The wolves knew before anyone else, because they are always watching.

A storm is coming, they sang. A storm that will shake the moon. The moon heard them, but did not listen. No storm could reach all the way to the moon. And she turned away to count her children.

One was missing.

She looked everywhere, until she found him on Earth.

Mother, he said. Take me back.

I cannot, she told him. You have touched the world of mortals, and now there is a death on you. You cannot return.

And so he wandered. At first, folks ran from his strange radiance. Then, they scorned his dull rags. Every night, he looked to the sky, wishing he could get home.

One night, when the moon was full, he came across a still lake, marred only by a single set of ripples by the near shore, just where the moon’s reflection lay. He looked up, hopeful–was she calling to him? But no; she was silent. He went to the water and saw a fish making the ripples.

What are you doing? he asked.

Dancing, the fish said. But it’s no good without music. She’ll never notice me. The moon’s son nodded.

I know what music she likes, he said. But I have nothing to make it. The fish gave him a long look, then dove and resurfaced with a fine silver flute in its mouth.

Will this help? it asked. The moon’s child nodded. He took the flute and played so well that a wind rose, carrying him on its back, up and up, until he was with the moon again. She shone brighter in her joy, and the wolves howled I told you so from the world below.