The Lantern That Carried the Sun

The Lantern That Carried the Sun

High in the mountain village of Cloudpeak, where houses perched on cliffs like birds’ nests, lived a young boy named Bodhi. Every morning, Bodhi would wake to golden sunlight streaming through his window, painting everything the color of honey.

But one morning, something was terribly wrong.

The sun didn’t rise.

Bodhi rubbed his eyes and looked outside. The sky remained dark purple, scattered with confused stars that should have disappeared hours ago. Down in the village square, the roosters crowed and crowed, as if their voices alone could pull the sun from its hiding place.

“Mama, where did the sun go?” Bodhi asked, tugging on his mother’s sleeve.

His mother looked worried as she lit a candle. “I don’t know, little one. The village elders are meeting now to decide what to do.”

Bodhi put on his warmest coat and hurried to the square, where everyone had gathered around a small fire. The blacksmith was there, and the baker, and even Old Grandmother Mei who was so ancient she claimed to remember when mountains were young.

“Someone must have angered the sun,” declared the blacksmith, his voice booming.

“Perhaps it’s simply tired,” suggested the baker, yawning herself.

But Old Grandmother Mei shook her head slowly, her eyes twinkling in the firelight. “The sun isn’t angry or tired. The sun is lost.”

Everyone gasped.

“Lost?” Bodhi stepped forward. “But how can the sun get lost? It knows the way—it comes up every single morning!”

Grandmother Mei bent down, her face kind and wrinkled like a dried apple. “The sun is very old, child, older than the oldest mountains. And sometimes, when you’ve done the same journey for billions of years, you forget which way to go. The sun needs someone to fetch it and show it the path home across our sky.”

“I’ll go!” Bodhi declared, standing as tall as his small frame would allow.

The adults chuckled, but not unkindly.

“It’s a dangerous journey,” warned the blacksmith. “You’d have to climb to the top of the world.”

“I’m good at climbing!” said Bodhi.

Grandmother Mei studied him carefully, then nodded. “Brave hearts often come in small packages. But you’ll need something special.” She disappeared into her cottage and returned carrying an old paper lantern, its frame made of twisted silver wire, its sides painted with swirling clouds.

“This is the Sky Lantern,” she explained, placing it gently in Bodhi’s hands. “It’s light enough to carry but strong enough to hold the sun—if you can convince the sun to come with you.”

Bodhi looked at the small lantern, no bigger than his head. “The sun will fit in here?”

Grandmother Mei winked. “The sun is whatever size it needs to be.”

And so, with the Sky Lantern in his hand and a pack of rice cakes on his back, Bodhi began to climb.

He climbed past the last houses of Cloudpeak, where sleepy children watched from windows. He climbed past the tree line, where the pines whispered encouragement. He climbed past the snow line, where the world turned white and silent.

His fingers grew cold. His legs grew tired. But Bodhi kept climbing.

Finally, after what felt like forever but might have been just the right amount of time, Bodhi reached a place where the mountain stopped and the sky began. There, sitting on a throne of clouds, surrounded by the scattered toys of dawn—pink ribbons and golden streamers and orange scarves—was the sun.

But the sun was much smaller than Bodhi expected. No bigger than a large pumpkin, it sat there dimly, looking rather lost and sad.

“Hello?” Bodhi called softly.

The sun looked up, its light flickering weakly. When it spoke, its voice sounded old and tired and a little embarrassed. “Oh, dear. A visitor. I suppose you’ve come to tell me off, haven’t you? Everyone must be terribly cross with me.”

“No,” said Bodhi, sitting down on the clouds beside it. They were surprisingly comfortable, like sitting on a pile of the world’s softest pillows. “Grandmother Mei says you’re lost. Is that true?”

The sun dimmed even more, which Bodhi hadn’t thought possible. “I’ve risen and set a trillion billion times. Today, I woke up and… I couldn’t remember which way to go. East? West? They all look the same when you’re tired. So I stayed here, too embarrassed to choose the wrong direction.”

Bodhi thought about this. He sometimes forgot which way was which too. “You’re supposed to go that way,” he pointed. “Across the sky from there to there. Then you slide down behind the mountains to rest, and tomorrow you come back up and do it again.”

“That simple?” asked the sun.

“That simple,” confirmed Bodhi. “Will you come back with me? Everyone misses you terribly. The roosters are confused, the flowers won’t open, and my little sister can’t have her birthday party in the dark.”

The sun brightened slightly. “They miss me?”

“Of course! You’re the sun!”

“I thought perhaps,” the sun said quietly, “they’d gotten tired of me. The same sun, every single day. Nothing exciting or different.”

Bodhi shook his head firmly. “You’re different every day! Sometimes you’re pink in the morning, sometimes orange. Sometimes you hide behind clouds to play peek-a-boo. Sometimes you make rainbows. And you make every single day possible. Without you, nothing would grow, nothing would warm up, and I couldn’t have adventures!”

The sun glowed brighter and brighter as Bodhi spoke, until it was almost its normal brilliant self.

“You really mean that?” it asked.

“Every word,” promised Bodhi. “Now, will you come home? Grandmother Mei gave me this special lantern to carry you.”

“Ah, the Sky Lantern!” The sun smiled—at least, Bodhi thought it was smiling. “I remember when that was made, many ages ago, for just such an emergency as this.”

The sun rose up, spun around three times (which made the clouds all swirly), and then, in a cascade of golden light, shrank itself down to fit perfectly inside Bodhi’s lantern.

The lantern glowed so beautifully that Bodhi had to squint, but he could still see well enough to begin his journey back down the mountain.

As he climbed down, the light from the lantern spread across the sky. Birds began to sing. Flowers opened their petals. By the time Bodhi reached the tree line, the whole world was painted in the colors of dawn.

The village of Cloudpeak erupted in cheers when they saw Bodhi descending with the glowing lantern held high over his head.

“I found the sun!” Bodhi called. “And it just needed to be reminded of the way!”

When he reached Grandmother Mei, Bodhi carefully handed her the Sky Lantern. She walked to the center of the village square, held it up high, and whispered something in a language older than words.

The sun spiraled up from the lantern like a golden ribbon, growing larger and larger and larger, until it hung in the sky exactly where it was supposed to be, shining down on everything with warmth and joy.

The village celebrated all day long. There was music and dancing and Bodhi’s little sister had the sunniest birthday party anyone could remember.

That evening, as the sun began to set in exactly the right place, painting the sky in pinks and oranges and purples, it seemed to wink at Bodhi—just a little flicker—as if to say thank you.

From that day forward, the sun never got lost again. But sometimes, on mornings when the dawn was especially beautiful, people in Cloudpeak would smile and say, “The sun is showing off today. It must remember the time young Bodhi reminded it how much it was loved.”

And Bodhi? He kept his warm coat and his sense of adventure ready, just in case the moon or the stars ever needed finding too.

But that’s a story for another night.

The End

Sweet dreams, little one. May your lantern always light the way.

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• Fairy Tales and Folktales