The Shooting Star

Once in a city there lived a girl with white hair. She liked to imagine that her hair was the wind and that she could fly. From time to time a bird would fly over the city and she would watch it with wonder, wishing that she was a bird as well. But the birds would never stay, always flying to the mountains that lay beyond the city, the tops rising above the clouds.

The girl's father owned an inn and he would ask for her to sing, for she was a marvelous singer. So the girl would sing. She sang without words, letting her desire to fly guide her voice. Her song was so heartbreakingly beautiful that if you ever heard it you would either laugh or cry or both. People loved her voice and would ask her to sing for them but she did not hear them, for she was staring at the mountains.

One night in winter a prince from a far away land stopped at the inn. He had heard rumors of the girl with white hair whose voice even the animals stopped to listen to. The prince was a mean and greedy person, having gotten his way his whole life, and ordered the inn-keeper around as if he were a slave. But the inn-keeper was honored to have royalty stay in his inn and catered to his every need without a second thought. Upon the prince's request the girl sang for hours. She studied the prince all the while, how he lounged on pillows while being fed, how he ordered her father about, how his greed was marked in his face and decided that royalty or not she did not like him. So instead of thinking of the pig that she was singing for she thought of flying, she closed her eyes and imagined herself running, and as she ran her hair grew longer. Longer and longer her hair grew till it went on for miles and still she ran, running so fast that not a strand of her hair reached the ground. Faster and faster she ran till she was running so fast that her feet no longer touched the ground, and faster still she ran till her hair became the wind. The wind ran with her, keeping her pace then finally when she could run no more and the wind carried her. Higher and higher it took her and there she stayed, flying on the wind.

For a week the prince stayed, and each night she sang for him. Thinking of flying her voice was even more beautiful than before. On the last night of the week she came home to find the prince and her father deep in conversation. She thought nothing of it and served the inn's other customers, glad to be away from the prince. When it was late and the inn empty, her father came to her. He was smiling and dancing and when he saw her, his smile grew larger, "Great joy," he cried, "great joy daughter."

"What has happened, father?" she asked. He did not answer, he just stared at her. But his stare was not loving. It looked more like how the prince stared at food, a greedy, hungry stare. She shivered. Finally he said, "You are to be wed."

"To whom father?" she asked, not disturbed by what he said, he had been trying to marry her for years.

He smiled larger, reminding her of a man who is drunk, "To the prince."

She had to hold on to the table remain standing and was so shocked she could not even speak. Had she heard right, did he really intend to marry her to the one person she truly loathed?

"Isn't it wonderful?" her father was saying. "You shall be a queen and be rich and we shall never have to work again."

She had heard right. He had engaged her to that pig. He walked away, singing to himself, not even noticing her horror in his bliss.

When he left the girl straitened. She would not marry the prince but she knew that her father would make her. So she took a deep breath and looked to the mountains as she always did when dreaming of flying, and there she found an answer: run, run until your hair becomes the wind. She hesitated for a second but one thought of the prince and she ran.

She ran out of the inn, through the city, going so fast she did not hear the noise or feel the cold of the night. Soon the city disappeared behind her and she was in the forest at the base of the mountains. Faster, she urged herself, run faster than the wind. The forest rushed past and she was at the base of the mountains. She could not run forward so she climbed the mountain, running all the while.

For seven nights and seven days she ran up the mountain, never stopping, never tiring, always running till on the eighth night she could see the top of the mountain. But the top only meant she could go no further and she would not stop for fear that she would break apart if she did. So she ran faster, determined to turn her hair into wind before the mountain ended. Faster, faster, faster she ran. The mountain blurred into brown, the sky into blue. Faster, faster, and faster she ran. The wind whipped at her hair till it felt as if she was running in a storm. The brown was getting smaller and the blue bigger. She felt despair rise up inside her but she pushed it back down. My hair will become the wind and I will fly. She wanted it so bad she started to sing. Her wordless song flowed out of her mouth and rushed behind her, faster than the wind. There was no more brown ahead. She sang louder and ran faster letting her despair and desire fill her with new strength. Her song carried on the wind and whipped at her hair and her hair became the wind. She was running on air now but she would not stop. The wind pushed her up and she ran into the sky. She was running next to stars now and her joy flowed into her song and she glowed. She kept going, going past the stars till she became a star herself but still she did not stop.

She still runs today, running as a star, and when people see her they make a wish; because if you wish on a shooting star it just might come true.