Legend

“I can’t cry.”

That was how the old fisherman greeted Luna Aiana, before she could ask him anything. He sat on the jetty in the grey hour before sunrise, and his boat had lain upturned for a year.

In spring his brother had gone through the breaking ice. The fisherman had hauled in the nets alone, walked home alone, and since that moment had not shed a single tear.

“The water took my brother,” he said. “And it took my tears with him.”

Luna went over to the bindweed. She gathered her Dewdrops only from its white trumpets, which open at dawn and close once the sun is up. She shook the drops into a clay bowl, flower by flower, until it was full. Then she wet her hands and washed the fisherman’s face.

“Don’t wipe it away.”

The drops ran down his wrinkles, through his grey beard, onto his hands. Soon there was no telling which of them were dew and which were not.

“Dew doesn’t stay long,” said Luna. “But afterwards the whole meadow breathes fresher.”

The sun rose, and the bindweed began to fold its flowers. The fisherman turned his boat over and pushed it out onto the water. The bowl stayed on the jetty – for the next one to come to the water without tears.