In the summer of 2941, the Great Emperor of China was turning seventy years of age. His birthday would mark his Golden Reign of 50 years as our ruler.

I was barely a man at that time, a young boy hovering between the folly of youth and the responsibilities of an adult. I lived on a small island on the opposite side of the river of metropolitan China. I often wondered what the big city would be like, for I had never travelled any place further than my beautiful Tree Island. Story books I read as a child spoke of a China I never met, a place that was not dotted by tiny islands covered in flowering trees. There wasn't the abundance of rivers and lakes of now. The sky above used to stink of pollution yet now it rested peacefully in a perpetual summer's blue, lightly laced most days with a delicate mist.

My father was a farmer, my mother sewed. I was a poet. I spent most of my time on the grassy hilltops, watching the city quiver behind curtains of pale fog as wild birds serenaded me. In the evenings, I camped under the stars with my flashlight, my notebook, and my quill to write about everything my heart longed to say. My parents took pride in my written work. I won many awards with my poetry over the years. My mother said that one day I'd become a famous author, move away and forget about their humble existence.

"Never, mother," I told her. "I would never give you and father up."

"Even for the poetry you so love?" She asked with a delicate small, yet I saw tears glisten in her warm brown eyes.

I threw my arms around her and shook my head. "I love you more than the silly words I write."

"When you are famous," she said, "people will give you grander gifts than those we have been able to give you." In her wrinkled face I saw depths of love. Both mother and father raised me well. I never wanted for anything, be it food, shelter or, most importantly, love. I was their only child, a blessing, as they said, after twelve years of still-born births.

"You gave me life," I whispered, my heart swelling with the love I carried for them. "This life gave me words, joy --" I paused to look towards the caged nightingale on the kitchen table, "and song."

On the center of the table sat a humble wooden cage my father made for my birthday last year. Inside the cage was the little brown nightingale my mother caught. Every night, the bird's singing filled our small home with happiness for there is no grander melody than that of a nightingale.

Over the centuries, these little birds had grown scarce. Once found all over China and its perimeter, Tree Island was now the last area in all of Asia where these tiny creatures nested. Here they began to flourish. In the last few years their numbers doubled. Soon they would look for new homes, perhaps one day they'd make their way to other parts of Asia as they had years ago. I opened the bird's cage and held out my hand. She fluttered her wings and perched on my finger. I smiled in hope that one day her offspring would find their way to the capital where they could perch on the golden nightingale statues surrounding the Emperor's palace.

Now June rolled into July and eventually August came. During this time, I wrote a handful of works which I sent to China to be published in one of the newspapers. When my copy came, the post man also handed me an official looking letter and asked me to sign for it.

Curiously, I looked at the thick cream envelope as I scribbled my signature.

"Have you won a competition, Deshi?" The postman asked.

 I shrugged. "I haven't entered one," I flipped the envelope over and looked at the sender's name in awe.

The emperor's official stamp stood out in bold type. His insignia, the Golden Nightingale, looked back at me. The bird's delicate feathers fanned across the envelope. Above, my name was neatly handwritten.

"You must have won something. That's a letter sent personally from the Grand Emperor himself. Perhaps it is an invitation to the Golden Reign."

I looked up at the postal worker . The Great Emperor would be hosting a party for his dual celebration in two weeks. He'd be choosing two citizens that had offered something of beauty though their art as his honored guests.

There was a big smile across the postal worker's face. When he saw the dumbstruck look on mine, he chuckled. "Go and read it in peace. I'm certain it's fabulous news."

Mutely, I nodded. I couldn't even mutter a thank you.

As I rushed into the kitchen, the newspaper slipped out of my hands and papers fell onto the floor. I bit my lip to keep from swearing. I always kept any newspaper or magazine I was featured in safely in a box, away from dust and humidity. But the cream envelope fired up my wonder. I'd pick up the paper after.

I plopped myself on one of the chairs. My fingers worked over the envelope feverishly. The ivory card inside was outlined in gold. A nightingale rested on the top left corner, a twin to the one on the envelope. My hands trembled. A million thoughts ran though my mind. Had I unknowingly committed a felony? Was I being called for war? No, we've had peace among every nation on Earth and in our galaxy for nearly 200 years. Have you won some sort of competition, Deshi? Was this really an invitation? No. It couldn't be. My poems were just words. What sort of beauty could they offer that a painter or a singer could not a million times better?

I opened the card and saw the same delicate writing inside. In the wooden cage, my nightingale began to fuss. I opened her door and she flew to perch on my shoulder. "Are you nervous, too, little one?"

Her reply was a ruffling of her brown feathers.

 I drew in a breath and began to read out-loud.

       Honorable Chen Deshi,
       Please accept my invitation in being one of my esteemed guests for my Golden Reign and celebration of my seventy years upon this glorious Earth. You will be representing your fine written work which you have been blessed to pen upon this mighty Earth. I have been following your achievements since you first appeared on paper. I have always admired the way you weaved your words in such a manner that touched the reader's soul. It is like a song singing in my heart.
       Your poetry has captured the essence of  love and of tranquility.
       My other honored guest will be a sculptor from the planet Ichor...

I stopped reading out loud and continued in silence. A formal invitation had been sent to me, to ME, to take part in the Emperor's celebration on the 16th of August. I looked to my little singing bird as happy tears trickled down my face.

***
                                                             
On the morning of the 15th of August, I stood on the doorstep of my home hugging my parents goodbye.

"I always knew this day would come," my mother tearfully said as she pulled back to adjust my tie. "You look so handsome."

My father looked at me with pride. The suit they bought for me cost a pretty penny but they both agreed that I needed a new outfit fit for royalty. The deep blue brought out the flecks of azure in my eyes. My tie was burgundy with gold thread laced though creating tiny diamonds. My suitcase rested beside me. The nightingale was perched on my shoulder. I had little to gift the Emperor but a poem I had written for him and my little song bird.

"It is not forever, mother," I replied, "I will be back before you miss me."

***
                                                               
The palace rose before me as if out of a fairy tale. As the driver pulled the limousine into the vast entrance, he explained that the other guest had already arrived, but I was half-listening.

The driveway snaked though lush greenery. Herculean trees sprung from the ground, their trunks thick and their branches full of emerald leaves, accompanying them were clusters of fruit trees.  Roses of every color speckled the lawn. Grand statues of mythical beings carved out of marble and jade looked down at me. I stared out the window in wonderment.

The driver helped me with my suitcase. Together we made our way into the palace. I'd never seen anything so grand. The marble floor under my feet shone. The paintings hanging on the walls were surely as tall as I. Faces of royalty past mingled with lovely landscapes. The furniture was gold-trimmed. But what caught my eye was a golden replica of a nightingale perched on the branch of a silver cherry blossom branch. It sat in the middle of the vast area, surrounded by spotlights which made it shimmer magnificently.

"It is a thing of beauty," the driver commented when he saw me stare in awe.

"Yes..."

 "Come, I will show you to your chambers. Rest honorable sir for tomorrow is a big day for everyone."

I pried my eyes away from the statue and followed him up to my room.

***

                                                              
On the planet Ichor, Atticus Winterborn sat back and admired the mechanical nightingale. His work as a sculptor was not ordinary. Atticus liked to bring his creations to life with the aid of mechanics. He liked to beautify them with items found in Ichor's nature, a purple leaf from the rare Luba trees found on the highest hill of the planet, coral-like shells from the miniscule Koda crabs he found on the shores of the salt-kissed rivers. But for the Emperor's celebration, Atticus used the most precious jewels on the planet. Shimmering gold-rose stones called Imbyr decorated the mechanical bird's body; deep turquoise gems were used for eyes. Its beak was a pale silver-like substance, as were its feet. When the Ichorian told the bird to sing, the jeweled nightingale brought forth a glorious sound.

Atticus looked out of the window as nightfall tinged the horizon copper. Twin moons glistened before him. Going to Earth was a dream come true for him. He watched it though curtains of delicate red fog and smiled.

***
                                                              
I bowed before the Emperor. Butterflies bumped beneath my breastbone. I was so happy I may have fainted then and there had his Excellency not spoken in his gentle way.

"You honor me with your presence, Deshi, as do you Atticus. I have always been a lover of works of art that reach out and speak to my soul. Both your poetry," he nodded to me, "and your sculptures," he nodded to the Ichorian, are things that make our worlds even more beautiful."

I looked up to the Emperor, from his golden slippered feet, to his red and gold robes, to the gold crown on his white hair. His dark eyes twinkled and there were tiny silver gemstones braided in his long white beard.

"The honor is ours," I said as I handed him the poem I had written, which I'd rolled up and tied with a silk bow. "I hope you find this piece of work as lovely as my others." At that moment, the little nightingale slipped out from the pocket of my suit and flew to perch on the Emperor's shoulder.

The Emperor's face lit up like a child's on Christmas morning. "A nightingale!" He chuckled as the little bird ruffled its feathers. His other guests gasped behind open fans. Some of them giggling like children themselves, for a nightingale had not been seen in the city for centuries.

"My second gift to you, your Excellency."

The happiness that plumed within my heart because of the Emperor's own joy was short lived when the Ichorian handed the Emperor his gift. People gasped as the mechanical bird was lifted out of a velvet box. As the light from the chandeliers brushed across the gems, they sparkled like a thousand small suns.

The Emperor gasped. He reached for it in wonderment. His eyes bright. "Another nightingale!"

 "My dear Emperor, this bird has great powers." I saw the Ichorian grin. "This nightingale will remain by your side forever. It will never get ill. Never die. It shall remain silent until at your command you tell it to..." The sculptor took a step forward, extended his arms and said in a booming voice, "sing, little bird!"

 The jeweled nightingale began to sing. A glorious sound came from its beak. A melody so fine it was as though it had been created by the God of Music. The tune filled the whole ballroom. Though it was mid-day, the mechanical bird sang powerfully, not like my little one who would not utter a sound till night.

***
                                                                        
The emperor saw it fit that my nightingale roamed freely in the palace's garden. From the branches of apple, cherry, and walnut trees, I watched the brown bird flutter happily. At night, she sang loud, beautifully. The emperor often sat by his window and listened to her before he went to sleep.

"Ah, such a lovely song. Alas, she does not sing when I command her to, unlike the other nightingale." Then, one day, a week after I'd arrived, the emperor stopped going to his window.

During the day, he would tell the jeweled nightingale to sing over and over, sometimes for hours at a time.

"Sing, little bird." I heard him one night. The exquisite sound coming from the mechanical nightingale filled the halls. I felt sadness in my heart when I realized that he forgot about the little bird I gave him.

I wandered to the garden and saw her jumping from branch to branch yet no song came from her beak. I understood her sorrow. She no longer had anyone to sing for.

A few days later, I returned home.

The kitchen table where the nightingale's cage once sat was now full of gifts I received from the Emperor; silk clothing for myself and my parents. Golden watches encrusted with gems, a jade replica of a nightingale to replace my real one. As my parents clapped over the rich presents, tears welled up in my eyes. I reached for the jade statue knowing it would never take the place of my tiny song-bird.

***
                                                                   
"Sing, little bird," the Emperor waited for the lovely sound but none came. He picked up the mechanical bird and lightly shook it. "Sing." The small beak remained motionless. The Emperor's face wrinkled in a frown. "I command you to sing." He reached up to touch the silvery beak thinking perhaps it was stuck. Yet when he did, the lower part broke off and dangled by a coil. "Sing!" The Emperor demanded and shook it again. The gems broke off the bird's body and tumbled to the floor like a dazzling rainfall. Imbyr lay by the Emperor's silk slippers. Turquoise eyes stared blindly ahead. Outside, night tiptoed over the garden silently. A tear slid down the Emperor's cheek. He realized that in greedily demanding the jeweled nightingale sing, he had discarded the real, flesh and blood one.                                                                                                                                                                  .
"Oh, little bird," he said sadly as he looked out the window. "I am a fool." He set the mechanical bird on a round table and bowed his head in shame.

Day-break found the Emperor sick with fever and woe. He barely spoke and he did not rise. When the cook brought him his favorite meal, he refused it. The doctor was brought in and tests were run. "I cannot find anything wrong with him. Not a single thing. I do not know where his fever is coming from."

For forty days and forty nights, the Emperor lay in bed, looking out towards the garden.

The nightingale found sanctuary in the lush gardens under the warm sun but her heart was heavy. What is a humble-looking brown bird without her song? It had been months since she came to the palace, months since she'd sung. She longed to sing for the Emperor again but he had discarded her for that shimmery inanimate thing. The nightingale was sad but she decided to visit the Emperor once more. Perhaps he needed her now for she certainly needed him.

Perching on the sill of the open window, the nightingale peered inside where she saw a pale form lying on the bed. The emperor looked so small and frail!

Stray strands of sunlight danced around the nightingale as day slowly slipped away. The Emperor opened his eyes. "Little bird," he said in a raspy whisper. "I have been a foolish man."

The nightingale flew to his bed and perched on the post.

"You have come to me," he said with a small smile. "I ask your forgiveness. I now know that things must be given freely, not by my command. Your songs, little bird, must be offered when you decided it to be so."

The nightingale ruffled her feathers then sat watch over the Emperor all night as he slept.

When the Emperor woke the following day, the nightingale had returned to the garden. But, as soon as night arrived once more, he saw her flying back into his chambers and perch upon the bedpost. He did not have to tell her to sing. It was her decision to do so. Until sleep came to claim him, the nightingale sang.

***
                                                                    
I learned of the Emperor's passing shortly after. An official letter told me the unfortunate news. They found the little nightingale lying on his chest. Her wings spread out as if to offer some sort of console. It gave me little comfort that they had passed together. I held the letter close to my body as tears stung my eyes.

I pictured them in what the ancients called Heaven, a place even more divine than the Emperor's palace. I knew his Excellency would be content there, if there was such a place. And she, my little nightingale, well I am certain there would be many up in Heaven anticipating her glorious song.

About the Author:

Christine Bottas aka @Nyhterides is a Greek-Canadian writer who loves tales with dark or gloomy elements, be it Gothic stories, scary fairy-tales or melancholy literary fiction. Christine is the author of Goblin Garden, a book of Gothic poetry. She's been published in Rethinking The Plot and Conversations, two anthologies by Kingston University Press.

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