The red string links you together for eternity,' the Old Man explained. 'It will never twist or break, because fate has tied you both together. I simply make your destiny tangible with my string — so you'll remember there's always another end to your story.'"

"Filled with hope and excitement, the young prince cast a smile at the young girl who was absorbed in her reading. He thanked the Old Man profusely, and rushed back home to tell his father the good news. It was a miracle, he thought, being able to see the girl he would be promised to in the future. He remembered the captivated look on her face as she began to read the book, and thought of her when he found a book of folktales in the palace library upon his return."

"But the king had other thoughts—"

"Oh no," Raven Haired Boy says. "This is where the bad part begins."

"It isn't all that bad — this story has a happy ending," the Storyteller reminds him.

"Well," the Boy shivers. "If I were the little girl, I'd be frightened when—"

"Would you like me to tell the story, or would you like to continue?"

Raven Haired Boy smiles tentatively at the Storyteller. "Go on, then."

"When the prince arrived home and told his father about his adventures, he did not hesitate to tell the king about his encounter with the Old Man, the Book, and his future wife. But the king did not take to the news kindly."

" 'Who is this man?' he scoffed. 'Thinking he can run around with a heavy object filled with nonsense, claiming he can change fate — we'll see about that! My son will not be marrying a lowly village girl when he takes my throne. This old man should know that fate can only be manipulated by those with power such as you and I.'"

"The king ordered his soldiers to go out the next day in secret. They were instructed to find the girl according to the prince's descriptions, and...dispose of her, in whatever ways necessary. The soldiers-turned-assassins snuck out in the dead of night, fully equipped to do their job."

"As they were creeping up on the girl's hut, the soldiers suddenly heard a soft whisper near them. The voice belonged to the Old Man."

"Seeing as the Old Man was an immortal, he had no need for earthly goods such as money or property. He managed to dissuade most of the soldiers into sparing the young girl's life with a hefty sum of gold bars and county estates, but one soldier — the youngest one, most loyal to the king — snuck away from the group."

"There was a large tussle when the soldier entered the house. The others outside heard a high pitched scream, and ran away as fast as they could — just so long as one person had done the job, they'd all get compensation, anyway. Books upon books were knocked to the floor as the girl wrestled with the soldier for her life, but the soldier had the upper hand. He was stronger, older, and faster than she was, and managed to pin her down just as she was escaping out the window."

"The soldier took a deep breath. He closed his eyes, opened them. Put his knife to the girl's neck, slowly bringing it nearer and nearer to her skin...he was about to draw blood...and then, he froze."

"The Old Man was watching from the window, eyes seeming to glint with a somber warning: will you be able to live with the guilt of taking the life of an innocent girl? Will you tell your family with pride that you harmed a defenseless child?"

"The soldier looked at the girl, looked at his knife, and jumped back in shock. He quickly sheathed his dagger, already frightened by the damage he'd done, and fled from the scene, far away from the village, far away from the palace, far away from home. Nobody ever heard from him again — most people say he set sail to another country where nobody knew his name."

"News traveled to the palace early the next morning. One of the soldiers who had taken the Old Man's bribe delivered a fake report announcing the girl's death by their hands. The soldiers who were sent on the mission were awarded considerably, while the prince, disgusted by his father's actions, retreated into his quarters for a year, saddened and heartbroken by the news. He poured his heart out into his studies to numb the pain of losing his chance at love, at guaranteed happiness with someone whom he was fated to be with for eternity."

"As for the girl, well, she lived to tell the tale. Haunted by the memories of what had happened to her that fateful night, she slept with a lantern burning next to her for the rest of her life."

"Ba, I'm scared," Raven Haired Boy whispers, bringing the Storyteller back to the present. "What if...some other people, the ones that don't like me because I look different...do the same thing to me?"

The Storyteller pauses. The Boy has never asked that question before, nor has he ever worried about the prospect of suffering the same fate as the girl in the story.

"I'm here," he says, hoping that his words offer some reassurance. "I'll protect you. They don't stand a chance against me."

The Boy looks at the Storyteller, teary-eyed and fearful. "Promise?"

The Storyteller swears those eyes will be his undoing. He will never say it — not in this lifetime, not in the next, but his heart fills with sorrow and longing and pride — pride for the person this child will become. How he is so easy to trust, so easy to love.

"Promise." The Storyteller says, and means it.

"Now," says the Boy, "tell me the good part. Tell me the happy ending."

So he continues.

"It wasn't until years later that the Old Man's prophecy came into the prince's life again. The boy had grown into a dashing young fellow — yet he was still every bit as inquisitive and scholarly as he had been during his formative years. The time came when he was promised to a young noblewoman from a distant province. The king had orchestrated this match on his own. He was proud that he'd seemingly outwitted the Old Man who had foretold of the prince's fate to be married to a lowly peasant from the village, and was pleased that the noblewoman had been both alluring and intelligent — no better match deserved for his son."

"The prince himself had no choice but to comply with his father's orders. As he waited for his bride's arrival, he couldn't help but wonder what his life would be like, ensnared in a match out of convenience, tied to his reputation forever, with someone he barely knew to spend the rest of his life with. It wasn't that he'd known the village girl well, either; he was just hoping for a familiar face. At least he knew that the girl liked reading books, too — this noblewoman was an enigma at best."

"All throughout the tea ceremony, the noblewoman's face was covered by a veil. He'd never felt more alone and shackled in his life — and as the king announced their union, he hoped that his bride wouldn't notice that the smile on his face wasn't real."

"The prince found his new wife in his quarters that night, unveiled, and reading a book by the faint light of a lantern hung on the side of his desk."

" 'If I may ask,' he said to the noblewoman, 'what are you reading?'"

" 'Folktales,' the woman responded, and turned to face the prince."

"The young man recognized her face immediately — the girl from the village! She was alive — she was here — she was his wife!"

" 'You!' the prince exclaimed in delight and shock. 'But I thought my father had you killed!'"

" 'I managed to escape with my life,' said the noblewoman, and she told the prince of what had happened that night. She also told him of her upbringing in the village near the never-ending mountain, and her life with her grandmother, who had nurtured her love for stories. When her grandmother passed, a distant uncle claimed her and whisked her away to his estate, where she resided in newfound wealth and splendor. Her uncle introduced her to far more knowledge and books than she could have ever imagined, and she devoured the information, eager to learn all that she had not known during her humble beginnings. When she was betrothed to the prince, she feared the worst."

" 'Will you let me continue to study?' she asked him meekly. 'Will you let me keep reading, and dreaming, and learning about all the places I have yet to see for myself?'"

" 'Of course!' The prince responded. 'I'd be delighted if you did.'"

"So they read underneath the dim glow of that lantern, until the fire burned out and the first rays of sunlight graced their presence the next morning. The noblewoman showed the prince her book of folktales and narrated her favorite stories. In turn, the prince took her to the library to show her one of his favorite stories, and they spent the rest of their days in simple bliss, comforted by their worlds of folklore and fantasy."

"The prince never forgot the Old Man, and celebrated the red string that bound him and his wife together. He had seen it in brief moments where the veil between reality and magic seemed to thin; a short, red line from his ankle to hers, her ankle to his, connecting them and marking them as soulmates. So he spent the rest of his days with his wife, the one he was fated to be with for eternity, just as the Book and the red string had foretold."

"And, as the people say in this country, they lived 'happily ever after.'"

༺═──────────────═༻

Raven Haired Boy smiles. A bittersweet silence floats into the room; the finality of a finished story bringing a breath of fresh air.

"Ba," the Boy says. The silence drifts away. "I don't think the prince and the girl were soulmates."

The Storyteller frowns. Leans in closer. "Why?"

"Because he loved reading stories more than he loved his wife."

"You can't say that for sure," the Storyteller chuckles. "Yes, he did love his books, but that wouldn't matter unless he found the right person to share his stories with."

"But why do you have to share stories with your soulmate?" Asks the boy. "Why can't you just share it with a friend?"

"You can share stories with anyone you want, but your soulmate just makes your connection more special. Who knows? Your friend might end up becoming your soulmate." The Storyteller smiles. "There's no telling what fate has in store for you."

"I wish I knew the Old Man," the Boy pouts. "He'll tell me about my future life, and then I won't have to worry about red string and fate messing it up."

The Storyteller holds back a chuckle. "Even if you knew him, he might not tell you," he says. "As with fairytales and folklore, everything in life is left up to fate. Sometimes it changes, sometimes it's set in stone from the very beginning. Either way, you can either attempt to control it, or let it run its due course and see where it takes you. And controlling it won't be easy — only the Old Man has that power."

"Then I'll wait," Raven Haired Boy says. "At least I have this story to remind me of him."

You have the world in your hands, the Storyteller thinks. There's so much waiting out there for you to explore.

To the Boy, he simply says, "You do."

The Storyteller looks at the clock on the wall. The minute hand points to eleven, and the lamp in the far corner still illuminates the room. The rain outside has stopped; its pitter-patter faded away long before his story ended. Raven Haired Boy shifts in his covers to lie flat in the bed, head resting against the pillow, facing the glowing plastic stars on the ceiling.

"Goodnight," the Boy simply says, and closes his eyes. "Thank you for the story, Ba."

"You're welcome," the Storyteller responds. "Sleep well."

The Storyteller stands up from his seat. Takes the book from the bedside table, walks to the doorway to switch off the lights. He prays that the people outside this house do not taunt his son in his dreams, and that the God of Sleep carries him to a dreamland far away from harm.

The lights are off. The stars still shine. The Storyteller shuts the door, and stares at the glowing book in his hands.

After that ethereal glow fades, the Storyteller does not open the book — simply places it back on the shelf in his study, one story among many he's collected over the years. He knows the words inside have changed: new information's been uncovered and recorded into the folktale based on the things he's said to the Boy earlier tonight. The words in the book will be altered as the centuries pass, so the Storyteller will let magic run its due course. There is no need for false wonder.

After all, he is in control of fate itself.