by Adam J. Brunner

In a time once ago, there was a farm. It sat at the bottom of a mountain topped with crisp white snow, nestled at the edge of a field of shallow greens and fertile browns, and beneath a sky of crystal-clear blue. In this farm dwelt five brothers and one sister.

Hitotsu was the eldest brother and the strongest. Futatsu and Mittsu were twins and the funniest of the brothers. Yottsu was the next brother and the smartest of the boys. Then finally, there was Itsutsu, the youngest brother. He could not till the fields as fast as Hitotsu, or tell time by looking at the sun like Yottsu, or even make the others laugh until they spit forth their rice like Futatsu and Mittsu. No, Itsutsu was disturbingly average in every single way, except for one: he was a dreamer.

The youngest child of the family was Rei, the only sister. She had the biggest heart of the family, but most of her attention was often reserved only for Itsutsu, and the two siblings would spend their days together playing in the fields and pretending to be great warriors or wealthy daimyo.

Their farm was small, yet it was also one without want. Life was hard, but the siblings were kind and generous with their time and provisions. The children were respectful of their elders, and the soil was unstinting with its bounty. The brothers and their sister often went to bed with bellies full of rice and pork, and heads full of song and story.

Living on the farm with the siblings was an old man named Grandfather. He was neither bound to the siblings by marriage nor blood, but they treated him as such. He was simply a kind old man who had no family and no place to go. In return for their hospitality, he told the most magnificent tales. In these stories, heroes vanquished great creatures made of wind and magic; beautiful maidens fell in love with dashing ronin; and bravery was always rewarded while cowardice was always punished. Yet, the most often whispered stories the old man told were of the Aerials.

“They can take the form of any beast or man they perceive, and yet mischief is so often their common shape. When not stealing your lost trinkets or tripping the prideful, they dance on the rays of the moon and make love on the tips of stars,” said Grandfather. “To look upon them is to know bliss, and to leave their presence is to know longing.” The old man often became sad after he spoke of the Aerials, but the brothers and their sister had too much honor to ask him more.

That is, until one night, when Itsutsu’s courage outpaced his sense of respect. With great reluctance, but a burning in his heart, the youngest brother pressed the subject. He did not want to show dishonor to the man who had been more than a father to him, and so he waited until that night’s tale had come to a close. Then he said, “Grandfather, why do you look so sad?”

The old man simply smiled and waved away the impish question, but after enough prodding from Itsutsu and his brothers, he finally relented. “I have seen the Aerials,” he admitted. “I have danced to their songs and laughed at their merriment. I can still recall how they shone, like the light of joy itself. I do not know how long I kept their company, but one morning I awoke and their great feast had disappeared. Their village was turned to stardust, and their light was lost to my eyes forever.”

“Can we ever see them, Grandfather?” said Futatsu and Mittsu with one voice.

“Please, Grandfather,” pleaded Itsutsu, his appetite whetted from the old man’s stories. For he had always felt destined for a glorious life beyond the farm and the familiarity of his siblings. He ached for the sort of existence he had heard in Grandfather’s stories: adventure, love, and honor.

“Mortals such as yourselves can only behold the realm of the Aerials for one night — the night of your fifteenth birthday.” The generous old man smiled a distant and faraway smile, as if meant for another person in another time.

“Why is that, Grandfather?” asked Yottsu. “How is it that we are only permitted one night?”

“Hardly seems fair,” said Itsutsu, who sank down in sorrow, for the boy would not turn fifteen for another four harvests.

“Aerials are unlike mortals such as you. They are wandering sprites, creatures of pure nature and emotion, like the trees or the dragonflies. They do not have souls and exist for eternity, and yet time has no meaning to them. They have no beginning and no ending. Thus, you may only see them on the night you make the journey from childhood to adulthood, for it is a time of transition — when you are old enough to be honorable but still young enough to be playful.”

“I will be fifteen with the new moon,” said Hitotsu, the eldest. He had remained silent throughout the story as his siblings whispered and wondered aloud at the prospect of meeting the Aerials. “Where might I find them?”

“If you truly wish to see them,” said Grandfather, “they will find you and guide you to their meadow, and there you will behold their glowing presence.”

“I cannot wait until I am fifteen,” said Itsutsu, trembling with anticipation.

“Itsutsu,” said Rei, for she was never far from her big brother. “I want to go to bed. I’m tired.”

“Soon, sister, soon,” said the boy with a shooing motion.

“One more thing, children,” said the old man. “This is important. If you ever do find yourself in the company of the Aerials, you must remember not to eat of their fruit. Can you remember that?”

“Itsutsu,” complained Rei. “Please, can we go to sleep now?”

“We understand, Grandfather,” said Hitotsu, though his two youngest siblings had not heard the man at all. Instead, Itsutsu was still trying to quiet the complaints of his sister.

“Can’t we go to sleep?” said Rei again, as only little sisters can.

“I think your sister is wise beyond her years,” joked Grandfather. “Now off to bed with all of you — and no more about such things.”

That night Hitotsu slept fitfully, rolling and turning in his slumber. When asked about his disturbance the next day, he simply exclaimed, “It was nothing, just unusual dreams.” Yet, the eldest boy’s fits continued for many nights until the rising of the new moon. For on that night, Hitotsu’s mat was empty.

He watched his siblings as they all grew older and started families, even as he himself never aged. So, when the time came for their children and their children’s children to come of age, he was there to greet them, to play with them, and to sing for them. Yet, mostly, he was there to make sure that none of them ever forgot the importance of family or the thrill of living a humble mortal life.

On certain nights, when the moon was full and the stars glittered like a thousand watching eyes, the descendants of Rei would sometimes catch glimpses of a strange figure at the edge of the fields. A shimmering silhouette, neither fully of this world nor fully apart from it, would linger just long enough to stir wonder but never fear. Grandmothers would tell their grandchildren bedtime stories about the guardian spirit who protected their family—how he had once been a boy named Itsutsu, who gave up his own salvation to protect the sister he loved.

Over the generations, these stories became part of the family's lore. The tale of Itsutsu and Rei was passed from parent to child, not as a tragedy, but as a lesson in selflessness, devotion, and the quiet heroism found in love for one’s family. They honored him in small ways—placing bowls of rice on the family altar during festivals, or whispering thanks to the moon on clear nights.

In time, the farm remained, weathering wars, droughts, and the ever-turning wheel of progress. New crops grew where old ones had once stood. Machines came to help where once there had only been hands. But the bond of the family remained strong, as did the legend of the boy who danced once with the Aerials.

And on some clear nights, if one looked just right at the edge of the meadow beneath the silver glow of the full moon, they might swear they saw him still—smiling, watching, and perhaps whispering to himself the words he had once spoken long ago:

“And I will always be with you, sister.”