All the storytellers get it wrong.
Despite how the legend goes, the truth of the matter is, Dear Reader, I saw him first.
Countless years have passed, but I can recall that morning so well. The sun had not yet risen, and the colors of the forest were muted. I loved that time within the earthly realm, when all living creatures seemed to hold one collective breath, waiting for the day to begin. I had escaped my duty, fleeing the opulent quarters I shared with my six older sisters. My mother, the Heavenly Queen, had made a surprise visit, and I left them, bickering, complaining and gossiping—all vying for her attention. It was the perfect time to slip into our heavenly gardens and out a side gate.
As the seventh and youngest daughter of the Jade Emperor, I wear the crimson cloak of feathers. It grants me the power of flight and allows me to weave my colors into the earth’s skies: from rose to vermillion, from the lightest blush to the deepest crimson. My six older sisters all bear a cloak and color of their own, but if you ask me, the best was saved for last. I might be the youngest, but I weave the most brilliant colors in the skies for mortal eyes—no dawn or dusk is truly magnificent unless I choose to work that day.
That morning’s sunrise was a pallid, anemic thing without me. I lay in my favorite meadow hidden among silver birch trees overlooking an oblong lake below. Eventually, a gentle lapping stirred me from my daydreaming. I rose to my knees and peered over some wild ferns, curious what creature had wandered over to the waters.
A young man with his hair pulled into a topknot stood by the lake; his companion, an old ox with majestic horns and a golden-yellow coat drank at the water’s edge. Humans did not often visit this meadow, and it was rare that I came this close to a mortal boy. He had a tanned face and pleasing features. From his coloring and the way he filled out his faded blue tunic, he was no scholar or son from a rich family. The young man was speaking, but I was too far away to catch what he was saying. No one else was about—was he talking to his ox?
The old ox lowered its horns and its owner stroked the top of its head, continuing to talk. Intrigued, I leaned forward and crashed into the thick fern, the rustling of the leaves as loud as thunder in the morning quiet. I squatted in a most unladylike manner in the plants, unmoving as a statue. The young man glanced up and seemed to look directly at me, although it was impossible he could see me through the dense brush. He tilted his head and listened.
I didn’t breathe—not difficult for an immortal—and not one strand of my hair stirred in the breeze. You can never outwait a goddess, Dear Reader. I have all the time in the world. But this young man held still and listened for longer than I thought most mortals had the patience for. What was he doing out here alone, so far from the nearest village? I had been restless and bored for over a season. . . . What would it be like to talk to him? My sisters had flirted with mortals before—perhaps it was my turn. It’d certainly make for more interesting days.
It felt like fate, an opportunity presented on a gilded platter.
Finally, the old ox shifted, pawing one hoof at the lake’s muddied shore, and the young man seemed to nod in agreement. He took the ox’s worn leather leash, and they ambled away from the water, disappearing into the forest, beyond even my vision.
Yet I knew our paths would cross again.
My sisters berated me for neglecting my duties that morning. But if every sunrise and sunset were awash in my beautiful colors, would you not be bored by it soon enough? Wouldn’t you expect my crimson hues instead of appreciating them? It never ceases to amaze me how easily mortals take nature’s beauty—and so many things, really—for granted. But that particular dusk, I made it up to my sisters and to the mortals who had gotten nothing that morning but a pale yellow dawn that faded away in the span of a long yawn. Tying the silk sash of my crimson feather cloak, I leaped into the sky and wove a fluffy cloud at my feet, threading the faintest pink blush into it until it grew to the size of a comfortable divan. Settling into its soft depths, I streaked gorgeous red across the sky, as deftly as a calligrapher with her brush.
When I arrived home, weary from creating the magnificent display, my sisters enveloped me, a cocoon of silken sleeves and floral perfumes. “You have outdone yourself, xiao mei!” my fifth eldest sister said, stroking my cheek. “We do get cross with you, little one, but you redeem yourself every time.” My eldest sister, da jie, added emphasis with a pinch of my arm.
I feigned annoyance, and pouted, as was expected from the littlest sister. Do you know what it’s like to be the youngest among six strong-willed sisters? I learned very young how to get my way with each one of them, whether it was to act the insolent brat, the sweet one with sugar-coated words, or the naive innocent who could do no wrong.
But that night as I disentangled myself from their petting and cuddles, pinches and kisses, I was thinking only of the young man by the lake who spoke to his ox.
I know my story, Dear Reader, or how the mortals prefer to tell it.
Legend says that my young man’s magical, wise old ox told him where to find me, bathing in the lake with my beautiful sisters. How he should look for the crimson cloak cast on the ground at the lake’s shore, so I could not fly away from him when I was discovered. How in this way, he could coerce me to be his wife.
Well, that wasn’t how it happened.
I escaped from our heavenly palace even earlier the next day, when the stars still winked across the dark velvet skies. Floating down, I landed beside the lake where I had seen the young man the previous morning. And waited. I didn’t know the ways of mortals as much as I would like. He might have just been passing through.
But I wished for the young man and his ox to return that morning. And immortals often get what they wish for.
Soon enough, the crunch of footsteps and the tread of the ox’s hooves sounded from the wood’s depths. Shrugging off my cloak, I ran a hand over its crimson feathers, cool and sleek as the finest silk, and let it float to the muddied ground. The magical cloak was always pristine, no matter how poorly I treated it. I stripped off my pale blue dress, casting it behind a tree, and waded into the lake.
The water was very cold, but temperature does not affect me. I splashed around, making some noise, and swam farther into the lake. When the young man and his ox broke through the trees and he saw me, his stunned silence was louder than any shout of surprise. This time, I could see his features more clearly: the wide set of his dark brown eyes and the strong lines of his jaw. The woods were dense with fog, and mist swirled like phantoms on the lake’s surface. He brought a sun-tanned hand to his brow, shielding his eyes, as if unable to believe I was real.
His stance reminded me of the fawn I’d come across in the forests, ears flicked forward in fear, one leg poised as if ready to bound off in a breath. I worried that if I spoke I would scare him away. So I resorted to what I did best—I tricked him. The old ox lowered its noble head to drink from the lake. When it finished, I put words into the ox’s mouth.
“The young maiden has left her feathered cloak on the shore.” The ox’s speech came in a low rumble. “Fetch it for her, boy.”
The young man startled, taking a step back from his companion, and gaped at the ox. The animal shook its head, its magnificent horns arcing through the air, then lowed—a deep sound that reverberated in the still morning. “Don’t just stand there,” the ox reprimanded, still speaking the words I cast. “The water is cold.”
For a long moment, the young man didn’t move, but then he glanced at me again, and I let my mouth lift at the corners just a touch and nodded. I wrapped my bare arms around myself to emphasize the chill of the water.
“It is as your wise ox says.” I tilted my chin toward the crimson cloak pooled like spilled ink on the ground. “Could you get my cloak for me?”
My words seemed to stun him more than his old ox speaking. But he sprinted to my cloak and lifted it from the damp mud. I shivered, but not from the cold. No mortal had ever laid hands on my cloak before. Granted to me by my father the Jade Emperor himself, only the heavens know what he would have done if he came across this scene. Probably fling me to the farthest star in exile. Luckily, Father’s attention was occupied by too many important responsibilities. His youngest daughter pursuing a dalliance with some insignificant mortal boy would not even register.
I swam toward the shore, then waded out, feeling the thick mud between my toes. The water slid off my skin in rivulets, and the young man froze, his expression something akin to fear, yet he never looked away. I was not shy with my body, not like I had observed most humans to be, awkward in their own skins, as if their flesh owned them, and not the other way around. His dark eyes skimmed over my figure, then my face; but he was unable to meet my gaze. A deep flush bloomed across his cheeks, spreading down his neck and all the way to the tips of his ears.
The old ox lowed again—impatient. But I sensed an underlying amusement there, too. Ox knew more of what I was about than its naive owner did.
The young man’s blush decided it for me. I feigned shyness, too, covering myself with my arms, my eyes downcast, peering up at him through my thick lashes. I willed a blush to my cheeks, the faintest touch of pink.
“Thank you,” I breathed. “I wasn’t expecting anyone to come this way.”
He jerked his face to the side, so he could not look at me, and thrust my cloak forward. I took it from him, drawing it over my shoulders, the material drying my skin the moment I wrapped it around myself. I tied the sash securely at my waist, making certain the opening was drawn closed.
“Are you lost?” I asked. “Not many pass through here.”
He drew a long breath before he spoke, as if unsure of his voice. “I was here yesterday morning.” He stood as rigid as a strong bamboo stalk and dared at last to meet my gaze. “I thought I heard a noise in the brush there.” He pointed uphill, where I had been hiding the previous day. “But I couldn’t see anything.”
“How odd,” I replied. “The forest can be filled with such strange noises.”
He nodded once; then after a too long silence asked, “What is a maiden like you doing alone in the woods?”
I laughed softly. How little he knew of maidens like me. “I escaped from my six older sisters this morning.”
His dark eyes widened, perhaps stunned by the notion of six other maidens like myself wandering somewhere near, or that I would have the gall to run away from what he’d guess to be a rich manor, I didn’t know.
“I enjoy the solitude and quiet,” I said.
His expression softened. This he could relate to and understand. “What’s your name?”
“You can call me Hongyun,” I replied. It was not my given name, which I would never share with a mortal boy. But “red cloud” felt right in this earthly realm. “What are you called?”
“Cowherd,” he said.
“That is your true name?” No one loved him well enough, it seemed.
“I lost my parents when I was very young,” he said. “So, I never learned my given name. I’m known as ‘Cowherd’ for the company I keep.” As if the old ox heard us, it shambled over, head lowered, seeking a pat from its owner. Cowherd smiled at the ox and obliged by stroking its strong neck. “Ox has been my constant companion and friend since I was a child.”
“Your ox has a glorious coat,” I said. At closer range, the gold sheen of its pelt gleamed.
Cowherd straightened with pride.
I pretended to shiver again and wound my arms tight around myself, letting my teeth chatter. It worked.
“You must be freezing!” Cowherd exclaimed. “Why did you go into the lake so early in the morning?”
“The water was colder than I expected,” I said. “I can be foolishly spontaneous.” An understatement.
He extended a hand, then let it fall. It would not be proper for him to touch me, to wrap his arms around me. That much I knew about mortal interactions: all rules and decorum, at least at first.
So instead, I leaned against his ox, feeling its solid warmth against my arm and side. The ox lowed again, but it was a satisfied noise, not a complaint.
Cowherd grinned, then laughed. “He likes you.”
“And I like him,” I replied.
“Will I see you here again tomorrow?” he asked.
I smiled up at him.
It was, Dear Reader, as simple as that.
I did not go back to the lake again the morning after we met. I would get too much grief from my sisters if I neglected the dawn a third morning, and one of them might tattle to my mother if she was feeling particularly vengeful. More importantly, I didn’t want to do what was expected. Would Cowherd show up another morning if I failed to appear as he had hoped?
He did not disappoint me.
When I returned two days later, he was already by the lake, his ox grazing on some wild grass closer to the woods. “I waited for you yesterday,” Cowherd said. “But you didn’t come.” The disappointment tingeing his voice was clear.
“It was impossible for me to get away,” I replied, pursing my mouth. “I’m so glad you returned.”
Cowherd grinned, and it made him appear even more boyish. “Me, too,” he said. “I’ve brought a surprise.”
I clasped my hands together in delight. “I love surprises!”
He rummaged through the worn leather rucksack he carried, withdrawing a faded quilt, which he spread gallantly on the ground, some distance from the water. “It’s dryer here,” he said. Then he reached into the bag again and pulled out small packages wrapped in paper. He carefully unfolded each, as if they were precious gifts. “Walnuts and dried dates,” he announced, placing the packets onto the blanket and flourishing a hand. “I bought them in a small town yesterday for us”—he cleared his throat—“a gift for you, truly, Hongyun, to make up for our rather . . . awkward first meeting.”
We settled down on the blanket and I took my time choosing a dark red date, a color I knew well, but did not often weave into the skies. I popped it into my mouth and closed my eyes, enjoying the full, sweet flavor. Though immortals do not have to eat, it is a delightfully sensory experience. When I opened my eyes again, Cowherd was staring at my lips.
“They’re delicious,” I said. He blinked. I laughed and picked a date for him. “Here, open your mouth.”
His black brows lifted, and then he parted his lips. I fed him the date, caressing his cheek like a butterfly’s kiss before I dropped my hand. He blushed as red as an autumn apple, and I claimed him as mine in my heart. I let a rose blush spread across my own cheeks and lowered my chin in feigned shyness. Too bold, and he might bolt.
But this peasant boy, this mortal in his dust-stained tunic with no true name and only an ox for a friend, surprised me. He grabbed for my hand and kissed my fingertips. My head snapped up, eyes wide. Perhaps I had read him entirely wrong.
My whole body flushed, but not from magical manipulation or an immortal trick. I tugged him to me, and we kissed.
He tasted as sweet as I had imagined. Sweeter than that date.
I know how the legend goes for Cowherd and me, Dear Reader.
We married, I was the perfect wife, I birthed him healthy and beautiful twins, and we lived a blissful life together until my enraged mother called me back to the heavens, separating us forever. We were only allowed to meet on the seventh day of the seventh moon each year, crossing the river of stars formed by a bridge of magpies.
But this was what really happened:
That particular spring we spent together stands apart in my memories, like a painting carefully rendered with the smallest brush. We could not spend every day together, but I flew down from the heavens as often as I could, and Cowherd was always there, waiting for me, Ox standing patiently at his side.
He was poor and lived off the earth, eating what he could cultivate, forage, or capture. I gave him small gifts: jade figurines and a gold ring, worth more than he could ever imagine. But I was foolish to think he would pawn them for coin, as he was too romantic and sentimental. He kept them as treasured mementos, so I began bringing lavish picnics instead.
He was eighteen years and at his prime, all lean muscle from working the fields, chopping wood, and hauling heavy baskets of fruit and vegetables for farmers for coin when he needed it. Truth be told, he always needed it. But I knew he was willing to go hungry to meet with me.
I revealed my true identity to Cowherd a month after we met, and he took the news as well as any mortal could: with skepticism at first, then incredulity and awe when I showed him my powers. After two more moons, I thought I knew him as well as every red-streaked sunrise I had created.
Oh, how wrong I was.
One morning, we were twined together on a bed of cloud I had woven for us, the sunshine warm on my skin. We were tucked in my favorite meadow among the birch trees, our nest floating just below the tree line. It was almost summer, and I could sense the change of season in the air.
Cowherd suddenly shifted onto his side and propped himself up on one arm. “I will be nineteen years in the fall,” he said.
“Mmm,” I replied. Mortals are so strange in the ways they obsessively mark the time, the passing of days, the anniversary of years. But I suppose I might be, too, if I could only live as many decades as I can count on two hands. “Is this your hint that you’d like a birthday gift?” I smiled, eyes half-lidded against the sunlight.
He laughed softly. “To be with you is gift enough, Hongyun. I wonder every day how I got so lucky.” His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “I love you, you know that?”
I jerked upward and almost smacked Cowherd in his nose. My cloud billowed behind me, boosting me into a sitting position. “What does that mean?”
He stared at me, a mixture of fear and amusement on his face. “It means that you have my heart, Hongyun. I am yours.”
I furrowed my eyebrows. Never once had I wondered what I meant to Cowherd or what he might desire. “And you want something from me in return?” I asked.
Cowherd cleared his throat. “It’s soon time for me to marry and start a family. It’s all I’ve dreamed of since I lost my own family so young . . . but . . .” He trailed off.
“Oh,” I said with sudden understanding.
“Is that something”—he faltered—“would you—”
“I can’t have children.” An unfamiliar tightness constricted my chest at the raw emotion in his face. “And I can never marry a mortal.”
He clamped his mouth shut, swallowing hard.
It was a half-truth. I could have children if my father, the Jade Emperor, granted it. But I had never desired it. What would it mean to have children with a man, creating half-immortals? Even if I wanted children with Cowherd, my father would never agree to it. I had hidden my dalliance from my entire family.
“I’m sorry,” I finally said, breaking the long silence.
He nodded and lay back down on his stomach, folding his arms and hiding his face from me. Sunlight and shadow dappled across his broad back, skimmed over his strong, toned legs. If a mortal were to look like a god, I imagined Cowherd was as near as you could get.
I didn’t know if I loved him in the same way that he loved me: wholly and without reservation. But I cared for him tremendously.
Enough to let him go.
The next day I remember as clearly as a detailed etching carved in a favorite piece of jade.
I descended on a ragged cloud limned in the same red as mortal eyes when they have cried too long. Cowherd tried to sweep me into his arms in greeting as he always did, but I flew backward, away from his reach. He followed, palms open and lifted heavenward, like a man beseeching the gods.
I raised my own hand, and he stopped short, his beautiful suntanned face suddenly leached of color. “My mother has discovered our affair,” I lied, my words never wavering. “She has forbidden me from ever seeing you again.”
He fisted his hands. “Hongyun, no. Please.” Ox, as if sensing its owner’s distress, came to stand beside Cowherd.
My heart was heavy, but I did not falter. “Find yourself a nice mortal girl and settle down, make your own home and family.”
“I never would have dreamed of loving you, marrying you”—there was a fierce edge in his voice—“if I didn’t think you felt the same way.” Cowherd thrust his chin forward.
“I’m sorry,” I replied. “But I can never give you what you want.” I spoke without any divine amplification, and my throat felt bruised. I did not want to give him up. With graceless motions, I gathered dark clouds at my feet and rose into the air, as if I rode on a thunderstorm. “Good-bye, Cowherd,” I whispered, knowing he would not hear me.
I surged into the clear morning, the deeper indigo sky just easing into a light blue. Within a breath, the earth was already a league beneath me. Not only did I wield the most gorgeous colors among my sisters, I was the fastest, too. A light breeze swept over my face, tingling my skin. I brought a hand to my cheek, and it came away wet. Astonished, I watched my teardrops rise from my fingers, shooting heavenward, streaking silver behind them. I had never cried before that fateful day, Dear Reader, and the tears kept coming, as delicate as dewdrops, turning silver and blue and red and gold as they lifted into the skies, disappearing from sight.
“Hongyun!”
Cowherd’s shout startled me. I was high above the earth. How could I possibly be hearing his voice?
Then I looked back and my heart stopped. He was sitting astride Ox’s strong back as the animal galloped up through the air. My thundercloud slowed.
They drew up beside me, the beast treading in place, its hooves moving gracefully, like a bovine dancer. The sight was so ludicrous I burst into laughter. “What?” I said. “How?”
Grinning, Cowherd replied, “Ox is magical. He speaks to me and can fly.” He patted Ox’s thick neck.
“But you were so shocked when I put words into his mouth the morning we met,” I said.
Cowherd laughed. “I was surprised because that sounded nothing like Ox!”
Ox lowed, then said, “It is true. I did not know what to make of it when I said words I did not intend in a voice not my own.” While I had made Ox’s fake voice a low rumble, the beast’s true tone was a rich tenor.
“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” I asked.
Cowherd’s features turned serious. “Because I had always kept his magic a secret. I was going to, eventually . . .” His dark eyes narrowed a touch. “You’ve been crying.” He reached out and caressed my face; I closed my eyes, resting my cheek against his palm. “Won’t you reconsider?” he asked, his voice gone rough.
I opened my eyes, and we both watched as my tears rose from his palm, leaving a shimmering trail in their wake. “I only want you to be happy,” I whispered.
“Hongyun, whatever I might make for myself in this life—hearth, home, or family—they would mean nothing without you.” He grasped my hand and kissed my inner wrist. “I know that we can be happy together.”
I stroked his dark head, then trailed my fingertips down the nape of his neck. “But my mother . . .”
He lifted his gaze to me and smiled. “I can’t imagine you ever not getting your way.”
In the end, Cowherd was right.
We were happy together. We bought land a few leagues from the lake where we had met, with fertile ground surrounded by terraced fields. Cowherd spent half a year building a house for us, hiring workers and managing the entire project. He asked me what I desired in our home, and I told him I wished for nothing but a small garden to plant flowers and a deep stone tub to soak in. I got both.
The farm thrived as only a farm under a goddess’s benevolence could. But truth be told, Cowherd worked so hard, it would have flourished on its own. Four years after we built our home together, we adopted a little girl who we named Rose. Then two years after that, we adopted a baby boy into our family who we called Hailan.
I did not live always with my mortal family, but visited as often as I could. By the time we were blessed with our children, Cowherd had hired enough hands to help with running the farm and took care of Rose and Hailan the majority of the time.
As for my parents, my father, the Jade Emperor, never noticed my long absences, and my mother, the Heavenly Queen, might never have as well, if my fourth sister hadn’t ratted me out. But I refused to give in, and I got my way. After our third and final argument, my mother said in exasperation, “Do as you like, youngest daughter. Besides, mortal lives are as short to us as a flower’s bloom.” She lifted her arms in a swirl of silken sleeves and disappeared.
My mother, too, was right.
I do not know how it seems from a mortal’s eyes, Dear Reader, but it felt like one day my children were fat and chortling in delight at everything they saw or picked up in their dimpled hands, and in the blink of an eye, they were sixteen and eighteen years, willful and believing they knew everything about the world. I glanced away another moment, and they had left us to make their own homes and families. Then, suddenly, one day, Cowherd’s hair had gone white, and although he would be strong well into old age, the years had marked deep grooves in his face and filmed his beautiful dark brown eyes. He lived eighty-six years, a long life by mortal standards, full and happy—or whatever nonsensical platitudes people say when someone you love dies.
Only Ox could console me in the centuries that followed. Ox missed Cowherd as much as I did. It was so easy to love, but no one had ever warned me of loss. My immortal family knew nothing of it, as our lives were infinite.
It has been two thousand years since my time with Cowherd, and memory is strange. I cannot remember his face any longer. What I do recall are fragments in time: the crinkling of his eyes against the sunshine or when he smiled, the ghost of his unrestrained laughter if I said something goddesslike when I wasn’t trying to be amusing, the feel of that callus on his palm beneath the finger where he wore my gold ring. I am left with pieces of remembering though I loved him whole.
So the river of stars in the night sky was formed by the tears I have shed through all the centuries since that first time I cried, in pain or sorrow, but also from joy and love—even in the reminiscing.
This, Dear Reader, is the true story of Cowherd and me.
And I swear upon my crimson cloak, I saw him first.