The old man came to a farmhouse. The building was a brown, timber-framed construction on the outside of which hung vegetables fresh from the fields. The whinnying of horses and lowing of cows could be heard coming from behind the house, and the braying of a donkey echoed over the hills.

It was a fine day, the sun shining down powerfully and warming the old man, though the puddles and mud of the dirt path he followed to the farm told of rains not long passed. The man entered through the wooden gate in the wooden fence that enclosed the building, but he did not stop at the door to the farmhouse. Instead, he calmly and purposefully walked around to the back of the building, his slow pace never faltering.

The old man walked as if he had been there before. His stick before him, he wandered down the side of the building, not once stumbling though the ground was a mess of the footprints of livestock. Rounding a corner, he entered the ungated barn, where the farmer was patiently milking his herd of cows.

The farmer did not look up from his work as the old man approached, though a glance barely seen let it be known he was aware he had a visitor. The old man came to a stop a few paces from the farmer and leant on his stick, watching as the farmer squeezed out the rich white milk that would provide for him and his family. It was painstaking work, as the farmer had a lot of cows and this was only one of the day’s many labours, but the farmer went about it uncomplainingly, finishing with one animal, removing the bucket, and then proceeding to the next. Occasionally, a cow would kick over the bucket, but the farmer would just sigh, pick up the bucket, and continue with his work.

Eventually, the farmer was done with the task. Rising from the milking stool, he clapped his hands together in the satisfaction of a job done, and turned to look at the old man.

"Who are you?" asked the farmer, though his voice betrayed little curiosity. It was simply a question. "Why have you come to my farm?" The old man stood up straighter, taking his weight of the stick and looking up at the farmer.

"I would like to hear your story," said the old man, voice so quiet you may have thought it the wind.

"My story?" asked the farmer. "I know many stories, my friend."

"The story," whispered the old man.

The farmer began gathering up the buckets, moving them to the side of the barn. As he did so, he cogitated on the meaning of the old man's words.

"Well," said the farmer, "I guess there is really only one story to tell."

The old man's face burst into a smile, and he nodded.

"But I'll need you to help me carry this milk to the cool room," the farmer said.

The old man needed no encouragement. He hobbled over to the buckets, and soon had one in his one free hand. The farmer did well to hide his surprise. Though the buckets were heavy and the old man frail, not a drop was spilt.

The two, the farmer and the old man, began carrying the many buckets of milk out and down into the cool of the storage cellar, and as they walked the many trips the farmer began his story:

"There was a couple who lived on this farm, before. They had married young, and loved each other very much. In the fruitfulness of years, the wife bore two children, a daughter and a son. The daughter was first, and she was already walking by the time her brother was born. She would spend hours of her days beside the cot her brother lay in, the same cot she herself lain in night after night when she was small, the same cot their father had crafted out of wood he had gathered from the forests around their home.

The daughter would carry her baby brother with her around the farmhouse, introducing him to the hidden nooks of the barn, the dusty attic of the house, the animals in the pastures beyond. Their mother and father would watch in pride and happiness as their daughter first carried the infant, then held the hand of the boy who walked alongside in her wanderings. How many times they must have looked up from the fields where they worked, looked up to see their daughter pointing and explaining the world of the farm to her baby sibling!

With the turning of the seasons, so too did the family's fortunes change. In the middle of one long, cold winter, not many years after the birth of the boy, the mother took ill. The children were frightened by the sounds of wracking coughs emanating from their parents' room, terrified by the pale, thin countenance they saw whenever their mother emerged. But they would swallow their fear, and run to hug her, wrapping their arms around her neck and chest so tight, as if they thought that somehow they could bring back their joyful, beautiful parent through their love.

But they could not bring her back. Every season saw the mother paler, more frail and gaunt. Every season saw her retreat more and more to her bed, for longer and longer times."

The milk had been by this point entirely transported into the cold, dark cellar, and as the farmer set the last bucket down he stood up straight, blinking as if blinded by the memories.

"But that is not the story you came for, is it?" asked the farmer, looking straight at the old man. The old man shook his head.

"No," said the farmer, as if to himself. "The story you want comes after that, after many more winters."

"The babies grew into fine children. Well-mannered, curious, and always helping around the farm, they grew stronger and wiser about nature than the few peers they had in the area. They worked with their father on the fields from a young age, trying with their childish hands to somehow make up for their missing mother. The sister, stronger and wiser than the little boy, would show him how, and help him as he struggled to keep up.

Their father had not asked them to help, in fact he had tried to argue them out of it, but in the end he was forced to concede that he needed the assistance. His back was bent from the years of hard toil he had spent sewing and reaping, and his hands were no longer the firm, strong hands of the past, so the children worked, and did not complain."

As he spoke, the farmer led the old man once more up the stairs and out into the brilliant sunshine of the day. They walked in silence for some time, the old man walking behind the farmer, smiling as he took in the butterflies that swarmed the gorse bushes dividing the fields from untamed nature.

Their steps took them through a field where horses chewed quietly on the grass and upwards over a gradual slope. It took them several minutes to cross the field, the farmer apparently content to walk at the pace of the old man, and when they reached a turnstile he helped the old man over.

Now, they walked down a small track that was surrounded by the gorse bushes, the thorns scratching gently at their skin as they made their way. Flies buzzed in the early afternoon light, and animals scuttled away unseen in the undergrowth. The track wound its way downwards until it came to a pond.

The body of water was too small to be called a lake, though it was not possible to know its full extent due to the bulrushes that grew out of the shallow edges, concealing the point at which land turned to water. Frogs croaked and birds sang, while the occasional sound of some creature breaking the surface of the water could be heard.

They came to the end of the track where a small area of grass opened out beside the pond. It was a natural clearing, not manmade, and had no notable features save one. On the edge of the clearing, where the pond lapped at the ground, here clear of bulrushes, was a small stone shrine.

The shrine was a small roofed box, the side facing them open to the elements, sculpted out of a large grey rock. It was crude and worn, clearly carved by hand, and within was a shiny black rock, placed carefully upon a stone stand. The black rock was longer than it was wide, the top curved so that it gave the impression of a hooded figure. In front of the shrine lay a collection of wildflowers, in the centre of which lay a single white lily. The flowers were fresh, no more than a day or two old.

The two men stood in front of the shrine, and the farmer spoke again;

"In the summer," the farmer continued, "the two children came here to play. After the seeds had been sown into the ground, but before the harvest, this was their place. This small period of freedom was their solace from the hard days on the farm, and from the pain of seeing their sole remaining parent so weak.

They would sit here, beside the water, and talk. They would talk of the lands over the hills, lands they had never seen, had only heard of from the travelling merchants and teachers that sometimes came to their homestead. They possessed few books in the home, but the girl had taught herself to read from the ones they had - books of travel, books of adventure and heroes and monsters.

The world they created over the hills was a world of dragons, magic, and excitement. Champions fought for the hands of beautiful princesses, while wizards conjured glistening ivory towers that touched the sky. Giant animals paraded down city streets, with long necks and huge feet, ridden by men. They would talk of these lands, far beyond the world they lived.

Or they would play. The girl taught the boy the games their father had played with her, when she was as little as the boy was now, before their mother sickened and their father had to work all the hours he could. They would build piles of stones and see who could knock the most down with a rock thrown from afar, or scratch lines in the dirt to create jumping squares to test their agility. The sister was always the strongest, for the boy was barely over 5 or 6 years, but she would let him win sometimes, preferring the smile on his face to the feeling of triumph.

Sometimes, they would merely sit, and watch the water skimmers and crawling things of the water. They found that if they sat truly still, completely at peace, that sometimes the animals of the woods would appear from the hedges and graze here. It was a challenge they often gave themselves, to see how long they could remain motionless so as not to disturb the rabbits that would eat there, or the wildcats that would laze in the sun. It was always the boy who moved first, his shame at failure obvious in the welling tears in his eyes, and his sister would always comfort him."

The farmer strode suddenly away from the shrine, and began collecting the colourful flowers that grew at the edge of the clearing, picking each individually and with care by the bottom of the stem.

"It was one such day, one of the many uncounted days, that they had their first argument. The boy had grown stronger, strong enough, he thought, that his sister should not be able to best him. They were playing some game, the rules of which were unclear in the way of children's games, skipping pebbles into other pebbles in the hope of knocking one out of a crudely etched circle. The boy was doing well, but still his sister was a little ahead. The game went on well into the afternoon, the sun falling low on the horizon, but the boy refused to end the game until he had proved himself, begging each time for just one more try.

The girl was clearly tiring of the game, and it had ceased to be fun for either of them a long time ago, but the boy would not stop. When it came again to the girl's turn, after many others, she missed the circle completely, putting the boy in the lead should he make even the simplest of attempts. It was, perhaps, one of the many times she had deliberately faltered to allow her brother some measure of joy.

But the boy did not feel joy. In its place, he felt shame and fury, a rage that swelled in his chest and spat itself out in a tirade of shouts and curses, a torrent of foulness that left his sister crying, muttering platitudes and excuses he was unwilling to hear. Oh, how he cursed her! The fury, once unleashed, poured out of him with a vehemence he was unable to explain. In later years, he would wake in the night with shivers and regret at the memory.

The boy smashed her hand away that she held out in supplication. He pushed her to the ground when she tried to hold him. He screamed over her when she tried to speak, until eventually she lay curled up on her knees, head tilted over her feet as the tears poured down and the boy's viciousness flowed about her. The sight of his sister, so hurt and so vulnerable, made the boy rage more at the knowledge that it was he who had caused such injury. He raged at her as he raged at himself, his disgust at his own actions feeding into the resentment he felt towards her.

The girl was left huddled and weeping when the boy stormed off, his horror at what he had said finally overcoming the font of rage that welled from he knew not where. She remained that way as the twilight came, the buzzing insects of the darkness arising to flit around her, drawn to her warmth and blood. Eventually, the chill of the evening air forced her to stand, the tear stains on her clothes not yet dry.

Her first thought as she stood was not for herself but for her brother. The night held dangers for young and old alike, and her brother was still unable to fend for himself. She looked around for where he had wandered, and saw the gap in the bushes where he had forced himself through."

The farmer had finished picking the wildflowers, and he gestured to a part of the overgrowth that seemed indistinguishable from any other, but the old man knew this was the spot he meant. It led in the direction of a crop of willows, their branches hanging down into the water in an image of sorrow.

The farmer walked to the shrine and laid the flowers down in front of it as he spoke, removing the older ones save for the lily, which he tenderly placed in the centre of the fresh bunch.

"She pushed aside the weeds and brambles as her brother must have done, entering the far deeper darkness of the trees and the shadows they gave birth to. Clambering over gnarled roots and twisted vines, she searched for her brother as the sun dropped down to where it sleeps, awaiting the new day. The ground was awash with dry, brown leaves that cracked as she walked, and the night was full of the nameless sounds that roam this world outside the realms of man, yet she continued her search unceasingly and without fear. Her brother was all she was concerned with, now.

It took her a while to find the place where the fallen tree lay, its thick splintered trunk collapsed and jutting out far into the pond. She knew instantly that it was a place such as this that would have taken her brother's attention, for it offered a chance to penetrate into the reeds of the water and see a part of it they had never seen before. She started to climb along it, down on all fours to keep balance, the trunk moving and rocking slightly and bobbing in the water, making it hard to stay steady.

Pushing aside the reeds and branches that blocked sight of further up the trunk, she advanced carefully but with great determination along it, surrounded on both sides by the black, swallowing water of the pond. It seemed far larger than it had in the daylight, and to look into it was to look into unfathomable depths.

Finally, she came to the end of the body of the fallen tree, where it tapered to a point that no body could possibly have continued along any further, but of her brother there was no sign. Still the girl did not give up, or convince herself of some false reason her brother was not there. She knew, and did not question. So she turned herself around, and, balancing as carefully as she could, surveyed the waters to either side.

She found her brother quickly, floating face down among the pondweed and rushes just the length of a man away."

The farmer's voice took on a halting, choking tone as he stood staring at the shrine, unblinking and eyes fixed as if he were no longer talking to another person, but rather reciting a chant of absolution that he had said for all his years.

"She dove into the water with nary a thought, her heavy farm clothes no contest against the strength of her will, and though she had no knowing of the ways of the water, she made to her brother faster than the wind. She took hold of him, span him around so he was once more facing to the air, to the heavens.

The stars shone above them as she paddled doggedly, keeping them afloat, and she prayed to them. And so it was the spirit of the water took them.

They were dragged down to the depths, depths far surpassing the limits of belief. That this small patch of moisture could run so deep!

The waning light of the surface faded swiftly as cold hands dragged her downwards, tightly gripping her by the leg. She was pulled down before even a last gasp of air, and her lungs swiftly filled with the water that surrounded and enclosed them. The darkness swallowed them both, more absolute and complete than the thickest of cloudy nights.

And in this darkness the spirit came to her, and offered her a deal. She was brave, said the voice, to come this far without fear, without dread. It was unusual to see such a one, thoughts filled only with concern for another, not a thought for herself. The voice liked such souls.

Thus did the voice offer the deal. Her brother could be saved, she was told, in exchange for her soul. The girl's soul was to remain there, in the darkness, to attend and amuse the spirit of the place. Never would she see the shining stars again, nor had she any hope of heaven, but her brother would live, and she, too, would live, in a way.

'For to serve me', said the voice, 'is to serve for eternity,' and no god nor devil, no end nor death, could claim her once she submitted.

The girl did not stumble over her reply, nor did she hesitate. She accepted at once, bowing her head to meet her fate, yet smiling as she watched her brother, eyes opening as he regained his life, be swept back upwards towards the world, and out to where the water lapped the clearing of their many games.

The last sight he saw of his sister was her weeping tears of joy, tears of happiness to see her brother free of the fate she so readily accepted on his behalf. Her tears, somehow visible even in that watery realm.

She did not hear his screams, his cries, as he lay amongst the rushes."

The farmer reached for the black stone, taking it in his hands and turning it over and over in his palms. His eyes shone damply in the afternoon light.

"This was all the spirit left me," he said. "I awoke with it in my hand, and no matter how I tried to release it, I could not. It remained sealed in my palm even as my father, who had come searching for us despite his exhaustion, carried my damp, damaged body back to the farmhouse. Only a few days later, once I had told my story to my parents, wholly and truthfully, did I find it possible to release."

He replaced the stone.

"We made this shrine for it the next day. My father brought me back to the place, and told me that the stone was all that remained of my caring sister, his loving daughter. We tended it all my father’s life, and I tend it even after he too has left this world. The spirit of the water, and of my sister, remains, and watches over us."

"And so you have your story. I am surprised I told so much of it to you, a stranger I barely know. It is not a story I often share."

The old man nodded, the slight smile he always wore now one of thankfulness and empathy, and patted him gently on his arm.

The old man turned and left, as the farmer sat down and stared at the shrine in the fading light, wiping the tears with the sleeve of his jacket…