The Moonstrings Tale

© Boris Leonov, 2025

ISBN 978-5-0065-6038-3

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

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.

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.