ON A HILL OVERLOOKING THE VAST OCEAN, AN OLDman sat under a crooked cypress, telling story after story. Yes, this is a mukashi mukashi story. Taro watched, through the wispy strands of the old man’s long white beard, seaweed bobbing over undulating waves. He had heard another version of this same story. In fact, he’d heard it many times before. He looked around at his family and friends, his fellow villagers. They were entranced, deep inside their personal visions of adventure. The old man’s beard tossed the other way, and Taro peered deep into the horizon, the thin line between sea and sky. According to the old man’s stories, the archipelago was rich with life, reefs and other island landings. But no one on this island ventured farther than to fish, always close to shore, returning with dinner and to settle in for the next story. Since Taro could remember, the people fished and listened to stories. Taro traveled to other villages on the island, and it was the same—different old man, different stories, but same routine: fish and stories. Taro had traveled from village to village to hear new stories, circling round and round until he thought he’d heard them all. On this particular day, Taro waited for the sunset, the end of the story, and the dispersal of the villagers. He sat close to the old man and asked, That story about Taro visiting the sea princess, could that be about me?
Let me help. Taro gathered books and followed the woman to another storefront, crossing the street.
Perhaps.
My name is Taro.
Yes, that’s your name.
So what if?
The old man turned toward the sea to watch the sun slip into the ocean. If?
Yes, if I left this island.
Once upon a time, I left. But no one leaves.
I want to leave. Tell me how to leave.
If you want to leave, you leave.
It’s that easy?
The old man pulled out a small box hidden
