The Moonstrings Tale

The Moonstrings Tale

Boris Leonov

To my dearest mother, who has taught me to dream and believe in myself.

© Boris Leonov, 2025

ISBN 978-5-0065-6038-3

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

Chapter 1. THE BOY AND THE MYSTERY OF THE OLD VIOLIN

In an ancient Flemish town, on its outskirts, where the streets were still unpaved and the modest houses stood tightly together, lived a boy named Dany with his mother.

Their small house, built of old dark brick with a tiled roof, seemed utterly unremarkable amidst the other cramped buildings.

The window in Dany’s room overlooked a narrow street, where, during the day, the clatter of carts and footsteps echoed across wooden planks. By night, however, everything sank into an enchanting silence. Only the soft moonlight filtered through the worn shutters, casting a gentle glow over the modest room. Inside stood a simple wooden bed, a wardrobe, and a small table. Upon that table always lay his violin – old, scratched, yet immensely precious to Dany.

The boy could not walk. Yet, as evening fell and the world grew still, he would carefully pull himself to the window, gently take his violin in hand, and begin to play the Moon Melody.

Dany believed that one day his illness would retreat – banished by the magic of his music.

Dany’s violin was no ordinary instrument. At first glance, it seemed nothing more than old, unremarkable violin, its surface worn with age. But the moment Dany held it and began to play, the violin seemed to glow with a soft radiance, as if its very wood had captured the warm light of the moon. Dany’s mother often told him that the violin had belonged to his grandfather, who had brought it back from some distant journey.

When the bow touched the strings, the narrow alleys winding between the houses with red-tiled rooftops seemed to come alive. Houses, weary with age, straightened themselves as if to better catch the moonlight on their steep roofs, eager to hear the melody.

The music streamed through the crooked streets like a gentle breeze, seeping into the furthest corners of the city. Oil lanterns with their dim flames glowed faintly, as if humbly yielding their prominence to the music and the moonlight. Above it all, towering Gothic cathedrals stretched their dark spires into the night sky, watching over the slumbering town.

The Moon Melody wove itself into the very breath of the town, stirring something ancient and tender within it – a memory of something important that had once happened here, in this place.

Chapter 2. THE QUEEN OF THE NIGHT AND HER SERVANTS

In the heart of the town stood its tallest Tower, adorned with intricate carvings that seemed to come straight from a fairy-tale. As soon as the sun dipped below the horizon, the Queen of the Night appeared in what had once been a knight’s hall. Its high vaulted ceilings and large windows, etched with delicate stone patterns, reflected the light of the moon.

From her enchanted throne, she gazed out over the town and the fields stretching beyond. And each night, she set right all that people had done in their folly or malice.

The Queen of the Night’s attire was truly magical.

Her gown, as light as the night mist, shimmered in the moonlight, flowing gracefully from deep midnight blue to silver. It was scattered with tiny stars that seemed to glimmer faintly as she moved.

Upon her head, the Queen wore an elegant diadem adorned with a moonstone that glowed with soft, ethereal light. Amidst the strands of her carefully arranged hair shimmered the finest silver threads – like glints of moonlight caught within.

An exquisite necklace graced her neck, its heart a small, transparent gem, reflecting light as if a tiny star burned within. This detail emphasized her royal dignity. Her gaze, deep and penetrating, seemed to see straight into one’s soul, unveiling all that was hidden and secret.

When she moved, her steps were as silent as the wind, and her voice was soft yet commanding. Her very presence carried an aura of calm and mystery, as if the night itself had descended from the heavens to listen to humankind’s stories and shape their fates.

Each night, in this Tower, the Queen received reports from her loyal servants, who gathered around her to recount everything that had happened in the town during the day. On this particular night, as always, she listened to her faithful emissaries one by one: the Raven, the Swan, the she-Cat, the Rat, and the White Owl.

The Raven, with his keen eyes, spoke of people who forgot to close their windows at night, of whispers in attics, and hushed voices in darkened alleys.

The Swan, gliding along the surface of the town’s canals, described how the waters reflected the shadows of human actions – whether a kind word or a deceitful lie.

The she-Cat, gliding gracefully through streets and rooftops, brought news of things hidden from prying eyes. Her soft paws trod where human gazes could not reach.

The Rat, scurrying through cellars, knew the secrets buried in darkness and damp.

The White Owl, soaring through the twilight sky, carried the latest tidings overheard on the town streets.

The Queen of the Night listened carefully to each of her servants, pondering their words for a long time. Her gaze stretched far into the distance, toward the horizon where the town dissolved into blurred silhouettes. She saw all its sorrows and joys, its acts of kindness and cruelty. Whenever someone caused harm to another – whether through thoughtlessness or malice – she found a way to set things right.

Sometimes her interventions were subtle: a sudden gust of wind might carry away a sheet of paper bearing someone’s secret thoughts, or a dense fog might enshroud a wrongdoer, blocking his path to commit a wicked deed.

Other times, her actions were profound: the light of the moon might illuminate someone’s life journey, pouring hope into a heart that had long believed it lost.

Each night was like a riddle for the Queen, one she solved by piecing together the missing fragments to restore harmony between the townspeople and the world around them. For the night is a time when everything becomes clearer – if you are willing to peer into its tranquil depths.

That night, the Raven was the first to bring the news to the Queen. He alighted on the broad windowsill, croaking softly to announce his arrival, then glided down to the stone floor beside her throne.

“What have you seen today, my wise Raven?” the Queen of the Night asked.

The bird inclined his head respectfully before replying:

“My Queen, the town was, as always, a place of both kindness and folly.

I saw a merchant on the main square hide a pouch of coins under his stall, only for it to be stolen later in the dark.

And I saw an old clockmaker, weary from the day’s work, repairing a little girl’s music box. She brought it to him, saying it was a gift from her mother. He promised her the melody would soon play again.”

“Thank you, Raven. Your tidings help me see this town for what it truly is. You may rest now, but stay a while longer – let us wait for the others.”

Next to arrive was the Swan. Circling the Tower in a graceful arc, he glided through the wide window and landed gently on the floor. Folding his wings, the Swan waddled forward, swaying from one webbed foot to the other, until he stood before the throne. He bowed his long neck and spoke:

“Greetings, my Queen!”

“Greetings, Swan. Tell me, what stories has the surface of the water revealed to you today?”

“The town’s canals whispered many secrets today – some bright and sorrowful.

I saw a boy near the bridge over the canal give his last piece of bread to a starving puppy. His father scolded him for this, but the boy said nothing – he simply stood in silence.”

“There is more kindness and wisdom in the boy’s heart than in his father’s words,” the Queen said thoughtfully. “And what else did the water show you?”

“By the canal’s edge, I saw a woman gazing at her reflection and weeping. She whispered again and again that she had been deceived, though she did not say by whom. Her sorrow was so profound that it seemed even the water shared in her grief.”

The Queen paused, her eyes drifting toward the town below.

“Sorrow often ties tight knots within the soul, but with patience and effort, even the most tangled threads can be unwound. Thank you, Swan. Your observations are important. Stay with me a little longer – soon, the others will arrive.”

The brief silence was broken by a soft purr rising from the staircase. All eyes turned toward the stairs, and the Queen of the Night allowed herself the faintest smile.

Graceful and nearly soundless, the Cat emerged from the shadows. Her yellow eyes gleamed in the moonlight as she padded across the stone floor, each step fluid and deliberate. She settled herself in the shadow of a column, curling her tail around her paws.

“Here I am, my Queen. I’m sure you were waiting just for me,” the Cat purred with satisfaction.

Before the Queen could respond, a soft rustling sound came from beside the throne. Out of the shadows peeked the Rat, her clever eyes glinting mischievously.

“Looks like we arrived almost at the same time,” the Rat remarked.

“No, I was first,” the Cat retorted.

“Ah, Cat, of course, you’re always first. But in my experience, haste is rarely an advantage.”

“And in my experience, whoever arrives first brings their news in a timely manner,” the Cat sniffed.

“News or exaggerations, my dear?” the Rat replied with a sly grin.

The Queen of the Night, suppressing an amused smile, raised her hand, and the two immediately fell silent.

“Enough, my clever ones. Your rivalry amuses me, but you both know how much I value each of you. Now, tell me what you have learned.”

The Cat straightened up, lifting her head proudly as though preparing to say something particularly important:

“Today, I paid a little visit to the baker’s house. He pretends to be generous and kind, but in truth, he’s hiding money to avoid paying the boy who’s been hauling water for his dough for a whole month.

But not everything was bleak. I overheard two craftsmen talking about how to help an orphan get a job. They want to teach him a trade so he can earn a living for himself.”

The Cat ended her report with a slight dip of her head – a gesture of respect.

The Rat, seizing the pause, began to speak with a hint of playful mockery:

“While the Cat prowled across rooftops, I ventured into the places where secrets truly reside. In the cellar of a shop, I overheard a merchant plotting to deceive his customers by mixing flour with bran so he could sell it for a higher price.”

She paused, leaning forward slightly.

“But in that same cellar, I saw an old miller set aside a small portion of grain to give to his poor neighbor, a woman who had completely run out of food.”

“Both of you, as always, have brought me important news,” said the Queen. “I value your insight and diligence. Follow your natures, but remember that you both serve the same purpose.”

“And where is the White Owl?” the Queen asked. “Has anyone seen her?”

“My Queen,” the Cat replied, “I saw her on a quiet street at the town’s edge. She was perched by the window of a small house, speaking to a boy who held a violin in his hands.”

A moment later, the White Owl appeared in the tall window of the Tower. She landed swiftly on the edge of the windowsill, slipping slightly on the smooth stone. Her white feathers were slightly ruffled from her rush, and her breathing was uneven. Her large amber eyes darted across the hall quickly.

“Forgive me, my Queen,” she said. “I am a little late.”

“You always arrive at the perfect time, Owl. But tonight, I see you had a special reason,” the Queen reassured her. “Tell me what happened.”

The White Owl smoothed down her ruffled feathers, then perched on a step near the throne, tilting her head in respectful acknowledgment.

“I was delayed because, as I flew over the town, I saw a boy sitting by the window of a small house. Late at night, when all the other children were fast asleep, he played the violin. The melody carried sorrow, yet within it, I could hear a glimmer of hope. I felt compelled to speak with him.”

“And what did he tell you?” the Queen asked.

All the servants drew closer, settling near the throne so as not to miss a single word.

The Owl continued her story:

“I perched on one of the shutters and asked him, ‘What is your name, boy?’”

“My name is Dany.”

“Why are you playing the violin while the children in other houses are long asleep? Don’t you wish to rest and dream like them?”

Dany was silent for a moment before he replied:

“Resting is easy when you have hope that tomorrow will be better than today. For me, that hope lives here – in this music. I play because I believe that miracles are possible.”

The Owl leaned closer to Dany, her amber eyes glimmering with curiosity as she tilted her head.

“But why do you play every evening, Dany? What makes you believe so deeply in the magic of this tune?”

Dany’s voice grew softer:

“Once, an old organ grinder told me that if I played the Moon Melody, my illness would fade away. He appeared outside our house on the hardest day of our life…”

“What kind of day was that?”

Dany lowered his gaze to the violin, thinking for a moment.

“It was the day when we had almost no food left. My mother worked from dawn to dusk just to feed us. And then that organ grinder – so old, so frail – came to our house and asked for water. I wanted to help, but…” Dany sighed. “…but I couldn’t. My legs won’t obey me.”

“And what did you do?”

“I called my mother. She brought him water and gave him the last piece of bread we had. The organ grinder looked at her and said that kindness always comes back to those who share it with others. Then he looked at me – right into my eyes, as if he knew my fate. He told me that if I played the Moon Melody, one day I would stand up and walk again.”

“Your mother must be an extraordinary person!”

“She is the kindest person in the world! Every day, I see how hard she works for me. I want to get better, not just for myself, but for her. I dream that one day I’ll stand up, go to the market, and bring her a loaf of bread – bigger than any she’s ever seen.”

“You play for her?”

“For her and for hope. When I play, I feel as if I’m already standing. I imagine us walking through the town together, holding hands. That I’m no longer a burden, but someone who can help her.”

“You know, Dany, your music doesn’t just touch people – it stirs the very Moon itself, making it shine brighter when you play.”

“Really?” Dany asked, a faint smile appearing on his face.

“Really. I’ve heard many melodies, but yours is special. And you know, the Queen of the Night loves music too. I’ll tell her about you.”

“Do you think she could help me?” Dany asked, his voice trembling with a mix of hope and excitement.

“The Queen of the Night can do many things, and she has her own ways of creating miracles. You just keep playing, Dany. Never lose hope!”

Dany nodded, holding his violin a little tighter.

And with a sweep of her wings, the Owl vanished into the night, carrying away his dreams – and the silent tears hidden behind his smile.

When the Owl finished her tale, an absolute silence fell over the Tower. Everyone was so moved by the story that no one could utter a word. The Rat stood on her hind legs, her mouth slightly open, her eyes wide with wonder. And the Cat – her yellow eyes glistening with unshed tears.

The silence was broken by the Raven, who flapped his wings with a low, restless croak.

The Queen’s servants began speaking all at once:

“We must help him! Help him! Yes, we must help Dany!”

“But how? Why hasn’t his illness retreated, even though he plays the Moon Melody every night?”

The Queen raised her hand, and at once, the Tower fell into solemn silence. She sat on her throne, gazing out at the sleeping town, deep in thought. Her servants waited patiently, knowing she would find the answer.

At last, the Queen spoke:

“Playing the Moon Melody is not enough – it must be played on the fabled Moonstrings. The magic of Moon strings lies in their ability to grant the wish of the one who plays them.

But these strings are not merely tools of magic. They are a reflection of the human heart. The power of their magic depends on the purity of the soul of the one who plays them. If a person’s heart is filled with kindness and faith, the strings will grant their wish in harmony with the Moon and the stars. But if the strings fall into the hands of someone wicked, their melody will distort reality, turning dreams into shadows and hope into despair.”

The Queen paused, her gaze distant as she recalled a story from long ago:

“Once, many years ago, a man with greed in his heart obtained the Moonstrings. He wished for wealth and power, but his avarice grew so immense that the strings could no longer follow the benevolent will of the Moon. The melody he played destroyed towns, turned friends into enemies, and for a time, plunged the world into silence.

But the Moon did not let the darkness prevail. She hid her strings from the world, entrusting them to the four cardinal directions and placing them under her eternal watch. Since that day, the strings have remained lost to humankind. Only occasionally does the Moon grant someone the chance to find them, but only if their faith and hope are stronger than their fear.

But there is one more condition for the magic of the Moonstrings to take effect,” she continued. “The Moon Melody can only be played on a single, specific violin in the entire town. If the Moonstrings are placed on any other violin, they will melt the moment the bow touches them. That is why many have sought this violin, both the virtuous and the wicked, but its whereabouts remain a mystery, known only to the Moon.”

“But what if Dany’s violin is not the one?” the Owl asked anxiously. “What if the Moonstrings melt, and his dream of walking is lost forever?”

The Queen of the Night was silent for a moment. Then, rising from her throne with a resolute expression, she commanded:

“Summon the Moonstring Catchers!”

“White Owl, child of the polar lights, you shall take flight to the North Catcher. His home lies near the Blue Lake at the edge of the Icy Forest.

Raven, bearer of whispered secrets, your path leads east – to the East Catcher. He dwells by the mysterious river that guards the secrets of time.

Gray Cat, shadow in the moonlight, you will seek the West Catcher. He is a wanderer, a jester, and an adventurer, often found at the “Red Lion’ tavern on the western outskirts of the town, watching the stars fade at dawn.

And you, majestic White Swan, will travel to the blossoming meadow to find the South Catcher. She is a young woman with eyes full of joy and a light step, who plays a harp with blue strings, and whose music fills the air with magic. Now, come closer to me.”

The Swan waddled toward the Queen. She removed her transparent veil and tied it gently around his neck.

“This will help you both on your way here, to this Tower.”

“And what about me?” the Rat asked, her voice tingled slightly in offense. “I want to help Dany too.”

“As for you, my clever little tracker, Grey Rat, a task both vital and perilous awaits. For now, you will remain here watching over the town. Observe everything that happens, and when the night falls, you will report to me.”

“Go now, my faithful ones. When the next night falls, you must all gather here.”

“Your orders will be carried out, Your Majesty!” they said almost in unison. “We will not fail!”

They bowed respectfully to the Queen, then disappeared one by one into the night.

The White Owl spread her wings and flew out the window, merging with the shimmering starlight.

The Raven rose into the air and headed confidently eastward, vanishing into the brightening sky of the fading night.

The Swan unfolded his magnificent wings, circled the Tower once, and glided southward, as though the night wind itself guided him on his path.

The Cat and the Rat slipped into the shadows of the Tower and disappeared among the town’s houses.

Chapter 3. THE TREASURER

In those days, a Treasurer lived in the town. He was an assistant to the burgomaster and knew everything that was happening within its walls. Among the secrets he kept was knowledge of the violin and the strings – yet he never spoke of them to anyone.

The Treasurer dreamed of becoming the burgomaster himself – of seizing control of the town and bending its people to his will. But the burgomaster, who was a kind and fair man, despised the Treasurer for his secrecy and greed, and so kept him away from the town’s most important affairs.

The Treasurer was a gaunt, hunched man, whose very appearance seemed to reflect the state of his soul. His long nose jutted forward, while his small, beady eyes darted about, as if they were trying to steal something with just a glance. His bony hands, with their long, spindly fingers, looked like the legs of a spider – always ready to snatch anything of value.

His attire was proper – yet worn with the passage of time. A long mantle of black cloth draped over his shoulders, worn with an air of self-importance, as if it were the grandest garment in the town. Beneath the mantle, he wore a dark linen tunic – simple but severe, carefully mended where it had worn thin. Over the tunic, he wore a faded velvet doublet, its once-vivid patterns now muted by time, though still whispering of a long-lost grandeur.

Upon his head, he always wore a tall, dark hat with wide brim, adorned with a satin ribbon and a silver brooch. The hat cast a shadow over his face, adding an air of mystery to his already unsettling appearance.

On his feet, the Treasurer wore black shoes with large metal buckles that gleamed as though he polished them each evening. He took pride in this small but significant detail, seeing it as a symbol of his importance.

Around his waist he carried a thick leather belt, from which hung a heavy pouch. Though its contents remained unseen, the faint jingling of coins with every step was a deliberate reminder – one he ensured no one could ignore.

He walked with the aid of cane, its handle carved into the shape of a raven’s head. He often tapped it nervously against the cobblestones, as though contemplating his next cunning plan.

Everything about his appearance spoke of a man who valued money and power above all else.

More than anything in the world, the Treasurer coveted the violin and the strings. He was prepared to offer the Catchers of the Moonstrings a great sum of money, and once he obtained the violin, he would make his wish come true.

Each evening, the Treasurer prowled trough the town, his sharp eyes peering into windows, his ears straining for the sound of a violin. Whenever he discovered someone playing an old violin, he would either buy it or trade something valuable for it.

He had collected so many old violins that they nearly filled his entire house. At first, he carefully arranged the instruments on shelves and in drawers. But soon, there were too many, and the shelves overflowed. The instruments began to take up every bit of free space.

Violins piled up in the corners, lay under tables, and even on chairs. From time to time, one of them would fall to the floor with a dull thud, making the Treasurer tap his cane against the floor in irritation. “What a curse!” he hissed under his breath, snatching up the fallen instrument. “But no matter. One of them must be the one!”

Sometimes, as he paced through the room, his cloak or cane would accidentally catch on a violin, sending it tumbling down with a shrill discordant note. These sounds annoyed him greatly, yet he didn’t dare throw a single violin away. The thought haunted him: “What if this one is the magical one?”