you have to offer the moon?”
“Only what I have in these packs.”
“That’s not quite what I meant,” the old man muttered. “But we might as well take a look at what you’ve brought, too.”
The old hermit looked through the first pack and found many practical things. The contents of the second pack were more expensive and rare, but no more useful.
Then the old man saw the third pack. “And what do you have in there?”
“I’ve never been able to get it open,” Jax said. “The knot is too much for me.”
The hermit closed his eyes for a moment, listening. Then he opened his eyes and frowned at Jax. “The knot says you tore at it. Pricked it with a knife. Bit it with your teeth.”
Jax was surprised. “I did,” he admitted. “I told you, I tried everything to get it open.”
“Hardly everything,” the hermit said scornfully. He lifted the pack until the knotted cord was in front of his face. “I’m terribly sorry,” he said. “But would you open up?” He paused. “Yes. I apologize. He won’t do it again.”
The knot unraveled and the hermit opened the pack. Looking inside, his eyes widened and he let out a low whistle.
But when the old man spread the pack open on the ground, Jax’s shoulders slumped. He had been hoping for money, or gems, some treasure he could give the moon as a gift. But all the pack held was a bent piece of wood, a stone flute, and a small iron box.
Of these, only the flute caught Jax’s attention. It was made of a pale green stone. “I had a flute when I was younger,” Jax said. “But it broke and I could never make it right again.”
“They’re all quite impressive,” the hermit said.
“The flute is nice enough,” Jax said with a shrug. “But what use is a piece of wood and a box too small for anything practical?”
The hermit shook his head. “Can’t you hear them? Most things whisper. These things shout.” He pointed at the piece of crooked wood. “That is a folding house unless I miss my guess. Quite a nice one too.”
“What’s a folding house?”
“You know how you can fold a piece of paper on itself, and each time it gets smaller?” the old man gestured at the piece of crooked wood. “A folding house is like that. Except it’s a house, of course.”
Jax took hold of the piece of crooked wood and tried to straighten it. Suddenly he was holding two pieces of wood that resembled the beginning of a doorframe.
“Don’t unfold it here!” the old man shouted. “I don’t want a house outside my cave, blocking my sunlight!”
Jax tried to push the two pieces of wood, back together. “Why can’t I fold it back up?”
“Because you don’t know how, I expect,” the old man said plainly. “I suggest you wait until you know where you want it before you unfold it the rest of the way.”
Jax set the wood down carefully, then picked up the flute. “Is this special too?” He put it to his lips and blew a simple trill like a Will’s Widow.
Now everyone knows the Will’s Widow is also called a nightjar. So it isn’t out when the sun is shining. Despite this, a dozen nightjars flew down and landed all around Jax, looking at him curiously and blinking in the bright sunlight.
“It seems to be more than the usual flute,” the old man said.
“And the box?” Jax reached out and picked it up. It was dark, and cold, and small enough that he could close his hand around it.
The old man shivered and looked away from the box. “It’s empty.”
“How can you tell without seeing inside?”
“By listening,” he said. “I’m amazed you can’t hear it yourself. It’s the emptiest thing I’ve ever heard. It echoes. It’s meant for keeping things inside.”
“All boxes are meant for keeping things inside.”
“And all flutes are meant to play beguiling music,” the old man pointed out. “But this flute is moreso. The same is true with this box.”
Jax looked at the box for a moment, then set it down carefully and began to tie up the third pack with the three treasures inside it. “I think I’ll be moving on,” Jax said.
“Are you sure you won’t consider staying for a month or two?” the old man said. “You could learn to listen just a bit more closely. Useful thing, listening.”
“You’ve given me some things to think about,” Jax said. “And I think you’re right, I shouldn’t be chasing the moon. I should make the moon come to me.”
“That’s not what I actually said,” the old man murmured. But he did so in a resigned way. Skilled listener that he was, he knew he wasn’t being heard.
Jax set off the next morning, following the moon higher into the mountains. Eventually he found a large, flat piece of ground nestled high among the tallest peaks.
Jax brought out the crooked piece of wood and, piece by piece, began to unfold the house. With the whole night in front of him, he was hoping to have it finished well before the moon began to rise.
But the house was much larger than he had guessed, more a mansion than a simple cottage. What’s more, unfolding it was more complicated than he had expected. By the time the moon reached the top of the sky, he was still far from being finished.
Perhaps Jax hurried because of this. Perhaps he was reckless. Or perhaps it was just that Jax was unlucky as ever.
In the end the result was the same: the mansion was magnificent, huge and sprawling. But it didn’t fit together properly. There were stairways that led sideways instead of up. Some rooms had too few walls, or too many. Many rooms had no ceiling, and high above they showed a strange sky full of unfamiliar stars.
Everything about the place was slightly skewed. In one room you could look out the window at the springtime flowers, while across the hall the windows were filmed with winter’s frost. It could be time for breakfast in the ballroom, while twilight filled a nearby bedroom.
Because nothing in the house was true, none of the doors or windows fit tight. They could be closed, even locked, but never made fast. And as big as it was, the mansion had a great many doors and windows, so there were a great many ways both in and out.
Jax paid no mind to any of this. Instead, he raced to the top of the highest tower and put the flute to his lips.
He poured out a sweet song into the clear night sky. No simple bird trill, this was a song that came from his broken heart. It was strong and sad. It fluttered like a bird with a broken wing.
Hearing it, the moon came down to the tower. Pale and round and beautiful, she stood before Jax in all her glory, and for the first time in his life he felt a single breath of joy.
They spoke then, on the top of the tower. Jax telling her of his life, his wager, and his long, lonely journey. The moon listened, and laughed, and smiled.
But eventually she looked longingly toward the sky.
Jax knew what this foretold. “Stay with me,” he pleaded. “I can only be happy if you’re mine.”
“I must go,” she said. “The sky is my home.”
“I have made a home for you,” Jax said, gesturing to the vast mansion below them. “There is sky enough for you here. An empty sky that is all for you.”
“I must go,” she said. “I have been away too long.”
He raised his hand as if to grab her, then stopped himself. “Time is what we make it here,” he said. “Your bedroom can be winter or spring, all according to your desire.”
“I must go,” she said, looking upward. “But I will return. I am always and unchanging. And if you play your flute for me, I will visit you again.”
“I have given you three things,” he said. “A song, a home, and my heart. If you must go, will you not give me three things in return?”
