In the ages of olde, there lived a tree. A great massive oak with a trunk that twisted ‘round. It was the tallest – branches reaching into clouds, leaves touching sky. And in this tree, fireflies lived: great and small, bright and dim.

Creatures were drawn to it like moths to flame for it provided a splendid shelter from the sweltering sun. And when the sun would set, all light left slumbering – except the moon – the tree stayed brilliantly lit. But the tree cast a great many shadows that creature and kin were lost in.

And so it was that the Motherfather came, not as crane, but as wolf. Motherfather came and sat beneath the tree. Sat beneath the tree and howled.

Creatures stirred; kin watched. Leaves trembled.

She howled, blew her breath unto the leaves, until the foliage took flight to let in the moon’s light. A sky was vast, all emptiness save the vain moon and the humble sun. So Motherfather howled and blew until she drove the fireflies into the deep black above. And thus the stars were born.

(as told to him by his daughter, Little Lies)