The Pillow Maker

 Once upon a time there lived a pillow maker in a small village, overshadowed by an ancient castle. The King requested one hundred new pillows every morning for that following eve. His bulbous head would crush most of anything the pillow maker could create, and only one hundred pillows from the wool of two dozen sheep would support the king's heavy head.

“Pillow maker,” the king would shout, “My sleep is more important than everything the eye can see from my tallest tower. If I do not receive my pillows before dusk, then I will kill one of your sons,” he ordered, and sent the pillow maker on his way.

Days turned to weeks, and all of the sheep in the land ran naked through empty streets, providing no materials for the pillow maker to use. He improvised; turning his house-hold sheets, blankets, and bedding into stuffing for his nightly order. Just before the sun crept behind the castle’s peak, the pillow maker and his sons delivered one hundred pillows to the king, and left, praying he would not notice any difference.

That next morning, the King called upon the pillow maker and his sons in outrage.

“Pillow maker,” his fat, wart clustered face tremble with anger, “You have failed me, and for that, I will kill your youngest son,” he pointed, sending his guards upon his frightened boy.

“But, I will give you one pardon: If you can correct this injustice before I retire this eve, and deliver one hundred more pillows, I will spare his life,”

“Oh you are so gracious my lord, but there is no wool in the land. What am I to do?”

“That -- pillow maker -- is for you to find out. Now leave. Be back before dusk, or your son dies,”

The pillow maker and his two sons searched every nook and cranny of every field. They ventured far beyond the thresholds of the kingdom, probing behind shrubs, rocks, and trees in search of elusive sheep. A distant cry from over the hills gave them hope, as familiar, shadowy figures crested towards them.

"Look! Sheep, father -- sheep," hollered his middle son.

Together they ran upwards, madly racing for the growing mass. As they approached, the once shaded image of hope was quickly replaced with a grim reality: the sheep did bare wool, but not even enough for one-hundred pillows. The pillow maker walked alone, trailed by his sons as he rested his defeated body against a large boulder that sat atop of the hill.

“My sons… I fear that your brother is lost, and I have failed,” he wept, sitting on the ground.

Then suddenly, a dancing man appeared, singing aloud as he tumbled towards the three.

Satin, silk, cotton, wool, 

Nothing will ever cushion, 

Nothing will ever be full. 

I offer you a simple fashion, 

To supply his majesty’s request, 

And soften his nightly unrest.

“Pillow maker, I know your troubles well. I have in my possession one pillow that will save your son,”

Inside of his green robe he revealed an ebony, scarlet stitched pillow.

“All his highness’s head will require is to sleep one night with this, and he will never have need for another until the spell wares,” he hopped to the top of a nearby rock, standing on his hands, twirling the pillow with his feet.

“What would you request in return?” The pillow maker asked.

The little man flipped over, landing between his other sons on one foot while balancing the pillow like a small ball on his raised shoe.

“When the moon births again as the phoenix arises the next morn, I will require one soul – smothered from its mortal husk with the old pillow you will receive from the king,”

Hesitantly, he stood.

“Anything for my son, stranger,” he sighed in heavy defeat.

“Then it is done. Let it be known today: If you ever fail to deliver on your end of the bargain, then I will return for the lives of your sons three,” he ended, tossing the humble craftsman the magical pillow.

“In one month, you will find a new pillow at the foot of your bed. Bring to here the old pillow that following morning, and place it below this rock,” he now spun away, kicking a pebble to the base of the boulder

“Yes… I understand,”

The dancing man was off, as with the pillow maker to the castle afar. He arrived before the sun descended, presenting the king with the dark, mysterious pillow.

“But I requested two hundred pillows, and yet you only bring me one. What manner of trick is this?” the king demanded furiously.

“I assure you, my liege. All you will need is this one pillow, and if this will not suffice, you can have my life as well,”

The king stood from his seat, immediately taking for his bed chamber. Within moments, he returned with excitement.

“Pillow maker, I do not know where this came from, but the job is done. Guards, release the prisoner. When shall I call upon you again?”

“You will know, your highness,” the pillow maker bowed, leaving the throne room.

As gibbous wanes from an infant moon canvas the still twilight, the pillow maker travels, collecting a soul to save his kin from now until forever more.