I stared up at the starry night. The myriad of delicate white lights against a dim backdrop—their sheer magnitude in number and charming allure immediately arrested my mind.
I lowered my head, shut my eyes, let the darkness imbue, and stared up again. Now, there were more of them. From my modern, untrained eyes, the layout of the cosmos seemed completely random—faint white lights strewn across a black canvas.
The ancients depended on the stars, and in turn, the stars showed them knowledge. To our ancestors, patterns in the night sky were a navigational aid, a map offering clues to seasonal changes, a backdrop on which legends came alive, and a diagram from which celestial phenomenon could foretell the change of terrestrial fortunes.
Many cultures recited tales of stars, constellations, and celestial patterns. Some were folklore spread by word-of-mouth, others endured as traditions and beliefs. Astrology, for example, became a well-crafted science that could predict changes in human affairs.
Most depictions of constellations are of Greek and Roman origin and inherited names and themes from Greek mythology. The Chinese and Japanese held their own systems of celestial mapping. Indigenous peoples of North and South America believed a different set of constellations, and even the Norse—while much of their traditions were lost—looked toward the sky for inspiration.
I lowered my head, shut my eyes, let the darkness imbue, and stared up again. Now, there were more of them. From my modern, untrained eyes, the layout of the cosmos seemed completely random—faint white lights strewn across a black canvas.
The ancients depended on the stars, and in turn, the stars showed them knowledge. To our ancestors, patterns in the night sky were a navigational aid, a map offering clues to seasonal changes, a backdrop on which legends came alive, and a diagram from which celestial phenomenon could foretell the change of terrestrial fortunes.
Many cultures recited tales of stars, constellations, and celestial patterns. Some were folklore spread by word-of-mouth, others endured as traditions and beliefs. Astrology, for example, became a well-crafted science that could predict changes in human affairs.
Most depictions of constellations are of Greek and Roman origin and inherited names and themes from Greek mythology. The Chinese and Japanese held their own systems of celestial mapping. Indigenous peoples of North and South America believed a different set of constellations, and even the Norse—while much of their traditions were lost—looked toward the sky for inspiration.
Orion the Hunter
The Orion constellation is one of the largest and most conspicuous in the sky. Near the celestial equator just above Sirius—the brightest star—Orion consists of two facing trapezoids separated by a line of three stars known as Orion’s Belt.
The constellation is easiest to see between December and March. Its two brightest stars Rigel (Alpha Orionis) and Betelgeuse (Beta Orionis) light up the winter night.
Orion was the son of Poseidon and a great warrior and hunter in Greek mythology. In The Odyssey, Homer portrays Orion as wielding a bronze club and a slayer of many terrible beasts.
A handsome fellow, Orion was loved by the goddess Artemis (ancient Greek goddess of wild animals and the moon). Her brother, Apollo, became jealous of this and plotted to kill Orion.
One day while Orion swam in a lake, Apollo challenged Artemis to hit the target bobbing in the water with an arrow. Unbeknown to Artemis that the target was Orion’s head, she fired her arrow. The arrow struck Orion’s temple squarely, killing him.
When the waves washed his body ashore, Artemis was heartbroken to see that it was Orion whom she struck. In her grief, she tenderly placed his body in her silver moon chariot and carried him high into the sky.
Artemis chose the darkest region of the winter sky, so Orion’s stars would shine the brightest of all.
Orion was the son of Poseidon and a great warrior and hunter in Greek mythology. In The Odyssey, Homer portrays Orion as wielding a bronze club and a slayer of many terrible beasts.
A handsome fellow, Orion was loved by the goddess Artemis (ancient Greek goddess of wild animals and the moon). Her brother, Apollo, became jealous of this and plotted to kill Orion.
One day while Orion swam in a lake, Apollo challenged Artemis to hit the target bobbing in the water with an arrow. Unbeknown to Artemis that the target was Orion’s head, she fired her arrow. The arrow struck Orion’s temple squarely, killing him.
When the waves washed his body ashore, Artemis was heartbroken to see that it was Orion whom she struck. In her grief, she tenderly placed his body in her silver moon chariot and carried him high into the sky.
Artemis chose the darkest region of the winter sky, so Orion’s stars would shine the brightest of all.
A Tale of Forbidden Love
In late summer, the stars Vega and Altair (which also form two vertices of the Summer Triangle) illuminate the Northern Hemisphere sky. These stars inspired the fateful Chinese tale of the Cowherd and the Weaving Girl.
A long time ago, a poor and honest orphaned boy and an old buffalo labored every day in the field. Villagers called the boy the Cowherd.
Meanwhile in the heavens, the youngest of the celestial maidens grew tired of her privileged life. She descended onto Earth to meet the Cowherd, whom she had fallen in love with while observing him from above.
The Cowherd and the maiden married and she gave birth to two children. While the Cowherd tilled the fields, the maiden wove at home—her adroit weaving skills earned her the nickname of the Weaving Girl.
The family lived modestly but happily, until the celestial empress noticed that one of her daughters had disappeared and traced her to the village on Earth. Angry with her, the empress gave the Weaving Girl two options: return to heaven, or witness the destruction of her husband, her children, and the village. With little choice, the Weaving Girl left.
Witnessing a grief-stricken Cowherd, the old buffalo opened his mouth to speak: “If you kill me and put on my hide, you can fly up to the heavens and catch her.” With great reluctance, the Cowherd killed the buffalo and carried his children to find the Weaving Girl.
Enraged, the empress took her golden hairpin and drew a wide river in the sky to separate the two lovers—the Cowherd as Altair, and the Weaving Girl as Vega—so they may never meet again.
Dainty clouds she dexterously weaves;
Her grief of separation the shooting stars transmit;
And in secrecy, across Milky Way the river vast, they reunite.
Amidst golden wind and silvery frost, their yearly rendezvous proves,
More affectionate than many a worldly trysting night;
With feelings tender as water and after a date fleeting as a dream,
They could hardly turn and embark on their homebound journey.
After all, when love is genuine and perpetual,
It really matters not if a couple is always in each other’s sight
—Northern Song Dynasty Poet Qin Guan (1049-1100)
This river depicted in the story is the Milky Way Galaxy (Silver River in Chinese). In late summer, the wide, meandering Milky Way separates constellations Lyra (containing Vega) and Aquila (containing Altair), and serves as a reminder of the Cowherd and the Weaving Girl’s forbidden love.
But once a year, it is believed that all the magpies in the world would fly into the heavens, forming a “bridge of the magpies” across the Milky Way, so that the Cowherd and the Weaving Girl could be together for one day—the seventh day of the seventh month.
The Qixi Festival, or the Magpie Festival, happens on the seventh day of the seventh month of the Chinese lunar calendar. On this day, young girls demonstrate their skills in the domestic arts and make wishes for a good husband. This day is sometimes also called the Chinese Valentine’s Day.
Meanwhile in the heavens, the youngest of the celestial maidens grew tired of her privileged life. She descended onto Earth to meet the Cowherd, whom she had fallen in love with while observing him from above.
The Cowherd and the maiden married and she gave birth to two children. While the Cowherd tilled the fields, the maiden wove at home—her adroit weaving skills earned her the nickname of the Weaving Girl.
The family lived modestly but happily, until the celestial empress noticed that one of her daughters had disappeared and traced her to the village on Earth. Angry with her, the empress gave the Weaving Girl two options: return to heaven, or witness the destruction of her husband, her children, and the village. With little choice, the Weaving Girl left.
Witnessing a grief-stricken Cowherd, the old buffalo opened his mouth to speak: “If you kill me and put on my hide, you can fly up to the heavens and catch her.” With great reluctance, the Cowherd killed the buffalo and carried his children to find the Weaving Girl.
Enraged, the empress took her golden hairpin and drew a wide river in the sky to separate the two lovers—the Cowherd as Altair, and the Weaving Girl as Vega—so they may never meet again.
Dainty clouds she dexterously weaves;
Her grief of separation the shooting stars transmit;
And in secrecy, across Milky Way the river vast, they reunite.
Amidst golden wind and silvery frost, their yearly rendezvous proves,
More affectionate than many a worldly trysting night;
With feelings tender as water and after a date fleeting as a dream,
They could hardly turn and embark on their homebound journey.
After all, when love is genuine and perpetual,
It really matters not if a couple is always in each other’s sight
—Northern Song Dynasty Poet Qin Guan (1049-1100)
This river depicted in the story is the Milky Way Galaxy (Silver River in Chinese). In late summer, the wide, meandering Milky Way separates constellations Lyra (containing Vega) and Aquila (containing Altair), and serves as a reminder of the Cowherd and the Weaving Girl’s forbidden love.
But once a year, it is believed that all the magpies in the world would fly into the heavens, forming a “bridge of the magpies” across the Milky Way, so that the Cowherd and the Weaving Girl could be together for one day—the seventh day of the seventh month.
The Qixi Festival, or the Magpie Festival, happens on the seventh day of the seventh month of the Chinese lunar calendar. On this day, young girls demonstrate their skills in the domestic arts and make wishes for a good husband. This day is sometimes also called the Chinese Valentine’s Day.
Seven Sisters
The Pleiades are a prominent cluster of stars most visible in the winter in the Northern Hemisphere and in the summer in the Southern Hemisphere. The star cluster has been well-known since antiquity to almost all cultures and is associated with a host of myths and legends.
The Pleiades were recorded by the Chinese (as the hairy head of the White Tiger of the West), Japanese (Subaru), Turks (Ülker), Persians (Soraya), Vikings (Freyja’s hens), the Maya (Tzab-ek), Native Americans, and the ancient Greeks (Pleiades).
Pleiades, the seven nymphs accompanying goddess Artemis, were daughters of Atlas. According to one myth, the sisters became stars after they committed suicide due to sadness brought on by the fate of their father, Atlas—forced to carry the weight of heaven on his shoulders—and the loss of their siblings, the Hyades.
In the cluster, only six stars shine brightly. One legend states that the seventh—Merope, the youngest sister—is dull due to her shame of having an affair with a mere mortal.
The great poet Hesiod wrote in the Works and Days (700 B.C.), “When the Pleiades, daughters of Atlas, are rising, begin your harvest, and your ploughing when they are going to set. Forty nights and days they are hidden and appear again as the year moves round, when first you sharpen your sickle. This is the law of the plains, and of those who live near the sea, and who inhabit rich country, the glens and dingles far from the tossing sea…”
Only four degrees off the ecliptic, the Pleiades are easily spotted by the naked eye. Several Pleiads are surrounded by mesmerizing blue filaments of light, due to starlight reflecting off minute grains of interstellar dust near the stars.
The Pleiades were recorded by the Chinese (as the hairy head of the White Tiger of the West), Japanese (Subaru), Turks (Ülker), Persians (Soraya), Vikings (Freyja’s hens), the Maya (Tzab-ek), Native Americans, and the ancient Greeks (Pleiades).
Pleiades, the seven nymphs accompanying goddess Artemis, were daughters of Atlas. According to one myth, the sisters became stars after they committed suicide due to sadness brought on by the fate of their father, Atlas—forced to carry the weight of heaven on his shoulders—and the loss of their siblings, the Hyades.
In the cluster, only six stars shine brightly. One legend states that the seventh—Merope, the youngest sister—is dull due to her shame of having an affair with a mere mortal.
The great poet Hesiod wrote in the Works and Days (700 B.C.), “When the Pleiades, daughters of Atlas, are rising, begin your harvest, and your ploughing when they are going to set. Forty nights and days they are hidden and appear again as the year moves round, when first you sharpen your sickle. This is the law of the plains, and of those who live near the sea, and who inhabit rich country, the glens and dingles far from the tossing sea…”
Only four degrees off the ecliptic, the Pleiades are easily spotted by the naked eye. Several Pleiads are surrounded by mesmerizing blue filaments of light, due to starlight reflecting off minute grains of interstellar dust near the stars.
Great Bear and the Navajo
For Native Americans, the sky serves as a guide, a calendar, a clock, and a teacher. The stars told the arrival of seasonal changes and defined the best times for rituals, hunts, and harvests.
In the barren desert of Southwestern United States, the Navajo people once gazed at the Ursa Major constellation (the Great Bear or the Big Dipper) and envisioned three brothers pursuing a bear. The stars Alioth, Mizar, and Alkaid represented the three brothers, each holding a spear.
Navajo legend tells of these three hunters capturing the bear in autumn. They then slay the bear, and its blood drips down from the heavens and colors the leaves of maple trees crimson. They then cook the bear’s meat in a bonfire, from which its ashes whiten blades of grass, alluding to frost formation in the early winter.
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