Follow the flicker @folkloricflickers, where these myths
first take shape in motion—before settling here, in
tiny storyvials—for those who wish to linger,
listen deeper, and feel these myths in
their palms and in their hearts.

Storyvials is the grown-up's sanctuary of symbolic tales—each tale a small vessel of comfort, memory, and meaning. Rooted in the spirit of humble village lore and shaped by modern resonance, these stories offer not just healing, but a quiet restoration of identity.  

Tales like these restore identity by returning us to presence—the quiet root of observation. In this stillness, memory stirs. Symbols speak. And we begin to remember who we were before the noise.

Emotional Symbols and Timeless Insights

Gestures and objects have always spoken more truthfully than words. A cellar, a spoon, a wolf suit, a thimble. These elements return not as metaphors to be solved, but as emotional cues—quietly charged, intuitive, and observable. They drift and perch like dream-thoughts, recurring across stories with a kind of gentle insistence. 

A spoon may offer comfort in one tale and complicate mercy in another. A wolf suit may represent danger, disguise, or misfit labor. Their meanings shift with the emotional weather, never fixed, never forced. 

These tales are not built on an established symbolic system. They don’t ask to be decoded. Instead, they are infused with interpretive potential—because in life, it isn’t always the obvious that carries the strongest meaning. Not the lawn itself, but the shade of green. Not the speech, but the pause before it. Not the object, but the way it’s placed. 

The symbols here behave like feelings: ambiguous, layered, and emotionally true. They invite a kind of listening that is gentle, unhurried, and safe. A language older than explanation.

Once there was an old shepherd in the long-forgotten Village of Ecouri. He'd call the herds in from the valley and the hills each dusk, using his good old trusty pan flute. And this, he'd been doing for ever so long, somewhere in the way of oh, I'd say a good fifty years.   

Now he lived a stone's throw outside the village, just over the wooden wagon's bridge, aptly named Wagons Bridge. The other bridge was farther, called Tree Branch Bridge because it held no more weight than a sturdy tree branch would, for you see, it was a footbridge, meant to cross-over not more than two thin people at a time, and the gates on each end of it kept the cows off.   

So when the shepherd began piping-the-animals-home, the cows never bothered to go that way. Instead, they took many other steep or narrow, even wide natural pathways back into the village. 

Never could one beast of bovine resist the old piper's piping, so never was one lost.  

Legend even has it that a tribe of strangers once stole four bulls and a cow, but that the beasts trampled their thieves as they turned to race back towards that late afternoon's piping in the distance that carried wide and far. 

The village had not known of anyone in all its history, or in the history of people, really, who's piping was strong enough to carry for seven miles. Other than, that is, this old herder.  

Because of his heavenly old gift of piping a melody that drifted seven miles out and seven miles up, the people called the piper Seven High, or Seven Up, and often Seven Pipes, because the pipes of his instrument were numerous. And those with an interest in the cattle and sheep had been paying old Seven Pipes once each seven days for his good stern piping that guaranteed not one lost beast for fifty years.   

Now Seven Up lived with his mother there in that cottage, and she had grown quite hard of hearing over the years. Whether or not Seven Pipes could still pipe seven miles out and seven miles up was not known to her anymore, since she could hardly hear the sound of her pots clanging in the kitchen nowadays.  

Though there had been no complaints to Seven Pipes about the power of his piping ever dwindling. All seemed as well as it ever was. And the old shepherd considered himself as young and healthy as a forty-year-old. And in his mind, he was only thirty-nine. 

Then one day, Seven Pipes, who'd been a virgin his whole life so continued to serve his mother like a good, young son, went to the village to trade some mint powder for honey, as she had asked him to. 

While he was there trading with the village priest at the church, the bells struck six o'clock, although the gonging was quite muffled in the ears of Seven Pipes. He was going deaf, you see.

Though, since he was going so deaf, it was a good thing he had never married, because the old ladies there in that particular village were known to throw cold water on their husbands for ignoring them, and so, many an old deaf man had died of the flu. But not Seven Pipes, the oldest old man alive there. What was worse was that he thought he was far deafer than he actually was.  

Whenever he piped, he personally couldn't hear the stern echoes that he knew his piping had always produced, but he figured that he'd inherited his mother's quite severe, old-age hearing problem.  

But did he? What if things weren't really the way Seven Pipes and his mother thought they were, after all? What if the truth would shock them both?

Well, on his way home from fetching the honey, old Seven Pipes nearly collapsed from exhaustion on Wagon Bridge. Though he struggled across without falling into the rocky stream, so one up for Seven Up.  

Though he immediately sat on the grass, leaned against a rock, and fell fast asleep.

A moment later there came a couple of young village people, and they shook him to make sure he was still alive. 

Lucky for them, he stirred, opening one eye to say, "Will you help me home? I need to get my nap in before I pipe." 

They were relieved, of course, because they wouldn't have to carry a corpse into safety from the wolves, on foot. 

They helped him away from the bridge and onto the porch, so by then he was wide awake, and he brought them each a cool cup of honeyed mint milk. That used to be the best thing around to drink, I would imagine. Oh yes. It probably would have been all I drank if I lived back then, a sort of melted gourmet ice cream flavor, I'd be willing to bet. 

So they stayed a moment with him on the porch, where he asked them, "What are you two doing so far out here at this time of day?" The young woman was old enough to marry, but the little village was fresh out of suitors who weren't her cousins. She started to say, "Oh, picking wildflowers," but the young lad who was with her, probably yet another cousin, blurted out, "We're going to tend to the herding like we always do 'round this time." 

"Round this time? Like always? What do you mean," Seven Pipes asked. "I've never seen you 'round here 'round this time."

The young woman squinted hard at her cousin, though he didn't pay any attention to her and blurted out, "Well we usually come through here a little bit later in the day. But today, we're going to the pasture early, since my brother can't help us like he usually does. He's helping my papa fix the roof today."

Old Seven pipes chuckled, "Silly old son of a clover, you are. Everyone knows that I've always piped in the cattle and the sheep, and after me nap I'll get to it once again, right before dusk." He looked the lad straight in the eye now and asked, "Now, come off with the real truth. What are you really doing way out here, sonny? Why, ye got ya girl cousin witcha and it's nearly dark. Maybe this isn't such a good idea for ya."

The lad answered, "We're here to herd the cows and sheep back, been doing this for over half the year." 

Seven pipes was stunned. "Half the year?" He asked the young woman, "Is this true, my dear?" The young woman said, "Not really," but her cousin blurted out, "It's the truth, me own ma taught me never to lie."  

Seven Pipes sat down on his rocking chair, rubbed his head. "But, why? I'm the herder here, it's always been just me, no one else." 

So the lad says to him, "It's because the herds can't hear your piping anymore."

Now the young woman set her cup down and took her cousin by the elbow, kindly saying to Seven Pipes, "Good sir, thank you for the milk, but we must be going now." And smiling at Seven pipes, she delicately tugged her blabbering cousin down the old steps backwards by his skinny little elbow. And off they went, leaving old Seven Pipes bewildered.   

He said to himself, "Half the year it's been this way? I just can't wrap me head around it."  

After the scrawny young lad had followed his cousin toward the pastures, and they were far from the cottage, she scolded him, “Why would you tell him this? He wasn’t supposed to know that we've had to take over his duty. Poor old man. They say he loves piping in the herds. What made you tell him? I should tell your brother about this. You should've let me do the talking. I think you just like to talk. Is that it?” 

Well, she grumbled on at him all the way out to the pastures farthest stream, where he was forced to either cross the cold water or stand there and take it. By some accounts what he did was climb a tree to get away from her awhile. And she, some say, threw stones up at him, but he was as skilled at catching them as he was at catching flies. 

So, in the meantime, Old Seven Pipes went into the kitchen to see his mother. She was stirring the pot, when, Seven said sadly, “A son and a daughter of the village were just here, Mummy."

“Here? Why, I didn’t hear anybody here,” she answered, for unlike Seven pipes, who thought he was deafer than he was, his old mum thought she was less deaf than she really was, so thought she should have heard any guests on the porch. 

She grumbled, "Were these two youngsters mute? Whole world's gone mute 'round here it seems, 'specially them new generation youngins." 

Well, Seven pipes softly passed on the bad news, and afterward she said nothing, because she'd heard nothing. 

So, finally, she looked up from the pot, and said, "Well, go on, son. What'd they say?"

So he hollered the bad news, and this time she heard him well.

But she just laughed at him, saying, "For heaven's sake, Pipes, it must be some sort of joke, you're still being paid just like normal to do ye old piping. Makes no sense at all. Strange news indeed." 

Then old Pipes said, "And it's all because the old herds can't hear me pipin' anymore. All this time. Can yeh believe it, Mums?" 

Well, this was one too many details for it to be a prank, so his mother went on baffled now. She hollered clearly,  "Well, what's the matter with the herds, then? Somethin' stark backward about them cows, you know! Maybe they got a clog of old flies in their ears..."

As she hollered on, her old son figured that if the kids had been herding the herds all this time, then he hadn't really earned his pay. And he was right, because the villagers had quietly paid him out of sheer kindness. Poor old Seven Pipes never did get his nap in, tossing and turning out on his rocking chair, thinking about the situation. 

Finally, after his mum finished an ounce of grape wine and went straight to sleep, he decided he wasn't having any of the villager's unfair kindness. So, well, he pressed a pouch of coins into his pocket. And he went by the light of the full moon, taking the easiest path—flatter, though longer— which meandered in and out of the shadows along the edge of the forest. 

He was bent on returning his pay.

His walk was pleasant, of course, nice and quiet, but having missed his nap he began to tire, so he stopped to sit, leaning back on a very old elder tree. And that's no pun. It's rightfully called that.

So, just then, he heard a gentle voice calling from within the tree. Well some would say it was gentle, but others consider it the annoying voice of a needy grandchild crying for some more of that new chocolate popcorn they've come out with. This very sort of voice uttered, "Can you hear me."

Well who wouldn't hear a voice like that? Of course he heard it. So, he stood up, and rapped on the bark. “Is someone in there?” he asked. “Yes, please—I am a tree spirit, and I’ve been locked in this tree all summer. Oh, do search for the key. It’s sprouted among the bark. Break it off, then find the keyhole and let me out, dear sir.”

He did as she asked, and upon turning the key, a little arched segment of the trunk opened up, a sort of cabinet door that was there all along though blended in enough to be invisible to anyone who was on an ordinary, brisk walk, such as the clear-eyed and quick. Or the strong and youthful. Who knows why, really. Perhaps the tree spirits in those days didn't trust the mute young ones, so made their hidden doors visible only to the old and gray, slow-walking, and trustworthy, yes, those too old to care about pillaging and capturing. 

What, ever the case, though, out stepped the most beautiful tree spirit old Seven Pipes had ever imagined, followed by a rush of cool breezes. 

And she was no grandchild, probably a thousand years older than he was. That fancy popcorn, though, get's stuck in the throat, and it'll stunt the vocals, I hear, makes you sound like a little elf. 

Well, the old tree spirit, with her youthful, opal complexion glimmering in the moon's light, and both bare feet on the earth, looked up at old Pipes. “Dear old man,” she said, “you have set me free and now I can enjoy whatever is left of the summer. And I’m so grateful, for I won’t have to return to my cozy, warm tree until winter." 

She looked around, "Oh, I almost forgot how beautiful the world is, so lovely and green, and the moon is full and bright. I feel so welcomed once again here. I just can't wait to drift about through this magnificent forest, to see the birds and butterflies, the flowers and vines, and feel the summer rain in my hair. Oh, I thought I might never feel this joy again!”

As she rejoiced, arms open wide, she hugged old Pipes, laughed, and kissed him smack on the forehead. 

She asked, “Tell me how I may repay you, kind sir.”

He could think of only one thing, so he took the pouch from his pocket. He said, “I’m simply exhausted. Could you please return this money to the head villager?” 

“Return it?” she asked, blinking in deep concern. It was as though she thought she was chatting with a crazy fellow, wanting to, return money, like that.  

He didn't know how to explain it at first, then he answered, saying, “Yes. Return it. You see, well. Uh, I'm not really bonkers. I’ve, piped in the herds for many years. But today I learned the herds don’t hear my piping anymore.”

So, she says to him, “Well, whyever not, kind sir?”

“Ah, well, I’m older than I’ve ever been,” he said.

“Well, so am I,” she smiled.

But he wasn't smiling when he said, "But wait. There's more. I've piped in the herds for many, many decades. And now I'm afraid my breath has gone too weak for the cattle to hear me old piping. I'm afraid that even the echoes can't hear the call of the old panpipes. And worse yet, oh. For the past half year, two sons and a daughter from the village have been herding in the animals, every evening. Behind me back! I've been piping like an old fool, receiving money I didn't even earn, too deaf, I suppose, to hear the whispers of this secret all 'round here. The money, in me trusty old coin pouch here, is my most recent payment. though I can’t imagine, now that I know the truth, accepting money from the villagers ever again. Surely not for a job I didn’t do.”

He handed her the pouch. And the tree spirit agreed to return it for him.

But after they parted ways, she turned back instead and followed him home from a quiet distance, then watched as he sat on the porch. He was so exhausted that he conked out where he sat. So the tree spirit went up the steps and slipped the bag of coins back into his pocket and whispered, “Surely, you good old man—you can use this money. So, you keep it.”

Well, that was rather nice of her, I think. Would I have done the same? I doubt it. I might have just run off to the tavern of the next village with the loot, got me a few good pints. But not her. She had other things to do.

So, she wandered off unseen into the lovely forest, which was dappled under the full moon’s light. When Old Pipes woke in the morning, he felt more energized than usual. He did some yard work until the shade of afternoon, then went to his closet, took his panpipes off the shelf, and headed out to play his usual songs. 

His mother, knitting, asked as he neared the front door, “Are you going out to pipe?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Why would you bother now?”  

“I enjoy piping,” he shrugged. “I suppose I’m just used to it. So why not.”

He had grown comfortable with his old routine. 

So, he sat on the rock near the cottage, overlooking the valley and the high hills, the forest, and the softening light of day—and he began to play. His ears perked up. For the first time in a while, his beautiful melody sounded crisp, loud, and fluttered back to him on an echo.

“Well, that’s surprising,” he said, rubbing his chin. “I wonder if the pipes were just clogged for so long that I’d forgotten what my music was supposed to sound like.” 

He took a deep breath and played again, forming the loveliest piece of melody, which echoed back in full strength. 

Even with his slightly faded hearing, he heard his own music more clearly than—perhaps—he ever had. 

Yet he still didn't realize why the cows had ever quit hearing his piping in the first place. Or, at least, not until later, when he headed over the bridge to see his good old village friends, tell them the news. 

But he didn't make it halfway to the village before he stopped to see why there was a rock in his pocket.

He fished it out and gasped, saying to himself, "Why, that tree spirit. She never returned the money."   

Then three of his old friends came hobbling over from up the path like as if his piping earlier that afternoon had set them 'afoot', luring 'em all in.  

Well, really, in a way, it had, because the first thing they said to him was, "We had to come and see you right away, Pipes! Why, we haven't heard your piping carrying on the wind in so long we forgot we were supposed to hear the good old tunes echoing through the streets up yonder!"

It was the old gal among them who did most of the talking, so she says, "Well, that is, 'til a little while ago, when we heard your piping for the first time in ages.  Well, we don't even hear the church bells all that well no more, no, not with that new priest. Hm. That one's lacking the brawn just to pull a plain old bell rope. But your piping?  Came through loud and clear today, like some sort of good medicine. It's kind of like as if we all got our ears back, or something. Aint it?"

So he says, "You too? Even me old ma says her ears must have gotten better somehow. I just about figured that it was me old pipes that had been clogged. But. if they were, then how'd they come unclogged, all on their own? I think all our ears got healed somehow, right overnight."  

Well, as far as how his pipes had become unclogged all on their own, and if they'd been clogged in the first place, no one was sure how to answer that at first. 

But they did figure out that they'd all been, bell-deaf, because of that new mead-brewing priest, who couldn't pull a bell rope any better than a rooster could. 

Though, I'd certainly imagine that any rooster, at least, had the advantage.  

Seven Pipes explained how he found out that he'd been getting paid despite the three herder-cousin's doing his job for him. 

And he told his friends about the tree spirit, and the way the village's, new honey-making priest was acting a tad, well, mead-giggly the day before. 

So, they aptly nicknamed the old tree spirit Miss Elder, then they aptly nicknamed the young priest, the Old Gonger.

Well now that the four friends were all caught up 'bout the latest happenings, the tall one said, "I'd say, that this here is tree spirit magic, yes, that's what this is." 

The fat one said, "Oh yeah, it was a tree spirit that healed all our ears, somehow. But why? And why now?" 

But the short one said, "Now wait a minute, Pipes, you say Miss Elder kissed you on the forehead?"

"Yes. She was so beautiful, but." He looked down, blushing, "Much too old and learned for any mummy's boy like me." 

Well," the short one said, "I can tell you just what happened. None of our ears was clogged up, not at all, and neither was your pipes. It was your breath that had the clog in it."  

"Me own breath? Why, what makes ye say, that?" he asked.

"Well, the last time we chatted with you, you sounded like a whispering cow-moo, we couldn't hardly hear ya. But now you've not only played your pipes louder than ever, but you're even talkin' louder than you have in a long time." 

The others stood by nodding.

"So," the short one went on, "What happened is clear. According to the old, old, old legend, whenever a tree spirit gives you a kiss, she gives ya back the last thing ya lost, and in your case, must have been your good strong breath power." 

"Well, well, well," he smiled at the sky. "So glad to hear it. And now I know I'm not as deaf as I thought I was."

"None of us are," she said. "We all been restored, just because you set free that sweet little tree spirit.

And now the tall one said, “You never even would’ve found her, good old Seven Pipes, had you not taken that path last night." Pipes gazed at the sky, softly amazed, and said, “Oh yes—and good thing I set out to do a good thing. If not, I’d have never walked that good path that restored me breath—and truly," he smiled, "me old soul, too." 

And so, the four of them walked through the village then and there and spoke with the head villager—explaining everything. Well, everything except the tree spirit, since the head villager would have surely laughed.

The head villager said, "Oh? I certainly thought I heard piping this afternoon. Well, I just knew I did. And I've been asking everyone if they knew where it was coming from." 

He grinned, patting old Seven Pipes on the back, saying, "Well, then you won't be needing the extra help anymore, which is good because the village is ready to build an inn. And we'll need the young and the strong to do it." He whispered, "With a nice new inn drawing people into our village, well. The available young lads and the maidens around here can finally meet folks who aren't their cousins. Then the priests can quit sitting around, knitting the ugliest socks, and just get back to marrying people."  

So, starting the next day, old Seven Pipes was back to the life he loved, piping in the cattle and walking to the village without getting so darned tired. His mum was glad she could once again hear his melodies from the kitchen. And the porch too, of course. 

And lastly, the villagers started secretly paying Seven Pipes this time, oh yes, to pipe out over the faint church bells three times a day and twice on Sunday. For you see, they were all tired of walking in late for church, and that priest was so hard of hearing that even Pipes' mother said, "That skinny Old Gonger, him, he'll never know the difference, Pipes. Let him keep pulling the old gongedy ropes, no need to tell him that it's really your fine old pan pipes that's bringing in the sheep." 

Then she chuckled at her own little pun there, said to Pipes, "Now come out to the porch, and pipe us a good old tune, me good old boy."   

And Miss Elder the tree spirit enjoyed his tunes, too, which she heard from deep within the forest. And she never forgot the trusty old name of Seven Pipes, which she whispered when she gathered in the treetops with her sisters to watch him pipe from just across the way. 

You'd think they'd have heard his piping all those years before. Though maybe no one, no, not even of tree spirit kind, is above thinking they're deafer than they really are. 

Or maybe it was that loud brook that babbled through the forest. 

Either way, now that their ears locked onto the sounds of his pan flute, they couldn't stop noticing his piping.   

The End. Well, Almost.    

So, I think the moral here is that when you start going deaf...  

No, no that's not it.  

Alright, so the moral here is that villages everywhere are in desperate need of inns if they are to keep growing. No, sorry, I've spent a long night up preparing for this story. 

So, where did I write that moral down, here it is, under the front wheel of my bicycle.  

One second here, I've got to roll it back. I keep my, bicycle in the house, so the birds don't mark it up. So I've learned that it makes the best paperweight around, well, as long as you keep the tires clean. Or else tuck the papers inside a nice, debris-proof folder. 

Here is the moral to your story. Let's see.  

Ah. You can't always explain why you feel so drawn towards doing the right thing even when others may think your bonkers for doing it. But, sometimes, when people quietly sneak off and do what their good conscience is pulling them to do, they run into the very help they didn't even know they needed. It seems that by going bonkers with the right intentions, you may very well realize that a problem ya thought you had isn't even really what it seems.    

Thank goodness that's over. I've been watching this bowl of mint ice cream melt the whole time.  

So goodnight, folks.