There have been so many endings that I sometimes forget about the beginning. It is a sad truth that if it were not for my mother’s death when birthing Liko this story wouldn't have happened, and I would have died four thousand years ago.

  But I am not dead yet.

  Along the banks of the Li River, south of what is now known as Guillen in the Guangxi Zhuang Autonomous Region of China, lived a widower and his two young children. The infamous fairy tale of the cowherd and the weaver girl occurred just before Zhilan met my father and was the catalyst for the severity of the punishment they received. That fairy tale was passed down as a warning to stay in your place; neither love above, nor below your station. If you disobey those limitations, then your love will bring you sorrow.

  Have you ever considered why some stories become legends and some are eliminated from human awareness? Of course not, for you do not remember what the gods do not want you to. The tales of gods being humiliated are wiped from our collective memories. But if they wipe out too much then they run the risk of being forgotten themselves. So, the gods dole out terrible punishments then hide their brutality behind fabricated stories and legends.

  Legends are like gossip--the longer they exist the more details change from one generation to the next. For my story, I will give you a summary of the beloved narrative of the Weaving Girl and the Cow Herder. But know that it is comprised of two stories, the one you know and the one that has been hidden from you.

  Once there was a poor boy named Niulang, a cow herder, who was clever, diligent, and honest. The boy had nothing but an old ox and each day he worked the fields with it. The boy’s ox was an immortal that was punished by heaven to live like an ox on the earth. One day, the ox said to Nuilang, “If you want to get married, go to the lake, and your wish will come true.”

  The Cow Herder went to the lake and saw seven princesses descending from heaven. The girls undressed and bathed in the water. As they were enjoying their bath, a strong wind blew the youngest princess’s clothes away. The seventh daughter of the emperor was good at weaving clothing, her name was Zhinu, but she was known as the Weaving Girl. The other princesses left after their bath, but the youngest could not return without her celestial clothes. The boy picked them up and returned them to the princess. Fascinated by the beautiful princess, Nuilang asked her to be his wife. The princess, tired of heavenly privilege, longed for a mortal life and agreed to his proposal. They lived happily and had two children in as many years.

  As everyone knows, one day in heaven amounts to one year of the mortal realm. As the family was enjoying a peaceful and happy life, the heavenly royal family noticed her missing after two days. They traced her to the village and forced her to return to heaven.

  While the Cow Herder watched his wife being dragged away, he became increasingly distraught. His children cried at the loss of their mother. Suddenly, the old ox told him he was dying and to use his hide as a flying carpet to catch up with his wife. Nuilang thanked the ox and, with a mournful heart, slew the ox. Gathering the princess’s celestial clothes, and placing his children in two bamboo baskets, they chased the princess through the sky seated upon the ox hide.

  When Queen Mother saw Cow Herder closing in, she took out her golden hairpin and drew a line across the sky in front of him. Instantly, the line became a star river known as the Milky Way, which kept them separated. Zhinu was forced to move to the star, Vega, and Nuilang moved to the star, Altair.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Out of compassion for the couple, flocks of magpies gather and form a bridge for them to meet on the evening of the seventh day of the 7th lunar month. This is the only day that the emperor allows them to meet each year. It is said that it is hard to find a magpie on Chinese Valentine’s Day in China because all magpies fly to heaven to create the bridge for the couple. Each year on that day people search the night sky for the stars of Nuilang and Zhinu, hoping to see their annual reunion.

  Honestly, most of these old tales were written by men with inappropriate social skills who wanted to keep their daughters and sons in line. Zhinu was a goddess, and she couldn’t find her clothes? She could have woven new ones out of air or clouds and could have killed Nuilang for his audacity. Suffice it to say that the original story has stolen elements of the more tragic fate of my parents. No, Zhilan did not birth me or Liko, but she healed and loved us and mothered us along with Jiang O’Huang. Zhilan showed me that family is more than blood.

  We lived in between the karst peaks that jutted to the sky like broken swords, where the clouds lingered around their tops well into the day, and mist rose like a dream from the water each morning. The resilient plum trees bloomed in the winter, when one had almost given up hope of feeling warm again, followed by the gentler blooms of the cherry trees in spring.

  My father, Niu Qiang, was a thirty-year-old widower struggling with an infant son and sickly daughter. He would float onto the hazy Li River upon his bamboo boat each morning and return in midafternoon to tend fields that would not grow. We had one ox and one horse but, sadly, neither of them flew. The neighbors whispered that our family was weak, that I was too fragile to last another winter, but father proved them wrong and though we did not thrive, we lived. A year after Liko was born and mother died, father took us to the riverbanks in the evening to pray to her soul and show our respect.

  One evening, as the sun dipped toward the horizon and we rode the horse to the river, the wind carried the cries of sorrow toward us. Father rushed ahead and, when the old horse plodded through the clearing, he stood with a beautiful woman. She was tall and regal with black hair that hung to her waist pulled up in a half topknot like a crown. Her belted long shirt and gown were a vibrant blue. They spoke for a long time and when father returned his face had changed. He introduced us to her before we left and I felt her eyes upon our backs.

  For weeks after, he spent increasing time on the river while his behavior changed in ways I did not understand. He laughed more, there was a lightness in his manner as he hummed during his work. Although our situation had not changed, my father’s perception of it had.

  One morning, father did not leave. Instead, he spent the day cooking a large meal and set me to clean the house. Dust swirled in the air as I swept, when a voice came from outside. Father watched me with the tentative concern of a parent as I opened the door.

  Zhilan, the woman from the river, greeted me with warm eyes. She had come to dine with us and did not leave until five years later, when she was forced to. Everything she touched grew strong under her care, but I would not understand that until years later. My brother and I, our crops, our horse, even the river itself, grew healthy and bountiful. After Zhilan shared her qi with me, my frailty turned to health, and I bloomed like one of those plum trees in winter.

  “You are my soul’s daughter now,” she said as she tucked us in bed one night. “Do not let anyone tell you otherwise.”

  It was nighttime when the heavens reclaimed Zhilan as she went to draw water. We heard her scream and watched her being flown away by a giant man. Another man asked father if he wanted to pursue them. Father, in his panic at losing the woman he loved, hastily agreed but insisted on taking his children. I do not remember the first time I was carried by a god; I only remember my father’s stricken face and Liko’s crying. We didn’t know our home was lost, or that each of our fates would be altered that day.