Ten years ago, this island was saved by a god.

We were under attack by a neighboring

nation seeking to expand their empire and exploit this place for its resources. The foreigners

were not welcomed by our people, but their overwhelming strength and military power forced us

to form an underground resistance against them. As a ten-year-old girl, there was no plausible

way for me to fight, or much less make a difference. But I did anyway, and in my capture, I saw

him. The god.

We came to call him the King of Birds, because he came to us on the back of a purely

white eagle. It was from upon this eagle that he’d swept me out of the arms of a soldier of the

empire and returned me to the safety of our people’s protection, a flock of millions of birds

following in the eagle’s wake. The very wise owls, the graceful doves, the dark ravens, the pesky

crows…every swallow, sparrow, and robin followed him like he was their leader. Their ruler.

With his winged army, he’d come to drive the invaders out, and he did so effortlessly. I may

have been one of the only witnesses, but he’d commanded the countless birds to every square

unit of the island…pecking, squawking…swarming like killer ants to rid the island of them,

whether it be by aggravation or death.

The people for a year to follow had called him a god and a king. But I had seen his face,

felt the flesh of his arms, and I could even smell the sweat of great effort upon his skin and

clothes. He looked to be common enough to me—not taking on the appearance of any kind of

god. But I was only a child, and he did save us, no matter who or what he was. A few of us built

a temple in gratitude of him. But nobody saw him after that day.

It’s been ten years since the incident, and I am the only one that comes to the temple…the

only one to clean and polish his monument, the only one left to pray to and believe in him.

Hoping that perhaps his godly ears or at least his kingly spirit were listening and would help.
 Not many saw him, and those who did gave up their belief, forgetting the peril he’d saved

us from; and what’s even worse—the few witnesses joined the others who openly question my

sanity in the town square…asking me exactly what I saw that day when they saw the same thing

for themselves. I rarely call them out, but during one of these arguments is where I begin my true

story.

A few ladies had pulled their children away from me when I entered the market and

leaned over the counters of the vendor shops.

“Stay away from that girl, you have no idea what lies she’ll tell you.”

“I will not have my son believe in a false god because a crazed girl spoke to him.”

“Ah, look who it is,” Baker smiled at me, but I knew it was false, “Our little story teller.

What can I get you today?”

“A fruit tart, if you don’t mind,” I replied, reaching for my purse under my bright red

cloak. “The King of Birds favors them as offerings.”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Baker roll his eyes at his son, who kneaded dough next

to him in the window of their shop.

“Look girl…nobody’s seen him in years…” Baker tried to reason with me.

“But you have seen him. Yet somehow time or popularity has got your memories in a

knot. It wasn’t you who took me from those soldiers. It was him, and I know you know it,

Baker.”

We stared firmly into each other’s eyes as we slapped the tart and coins onto the counter

between us. Without another word, we parted.

 “Somebody help! My child! He’s been captured by the sailors at port! Please!”

Everyone’s heads turned to the frantic woman who’d entered the square, tripping over her

own feet, grasping desperately at the clothes of those she ran into. Nobody made a move—we

were not a strong people. Not many laws, no military…just the village elders to govern us.

Nobody could stand up to a mob of sailors.

But I knew one person who could, and I ran to the temple of the King of Birds.

I’d left the tart on the slab where people once set their vast, expensive offerings. At one

time, for a near decade, the offerings lay there untouched; so people took back their money and

their expensive items, claiming that the king must not be real. But these people had no sense of

humility, and no sense of godly conduct. For what value could a god see in material items?

As for the tart…I’ve brought those every day or so for ten years, and they’ve always been

the one and only thing missing the next day.

After placing my offering, I’d said a prayer—pleading for the mother to get her child

back, for the sailors to give up her child to her and return where they’d come from…and not

cause us any further trouble. Leaving my faith there to do the rest, I went about my day though

the rest of the town fruitlessly consoled the devastated mother.

The next day, I was in the hills near the village picking flowers when I heard the

commotion. I dashed into the square to see the mother running towards the port. The son she’d

lost to the sailors the day before ran up the dock to meet her embrace. The whole village sighed

with relief and surprise—probably assuming that the boy was miraculously returned by the
sailors. But something about the boy caught me off guard. He was frantically trying to break free

from the mother’s grasp while shouting in my direction.

“You! The crazy girl! You sent him, didn’t you?” he shouted with a manic smile and

laugh on his lips. “The man with the birds! You always said he’d come!”

I ducked behind the nearest vendor wagon, my hand grasping my red hooded cloak over

my frantically beating heart. He saw him…that child…he saw him! Another witness! He’d saved

this child too!

I glanced up the tallest hill where the temple sat unassumingly against the morning

sunlight. Without another hesitation, and with the child shouting for me to come back, I

scrambled to the temple.

The moment I threw the doors open I entered the single room, breathing heavily…then

stopping, my breath hitching violently in my throat as I caught the sight of the man sitting on the

slab, the fruit tart held delicately in one hand on its way to his waiting lips as the swarm of small

birds around him sat patiently, hoping to catch a falling crumb.

He didn’t seem disturbed by my presence until I fell to my knees, my entire body

clattering to the ground in a nearly lifeless heap. I stared up at him, senseless.

He paused in eating the tart I’d left him the night before and caught my stare.

“Well hello, my little disciple,” he said.

Then, I fainted.
The five fairy tale elements I chose:

1. The King of Birds using birds to fulfil tasks, like in Cinderella.

2. The main character being a social or familial reject, also like in Cinderella.

3. Belief in a supernatural or magical element like Cinderella’s Hazel tree.

4. Red hooded cloak (I love red on a main character) like Little Red Riding Hood.

5. A child is stolen or kidnapped like in Rumpelstiltskin.