Memories of a Nightingale

This story was created for you to enjoy after reading the original tale.

When the night fell, the oak tree turned its thought to the nightingale, but naturally, no sound was to be heard, save for the weeping of a parched soul that dissolved silently into the wind.

The Moon Goddess, who was fondly accustomed to assuming a human form so that she might dance with exquisite elegance through the night—disporting herself with the ocean and the nocturnal breeze—overheard the mournful lamentations of the oak.

Whether it occurred upon that selfsame night or during some night subsequent, no one can truly say; after all, time glides in a vastly different fashion for celestial beings.

“This night is exceedingly lonely,” said the Moon Goddess, her voice possessive of a serene tranquility. “If you shall grant me your energy in exchange during the wintertide, I shall transform your friend into a raincloud. It shall veil you from the sun whenever its rays bring you distress, and it shall rain no more than when you suffer from thirst, so as never to rot your roots, whilst shielding you from the harshness of the gale. And though it may not protect you from the bitter frosts, it shall remain there to cradle you with its song.”

The oak held its friend in deep affection, yet it offered no reply.

None was needed.

From that day forth, the oak would drift into a profound slumber during the depths of winter so as to preserve its essence; yet it is whispered that, upon certain nights beneath the ethereal glow of the moon, one may hear a melody as sweet as water bubbling from a silver jar.