The sun had just gone down beneath the horizon and the smells of campfires and food already filled the air. The heat of the day would last well into the night, as it so often did during Summertime. There were scant clouds above and no one expected rain for several more weeks. Still, everyone gathered in close beside one fire or another as though warding off the cold of winters past and future. Normally, most fires would have been left to die after the meals had been cooked, but not this night.

This was a night of stories.

Ferun loved the night of stories, as did most of the other children. The youths and adults seemed to like it as well but Ferun didn’t know their stories yet. Everyone could pick a fire to sit around, each one watched over by a different storyteller. The storytellers all told different stories, some always telling the same stories while others never seemed to tell the same story twice. There was never knowing exactly when a night of stories would come. All that anyone could do was watch the skies and wait. When the stars fell and the constellations faded, it was the sign to hold a night of stories. Some years there were many nights of stories. Other years there were few, but there was always at least one.

As the stories were shared, the storytellers and their listeners would gaze upward and determine where each story fit within the blank night sky. As always, the new stars would gradually flare into being, forming the constellations of each story. Even though many of the stories were the same from one night of stories to the next, the constellations were always unique, never depicting the characters and events in quite the same manner as before.

“Come and sit, come and sit,” Chahal beckoned to Ferun and the other younger children. His voice was low and gritty but not uninviting. Most of the time he kept to himself, working in the fields or helping build whatever new structures were needed. In fact, he didn’t seem to enjoy speaking with others all that much. During a night of stories, however, it was as though he were transformed. He spoke with an eagerness that was infectious and he was by far the most animated of all the storytellers. Perhaps that was why the children preferred him over the others.

“There’s room if you squeeze,” Chahal gestured to a few boys who were taking up more than their fair share of space around the fire.

The boys grinned nervously and made room for the others who were wanting to join Chahal’s circle. Ferun already had her spot. She always made sure to get the prime seat directly opposite the fire from Chahal. This way she could see his full performance without having to crane her neck to look around the other children.

“Tonight,” Chahal began as soon as the children were settled, “I will tell you the tale of the children who walk the sky.”

A few of the younger children looked up as though expecting to see the aforementioned children. Of course there was nothing to see there. It wasn’t even dark enough yet for the new stars to begin appearing. Even the moons had yet to appear.

Ferun, unlike the other children, kept her gaze locked on Chahal. This was always the first story Chahal told and it was her favorite.

“Back before the moons and first stars,” Chahal began, “the nights were dark…and long…and there was no joy in them. This was in the days of Sulca and Kalbu, who some call the Star Callers. In this story, however, they were not yet anything other than Sulca and Kalbu since, if you’ll remember, this was in the time before the moons and stars.”

Ferun allowed herself a brief glance upwards. It wasn’t such a difficult thing to imagine, a night sky without anything in it. Every time the stars fell the sky was left empty until the stories were told and new stars filled the void and the moons were never visible whenever the stars fell. Still, it was difficult to imagine there never being any moons or stars.

“Sulca and Kalbu were neither rulers nor warriors, though beyond that we cannot say much more about their daily lives. Perhaps they were ordinary people like you and me.”

Chahal leaned back on his seat and his eyes seemed to scan across the village around them.

“I imagine them tending to their fields,” he went on, “laying stones for their walkways, and cooking meals, much as we do together as well. And like us, there must have been children dashing about, playing and shouting to one another and generally making all the good sort of fuss that tends to make people wonder if there isn’t some chore or other that could be given to those noisome children.”

A few laughs and giggles ran around the circle and Chahal joined in with them. They all knew what he was talking about. It was a sort of unspoken line between playing around and getting into trouble. No one was quite sure where that line was, but everyone knew when they had crossed it.

“But peace cannot be eternal in life. There is always sorrow, always disappointment, always some pain that must come to us.”

Chahal’s expression darkened and he leaned closer in now to the fire so that it illuminated his face more fully.

“For Sulca and Kalbu,” Chahal said and his voice was heavy and low, “their sorrows came suddenly. A disaster of beasts, of storms, and of warring foes crashed in around them. Within a single year, they lost everyone they knew.”

The younger children, those who either hadn’t ever heard the stories before or who hadn’t remembered them, gasped and some clung to one another as though the unspoken horrors from Chahal’s tale might somehow come and claim them as well.

“That wasn’t the worst of it,” Chahal told them. “As we know, when we die we join with everyone who has come before us in the Sun, lending the light of our spirits to it and giving life to those who come after us. But in all the noise and fear and sadness, that drove Sulca and Kalbu from their home and took the life of so many, the spirits of all those children lost their way and didn’t make it to the Sun. Their spirits became wanderers, lost in unknown lands. With nowhere to lay down and rest, their spirits followed Sulca and Kalbu since they were the only thing familiar to them now.

“Imagine,” Chahal whispered with terrible intensity, “your brothers, sisters, friends, all dead and unable to find rest! Imagine Sulca and Kalbu, being followed by all of them, but the living and the dead are not meant to dwell together. The dead become envious of the living, and the living become fearful of the dead. What’s more, the dead cannot speak in this place of the living and so they waste away, lonely and unable to find peace.”

A gasp from one of the children in the circle caught everyone’s attention and their pointing finger lead their gazes upward to where the first pair of stars were beginning to form.

“What is it?” one of the children asked. “Is it the spirits?”

“I think it’s Sulca and Kalbu,” and other said.

“It’s the animals that ate the parents!” another, rather excitable child cried.

“It’s too early to tell,” Chahal interjected wisely. “We can only know once we finish the story.”

The children quieted down again and Chahal resumed his story.

“Sulca and Kalbu knew that the final place of rest was in the Sun,” Chahal explained, “but the spirits wavered and faded in the bright light of day making it impossible for them to gather the spirits in the light. At night, the spirits shone with their dim light, making it easier to find them and guide them, but without the Sun there was no where to guide them to.”

He let out a sigh and shook his head, his hands held out open in front of him to emphasize the hopelessness of the situation.

“What would you do?” he asked the children. “The spirits were wasting away, threatening to become wraiths or to simply fade away into nothingness. Sulca and Kalbu had to do something!”

“What did they do?!” a child cried out, unable to contain themselves.

Other children shushed but Chahal just smiled and gave a wink.

“Sulca and Kalbu knew that you could see the Sun longer if you were high up on a mountain and so they determined that they would try leading the spirits to the highest peak they could find. From that point, they hoped the spirits would be able to see the Sun and go to it.

“The journey was long, and many times they had to go off in search of wandering souls, but they refused to lose any of them. Their friends and neighbors who had died would surely be missing their children and Sulca and Kalbu would see them reunited. Every night they counted to spirits before pressing ahead. When any were found missing, they set out to find them. Only when they were all together did they press on towards the peak.”

At this point, Chahal pointed towards the distant mountains. It was a series of peaks, each one rising higher than the one before it and they stood out plainly against the fading sunset.

“This story is why we call them the Sun Step Mountains now,” Chahal said, “but back then they were known as the Dead Peaks.”

“Why’d they call them that?” a boy asked at once.

“Because nothing can survive on them,” Chahal answered ominously. “There are no plants or animals that live there, even today. They are baren and deadly. But to Sulca and Kalbu those mountains were a sign of hope. The Sun moved over those peaks, so close it seemed to touch them, and it was that hope that gave them the strength to carry on. Day after day, night after night, they guided and guarded those children until finally, half-starved and dying from thirst, Sulca and Kalbu reached the final peak. There was nothing to eat or drink and they knew there would be no return trip for them. They didn’t mind. They had brought every single lost spirit from their village to the peaks. In fact, they had even found other wandering spirits along the way and added them to their charge. As the Sun rose, Sulca and Kalbu looked to the spirits, expecting them to go to it, but instead they just stood there. Sulca and Kalbu pointed to the Sun, they waved their arms to get the spirits attention, but nothing they did could get the spirits to go to the Sun. All day they tried, but eventually they were spent and the Sun was setting. IT had passed directly over them on its way to the horizon and yet still the spirits had not left.”

Chahal paused to take a drink from his waterskin and the children in the circle squirmed with anticipation to know what had happened. Even Ferun, who had heard this story many times and knew how it went, felt herself growing impatient for Chahal to continue.

“The spirits had grown so use to following Sulca and Kalbu,” Chahal finally resumed, “that they wouldn’t leave them now, even when they saw the Sun so close by. It wasn’t until the Sun had set that Sulca and Kalbu realized this about the spirits. By then they were almost too exhausted even to stand. They knew it was their final day of life, and they would not let it end in failure. They could still see the Sun, setting down beneath them on the edge of the horizon. They stood on the edge of the peak, a sheer cliff beneath them. With the last of their strength, they motioned for the spirits to follow them and then they leapt towards the Sun.”

He motioned with his hands as though he too were leaping into the void and several of the listeners recoiled instinctively as though afraid he would fall on them.

“Sulca and Kalbu expected to fall to their death, but they were so near to the sky that they instead fell upward until they came to rest in the sky. Their spirits had grown so strong and large through the course of their shepherding those lost spirits that they appear to us as our two moons, and those spirits followed them into the sky as well becoming the first stars. Eventually those spirits were able to find their way. To us here below, it appears as though they are falling when in truth they are soaring across the sky and into the Sun.”

“But why do we still have stars if they found their way?” the youngest in the group asked.

Chahal smiled.

“Remember, Sulca and Kalbu found other lost spirits along their journey. They knew there were others, would always be others, who had lost their way and would need guiding. That is why they chose to remain, to guide all the lost spirits at night into the sky. Once those have found their way to the Sun, they welcome more lost spirits to the sky and begin again. Always guiding the lost spirits to their rightful home.”

“Why don’t Sulca and Kalbu get to go to the Sun?”

“They can,” Chahal said, “they’ve always known the way, but they choose to stay so they can guide others.”

“But aren’t they lonely? Never getting to go see their friends and family?”

“I suspect they are,” Chahal admitted, “but what would you do in their situation? Could you leave all those lost spirits to wander and fade?”

There was silence around the circle. In fact, all of the other storytellers had also fallen silent. Ferun glanced around and realized they were all looking upward. She did as well and was greeted by the twinkling of countless stars all blossoming into light. The two moons, Sulca and Kalbu, were rising now and passing amongst the stars as if to welcome them, to comfort them. They would be able to go to their rest soon enough, Sulca and Kalbu would show them where to go.

“I see a face,” someone called out, pointing as they went on, “Sulca and Kalbu are the eyes, then those stars are the nose, and then there’s the mouth.”

Several people nodded and muttered.

More people called out, explaining the new constellations they saw. Some were attributed to this story or that, but Ferun knew it wasn’t the stories that brought them into the sky.

As she continued to watch and listen as more and more stars filled the sky and people began naming the new constellations,, it seemed to Ferun that there was no sadness in the sky anymore. Sulca and Kalbu had found joy in their labors and had brought that into the sky, shepherding countless spirits along, replacing the void with hope in the darkness.