The Boy and His Shadow

Long ago, when the stars were uncountable and the air was still dusty with grain, there lived a farmer’s boy who loved food. He loved the knowledge and craft of its production-- the way Spring coaxed out shy green sprouts from the black earth, the art of grafting young branches to elder trees in the orchard, and the kingly gold of wheat in the Autumn. The boy knew how to grow melon with a thick, sweet rind, and nurture tomatoes redder than blood. He was raised to know the temperament of the seedling and the fickle wrath of rains, and it was through his labor the farmer boy grew to love food not just for the pleasure of eating, but the joy of creation itself. 

It was his mother who imparted every wisdom to him, from her seat by the hearth in their slumping cottage on the hill. Her sturdy, calloused hands worked tirelessly by her fire: winnowing grain in the swift cold winds, peeling the skins of potatoes, and chopping onions. Jars of bubbling dough grew round and plump in her cellar. From her gardens she plucked rosemary and thyme, simmering basil into her soups, sprinkling salt sparingly as the aroma drapped their little farm, drawing the boy home each sunset. He would sit by their fire, which seemed undying, throwing dancing shadows behind them. Together they ate, and his mother would tell him stories of the world. 

“There are kings that eat at tables as long as the river, laden so heavy with pork and veal that the wood buckles, and when the table collapses he simply calls in for a new table and a new feast,” she would say, cracking sun-yellow eggs into a clay bowl. 

“There are armies that march continents, ravaging hundreds of cities and towns for a pinch of rare spice,” she would say, churning milk over the fire as the scent soured. 

“There are princesses so beautiful men write poetry and sing songs of them to the point of despair, starving themselves in their woe,” she would say, rinsing red clay from radishes. 

As she spoke by the flames, long and black their shadows would grow against their humble walls. One day, the boy’s own shadow stooped down and spoke to him. 

“Long years I’ve been lying in patient wait, hearing your tales and hoping for a taste of the meals you eat,” the shadow pleaded, thin and stuttering. “Only a little would satisfy.” 

The boy felt sorry for his shadow. He was not sure it had ever eaten anything at all as it spent all its days following the boy around the farm. He gave it his crust of bread. A black, lanky hand took the crust, swallowing it in the dark. 

“Thank you,” it said, and both the shadow and boy were content. 

A few days later, the shadow whispered again while the boy sat by the fire. Its voice wavered like the sway of a flame. 

“Please, if I could try some milk,” the shadow begged. “A sip, so I could know the taste, creamy and white.” 

The boy, feeling a bit sorry for the shadow, gave it a drink. The entire cup emptied in a blink. 

“Thank you,” rasped the shadow. The boy did not worry too much over his milk, for the boy lacked nothing, and discontent and hunger were strangers to him.

Months passed, the boy giving more and more scraps of his meals to the shadow, which he soon took notice of far more often, seeing it form itself into shapes along the footpaths and bends of the farmlands and woods, taking the forms of foxes and bears and strange, unknowable things. It would whisper odd thoughts to the boy, thoughts of wealth, power, and pleasure. The boy got taller, and his shadow grew long. 

The boy confessed these new thoughts to his mother, who warned him against his shadow. Without temperance, she said, it will only grow. Yet, the boy felt pity for his shadow, who always seemed to hunger. 

Another evening, the boy and his mother sat by the hearth, hearing her speak of all the world, and the shadow spoke ravenously. 

“Give me some of the meat in your stew,” it demanded, and the boy obliged. 

The shadow ate flesh for the first time. 

From then on, the appetite of the shadow could not be quelled. It swallowed entire cows, devoured fields of grain, hunted the hares of the forests, and drank the river dry. The boy tried trapping the shadow in the darkness, hiding himself in caves, pressed against slick walls of icy stone. The boy kept a burning lantern at the mouth of the cave, the light keeping the shadow at bay. The shadow stalked, threatening to consume the boy himself if he could not free it to eat. It railed and begged and tricked, but the boy pressed his hands to his ears until, on his seventh day in the cave, he had an idea.

“Look here, shadow,” the boy urged, “I cannot give you my rivers, my farms, or my food. Soon my mother and I will starve. Let us go out into the world and find the feast of a king, and there you will fill your appetite.” 

The shadow, tired of swimming the dark waters of the cave walls, growled in its hunger. 

“I will stay my hunger until we find the feast of a king,” it consented, knowing that if it ate the boy, there would be no one to cast its form.  

The boy knew he could not trust his shadow, so he took care to leave home in the daytime, when it was washed weak and pale by sunlight. It hungrily eyed the world as the boy navigated the strange stone roads that lead to the city in the heart of the kingdom. 

At the sight of the towering walls and shining flags, the boy and shadow were delighted. The boy loved the sunlight on the white towers and the wise elders gathered in the square, teaching from long, timeworn scrolls. The shadow loved the rattle of golden change in the market and the din of lively music. Together they wandered, the boy asking around the city for help, his worried eye on the sinking sun. 

When the king of the city heard that a boy with an insatiable shadow had come looking for a feast that could fill the monster, he was intrigued. 

“Bring them to me,” said the king, “As there is no end to my wealth, and the shadow will surely find its fill.” 

So the soldiers brought the boy and his shadow into a glistening hall, with a table heaped with every imaginable delicacy: roasts, steaks, fish, puddings, candied peaches and sugared apples.When the shadow had gobbled all the feast, the king had great basins of wine brought out, which the shadow gulped down to the last drop. 

The shadow did not stop eating. The king watched the shadow gorge its way through stores of wheat and cellars of ale-- he cried out in despair, “Is all my wealth not enough to appease this beast?”

The shadow, which had swollen to the height of seven men, curled itself around the pillars of the hall and said to the boy, “My stomach is bottomless and my hunger rages on. A king’s feast did nothing to curb my appetite. What else is there that could satiate me?”

The boy looked to the king, and asked him, “How does one get such wealth and plenty as you, my king?” 

The king replied in a trembling voice, “It comes through my armies and the might of thousands.” 

“Then this is what we will acquire.” The shadow gulped air as it spoke. 

The king obliged the shadow, fearing the creature might eat his kingdom whole, giving it armies to go and take the lands of others, hoping that the conquest may just placate the boy’s shadow. 

The boy, feeling his life tugged about like a toy on a string, took his place on horseback to lead armies of conquest against neighboring kingdoms. The boy and his shadow were famous for their might and mastery of the battlefield, as the boy was clever and knew how to spur the hearts of men, and the shadow relished in the heat of fire and rush of blood, never flinching, never feeling terror. It began to swallow men whole in its wake. The curiosity and hope of the boy was a dwindling light beneath his ever-growing shadow.

So they took provinces and palaces alike. In the darkness of night, those gathered round fires whispered of their deeds and might. They were respected and feared by all. 

Yet for all it consumed, the shadow was still unsatisfied. 

It continued to eat, and eat, and eat. 

One day, in the sleepy wash of twilight, the boy, who was soon to be a man, lay in the fields of war, the shadow undulating across the canvas of tents, now large enough to shade pastures and glades. 

Together they listened to the songs of birds. The shadow heard them sing of the beauty of a faraway princess, for it knew the language of the beasts, as is the way of shadows. The birds sang of how she drove men to stop eating in their desperation. How her skin was gleaming copper and her eyes dusky amber. How thousands had tried for her hand and been turned away.

The shadow told its boy of the princess, and said, “Let us go meet this princess. Perhaps winning what no other has will end my hunger.” 

The boy, weary of war and losing hope of ever going home, considered this proposal. 

“Let us try,” he said finally. 

So the boy and the shadow left the camp, this time under the veil of night so that their enemies could not threaten them. They made their way across valleys, rivers, and bright green glens to the far deserts, grassy knolls giving way to burnt, bronze sands. Walls of sandstone stretched up to a stark blue sky as they arrived at the city of the legendary princess. The markets flooded with travelers from all stretches of the world, gathered in hopes of seeing her. 

When the princess heard a great young general had come to seek her hand, she called together her court and invited the boy to an audience. 

The boy entered her halls where she sat in robes of silk, embroidered with golden owls and foxes, her amber eyes clear and seeing. The loom of the boy’s shadow darkened her palace, and she turned her head immediately. 

“Begone,” she said, “for I see not a man, but a boy, who is ruled by his shadow, unfit for my courts and my hand.”

The shadow, enraged by rejection, lashed out to devour the princess whole. The boy, unable to bear the destruction any longer, turned and ran from the halls and away from the palace, dragging the shadow through the city, out into the desert. It roared and writhed, taking the shape of giants and dragons and beasts. The boy fell to the earth under the wasteland sun, his shadow shrinking and wavering in its blaze, howling of its hunger as the boy stayed put. For seven days and seven nights, they fought in the desert.  

On the seventh night the shadow screeched, “Feed me or I will tear you apart!” 

“Then we both die,” retorted the boy. “We must live together or not at all.” 

At this, the shadow was quiet. There, boy and shadow sat, reflecting on all they had taken and lost. They remembered the cool streams and plentiful fields of their farm, the fruits of the orchards, and warmth of their fire. The fullness that came from his mother’s meals. 

“Perhaps,” said the boy, “we can return to the life we had before, on the farm. There you can eat your fill of our riches-- but must tame your appetite so that no one else is harmed.”

“I will try,” replied the shadow. “But you must understand that so long as you live in the light, you will cast me.” 

The boy agreed and stood, and the two stumbled through the desert and mountains and valleys and kingdoms, back to the boy’s farm. Back to where the fields and orchards had fed him for all his childhood years. There, his mother waited by the hearth of her fire, the smell of stew and greens wafting over the gentle hills. She embraced her son and regarded his shadow, which was darker and broader than it had been, but did not ravage her farms as it did before. It stood behind the boy, swaying in the curl of flames. 

“Come and sit,” she said, gesturing to the pot simmering over the fire, “And tell me of the world.”