High in the Diamond Mountains of Korea, where the pine trees drink the morning clouds, there lived a young woodcutter.
All day he chopped and stacked his wood, and he was kind to every living thing. He stepped around the beetles. He left berries for the birds.
But at night, his little hut held just one bowl, one spoon, and one quiet heart.
One morning — crash! crackle! — a golden deer burst from the bushes, its eyes wide with fear. A hunter's horn sounded down the hill.
Quick as a wink, the woodcutter hid the deer under his big pile of brushwood.
Along stomped the hunter. “Ho there! Which way did the deer run?”
The woodcutter pointed far, far away, over the mountain. And the hunter huffed away — stomp, stomp, stomp.
Then the deer did something deer never, ever do. It spoke.
“Kind woodcutter, you saved my life, so I will tell you the mountain's secret. Tonight, when the moon is full, seven sky fairies will fly down to play in the hidden pond. And it is said — if a winged robe is hidden, that fairy cannot fly home...”
And as it bounded away, the deer called back — “But remember, woodcutter! The sky always calls its children home.”
That night, the woodcutter waited behind the pines, hardly breathing.
Down the moonbeams they came — seven sky fairies, bright as falling stars, laughing like little bells far across the silver water. They laid their winged robes over a pine branch and stepped into the shining pond.
And from the smallest robe, one feather of light slipped loose, and drifted, and landed — right in the woodcutter's hand.
Oh, the woodcutter knew — he knew — that hiding what is not yours is wrong.
But his lonely heart was louder. And he slipped the feather's robe behind a rock.
When the sky turned pale before dawn, six fairies rose like petals blowing home. But the youngest searched the shore, and searched, and searched... Without her robe, she could not fly.
And the morning star watched her cry beside the water, all alone.
The woodcutter stepped out softly and wrapped his warm patched coat around her shoulders.
“Don't cry,” he said. “Come — share my fire, and my rice, and my roof, for as long as you like.”
The sky fairy looked at him a long, long time. “Just until I find my way home,” she said at last. And she took his hand.
But he never told her where her winged robe lay hidden. And that secret sat in his chest like a small, cold stone.
The seasons turned, and turned again — and little by little, her smile came home.
Then one bright morning she took his hand, laughing this time, and there was a wedding, and there was spring.
Soon two children filled the hut with noise: a girl who sang like her mother, and a baby boy with his father's round cheeks.
Now the little hut held four bowls, four spoons — and not one quiet heart in the whole happy house!
But on full-moon nights, the mother would step into the yard, wrap herself in the old patched coat, and look up... and up... and up.
“Tell us about the sky, Omma!” the children begged. So she told them of cloud gardens, and star fields, and her six sisters in the palace beyond the moon.
“The moon is my mother's lantern,” she whispered. “And oh, it is a long, long way home.”
That night, the woodcutter climbed up to the robe's secret hiding place, high under the roof, and brought it down — soft and shining, as bright as the night he hid it.
“This is yours,” he said, though his voice shook. “It was always yours. I'm sorry I hid it. The sky always calls its children home — I know that now. And it is calling you.”
His wife held the robe... and held him... and cried, both sad and glad at once.
“For the fire, for the rice — and for this,” she whispered.
The winged robe settled over her shoulders like moonlight — and oh, how she shone.
She kissed her woodcutter. She tucked the old patched coat around his shoulders. Then she gathered up the laughing children, one arm each, and rose into the silver air.
“Find us, Papa! Find us in the sky!” the children called down. And around the little hut they circled — once for the fire, once for the rice, once for love — and away they flew, up and up, until they were one bright spark among the stars.
And the woodcutter stood in the empty yard, waving, until the moon went down.
Moon after moon, the woodcutter climbed to the hidden pond and watched the sky. In his hand he held the small feather of light — still soft, still warm, still pointing up.
And one night, the golden deer stepped out of the pines.
“You gave back what was not yours,” said the deer. “So the mountain will tell you one more secret. The sky fairies come down no more — now the sky lowers a great silver bucket, to scoop up water from this pond. For this pond is the sky's own well.”
“When the bucket comes down, woodcutter — climb in!”
He didn't have to wait long. The full moon rolled up over the mountain, the clouds opened like a door — and down, down, down came a great silver bucket on a rope of braided moonlight.
It dipped into the pond and began to fill.
The woodcutter took a breath, tucked the feather into his headband, and climbed in — SPLASH! — and the rope pulled tight.
Up went the bucket! Up went the woodcutter — higher than the pines, higher than the peaks, higher than the wild geese fly!
Up through the cool white clouds he rose. Wild geese flew beside him. The mountains below curled up like sleeping cats, and the stars leaned close to look.
And then he heard it — high and clear, and sweeter than any birdsong:
“PAPA! PAPA'S COMING!”
There, on the cloud-steps of a shining palace, his two children were jumping and waving with all their might.
Oh, what a hugging there was at the top of the sky!
The children swung on his arms. His wife spun him around, laughing her little-bell laugh. And the six sisters welcomed him home — home to the palace beyond the moon, where no one is lonely, and no heart is quiet, ever.
And on full-moon nights, when the silver bucket dips down to the mountain pond, they say the water ripples with laughter.
Next full moon, find the moon in the water — a pond, a puddle, any shining water will do. Look closely, closely. A whole happy family may be waving up at you... from the well of the sky.