Flight of the Cranes

Emerald Xu

There once was a painter who lived atop a wooden cottage on the side of a mountain. He fared in silent solitude, hiding his craft behind bamboo doors of tapestry. With the rarity of appearances outside of his home, villagers down the mountain speculated about his origin. Some claimed he was a heavenly beast banished from the heavens, others swore he was an exile from a forgotten land. But all that the people collectively agreed on were that his paintings were priceless in their beauty.

Every few months, he would traverse down the mountainside to sell his paintings. When the squeaking of his old wooden cart could be heard echoing down the valley, villagers eagerly hurried out of their homes to crowd the cart, gawking at the grace of his artistry.

The painter only drew cranes. Cranes which were white as virgin snow across a golden background that melted into the fringes of the bamboo paper. Red dots were placed atop their heads with gentle care. Wings arched into the sky and heads curved tenderly across their snowy body. They were as much alive on paper as they were in being.

Local artisans begged to learn his craft for years, but he would simply hold up his hand and turn away at the request. He never took an apprentice under his wing.

One night a young artist, angered by the rejection of mentorship despite months of persistent offerings, gathered the local artisans into his home.

“Selfish! Tha painter.

“His painting of his skill fo

The artisans “And gone A flam ”...no

Under the shadow of night, a trail of fire began to trek up the cobblestone path leading up the mountain. Faces illuminated by the light of the orange howled out across the valley, their ghastly inferno brimming the sky.

The man watched silently as the figures headed toward his house. He continued to paint quietly in the light of the moon as the thundering footsteps grew louder and louder.

And as the painters kicked down the door, scattering loose bamboo paper across the floor, the man put his final touches on the wingtips of the crane, black ink stroking across their feathers. He let out a smile, then laid the paintbrush on the floor.

The cranes sprung to life, wings beating against the small room of the cabin, their cries echoing in the wooden hollow as they broke through the bamboo paper which trapped them within. The painters cried out in shock, falling to the floor to shield their faces.

They could only watch in horror through the fluttering feathers as the man climbed atop one of the white figures and flew away, out of the window and into the sky, never to be seen by human eyes again.