A fairy tale

by Anders Flodin

Once upon a time, when the earth was still young and mountains could whisper across continents, there stood two proud peaks at opposite ends of the world. In the east rose Mount Fuji, crowned with snow like a porcelain tiara, watching over quiet lakes and cherry blossoms. In the west stood Mount Kriváň, sharp and noble, draped in mist and pine forests, guarding deep valleys where wolves sang at dusk. Though oceans lay between them, the wind was a restless traveler. It carried stories from one mountain to the other.

“Kriváň,” the wind would murmur as it circled his rocky shoulders, “there is a mountain in the east who glows pink at sunrise and reflects the stars in her lakes.” And to Fuji it would whisper, “There is a mountain in the west who stands like a knight, unbending in storms, whose slopes are painted gold each autumn.” Over centuries, curiosity turned to admiration, and admiration turned to longing. But mountains cannot walk. So they spoke to the Moon, who sees all peaks from above. “Great Moon,” said Fuji softly, her snowy peak shimmering, “is there a way for two mountains to meet?” The Moon smiled. “You cannot move your stone,” she said, “but you may share your spirit.” That night, something wondrous happened. From Mount Fuji rose a silver mist shaped like a crane. From Mount Kriváň leapt a golden mist shaped like a falcon. The crane flew westward, the falcon eastward. They met above the ocean, where dawn and dusk touched hands. There, in the sky between worlds, they danced. The crane carried blossoms in her feathers. The falcon carried pine needles and mountain herbs. As they circled one another, blossoms and needles mingled, drifting down into the sea. Wherever they touched water, new islands rose—small at first, then blooming with forests where cherry trees grew beside tall pines. The Moon declared it a wedding. The clouds became veils, the wind played music through invisible strings, and the stars formed a shining arch above the dancing spirits. “I give you the horizon,” said the Moon, “so you shall always see one another at sunrise and sunset.”

From that day on, when dawn breaks in the east, Mount Kriváň glows faintly pink, though no cherry trees grow upon him. And when dusk falls in the west, Mount Fuji sometimes carries a hint of alpine gold across her snowy crown. Sailors speak of rare evenings when east and west share the same colors. They say that is when the crane and the falcon meet again above the sea—renewing their vows in silence, proving that even mountains, though rooted in stone, can be joined by love that travels on the wind.

To Saki and Juraj