Once upon a time, in a land surrounded by mountains, there was a tiny kingdom. Its king was young and kind. He never levied heavy taxes, nor did he allow his soldiers to bully the people. Every morning he would push open the window of his castle, bow deeply to the rising sun, and thank it for giving light and warmth to his subjects.
The old folk of the kingdom often said that a three‑legged crow lived inside the sun. It was golden all over and had three feet; it was the very spirit of the sun. Whenever the sun rose in the east, it was the three‑legged crow spreading its wings and carrying the sun across the sky. The king had listened to this story from his grandmother since childhood and had never forgotten it.
One autumn, things began to go wrong.
When the sun rose, it was no longer a warm gold—it was as if a grey veil had been thrown over it. At midday the sky looked like twilight. The wheat stopped growing in the fields; fruit fell from the trees before it could ripen; even the well water became icy cold.
The king stood on the city wall and gazed into the distance. A mass of thick black clouds lay on the horizon—not rain clouds, but a churning darkness like spilt ink, something he had never seen before. It seeped out of a crack in the earth to the north and little by little began to devour the sky.
It was the dark power of the underworld.
An old hermit came out of the deep mountains, his white beard hanging down to his knees. He said to the king, "The Lord of the Underworld envies the light and warmth of the human world. He has released a devouring dark fog. This fog will swallow the sun, and then it will swallow the whole world. When that happens, everything will freeze and sink forever into darkness."
The king asked, "Is there any way to stop it?"
The old hermit shook his head. "That is a power from the deepest part of the underworld. No human sword or fire can do anything against it. Unless—unless the sun itself comes to save us. But the sun is so far away; how would it know what we are suffering?"
The king was silent for a long time.
That night he did not sleep. He sat on the highest tower of the castle, wrapped in a thick cloak, watching the moon grow dimmer in the sky. The moonlight, too, was soon to be covered by the dark fog.
If the sun truly lives inside the sun, the king thought, then it cannot know that we are suffering. I must tell it.
Early the next morning the king ordered a huge pyre to be built in the square before the palace. He had his soldiers bring the driest pine and the most fragrant cypress from all over the kingdom and pile it up until it was as high as a small hill.
People came from every direction, not knowing what their king intended to do.
Standing beside the pyre, the king said to them all, "The dark fog is devouring the sky, and our sun grows dimmer every day. If the sun does not know that we are crying for help, let us send it a signal. I am your king, and this is something that must be done by me."
He had himself tied to a pillar at the very top of the pyre and then ordered it to be lit.
The people knelt on the ground, their eyes blurred with tears. The flames caught at the bottom of the pyre and grew higher and higher, sending thick smoke and bright fire roaring into the sky—a blazing torch in the grey heavens.
Just as the fire was about to lick the king's clothes, the sky suddenly split open.
A dazzling golden light shot through the crack, thousands of times brighter than the noonday sun. Everyone covered their eyes. When they looked again, a giant golden crow flew out of the fissure. It was larger than a hundred eagles put together, its whole body burning with pure solar fire, and strangest of all—it had three feet.
The three‑legged crow.
It had flown out of the sun.
The crow opened its beak and gave a clear, melodious cry. The sound was not harsh; it was like a thousand golden bells ringing at once, solemn and majestic. With that cry, countless arrows of light shot from its wings and rained down upon the churning black fog in the north.
The light arrows struck the fog, which hissed sharply and shrank back as if scalded. But the fog was too thick; as soon as some was dispersed, more poured out of the fissure.
The three‑legged crow circled once in the air, then folded its wings and dived like a golden arrow straight into the fissure in the north.
It plunged into the crack.
The earth shook violently, and a deep rumble came from afar—something roaring under the ground, or perhaps something collapsing. On the northern horizon, one golden beam after another shot out of the fissure, tearing the dark fog to shreds.
Finally, after a deafening crash, all became still.
The black fog in the north had vanished. The crack had closed, and grass and wildflowers grew over the spot, as if it had never been there.
The three‑legged crow rose again from where the fissure had been. Its light was much dimmer than before, and the flames on its wings had grown smaller, but it was alive. It flew slowly back over the square and landed before the king.
The king had already been untied from the pyre by his soldiers. The hem of his clothes was singed, his face smudged with soot, but he was unharmed.
The three‑legged crow raised its head and walked toward the king on its three feet. With every step it took, moss and tiny flowers sprang up from the stone pavement. It came to the king and lowered its golden head, gently touching the king's hand.
The king knelt and stroked the crow's feathers with trembling fingers. Those feathers were hot, yet they did not burn him.
The crow lifted its head, gave a long, lingering cry, then spread its wings and flew back into the sky. Higher and higher it soared, farther and farther away, until it vanished into the golden radiance of the sun and could no longer be seen.
The next morning the sun rose as usual.
This time the sunlight was golden, warm and bright. The wheat in the fields straightened its stalks again; the fruit on the trees began to swell once more; the well water became sweet and cool. The fissure in the north was gone forever, and in its place a lush forest later grew, full of golden flowers—the places where the old folk said the three‑legged crow's feathers had fallen.
The king continued to rule his kingdom, as kind and just as before. Only now, when he pushed open his window each morning to bow to the sun, there was a gentle light in his eyes that had not been there before.
And the three‑legged crow in the sun, on fine days, would sometimes fly over that forest and circle there. It no longer showed itself easily, but whenever a new child was born in the kingdom, the sunshine that year was always especially warm.
The people said that was the three‑legged crow blessing the king.
This story was told for a very long time. Even today, when on a winter morning you see an especially bright ray of sunlight break through the clouds and fall on the snow, the old folk still say—
"Look, the three‑legged crow has flown over here."