One for Sorrow, Two for Joy – A Haunting Tale of Magpies

In a quiet countryside village, where the wind rustled through apple trees and old stories lived in every whisper, Grandma stood beneath the sun-drenched boughs, her fingers reaching up into a nest of twigs tangled high in the branches. Her smile bloomed across her face like a hundred sunrises, each wrinkle creasing into a new shape of warmth.

“Sly, crafty old magpie,” she said, her voice both amused and mysterious. Her eyes glinted just like the treasures she pulled from the nest—tarnished silver buttons, fractured chains, dull glints of once-gleaming pendants.

“They steal shiny things, you know,” she added, handing us the trinkets. Our small hands trembled with excitement as the sun danced across the pieces.

The chatter of the black-and-white birds above crescendoed as if to protest the theft of their loot, but Grandma only chuckled. “In places far away, they say magpies don’t chatter like here—they flute. And they don’t steal. No, they dive at your eyes!”

We flinched, caught between awe and fear. But Grandma’s stories were always like that—silver and gold, wonder and warning, joy and shadow. Her tales lulled us into silence over jam-spread bread and sent us to bed with heads full of magic, tucked in and quiet by eight.

Later that evening, we huddled in the attic after supper, cross-legged under dusty rafters. That night, Grandma taught us the magpie rhyme in full.

“One for sorrow,
Two for joy,
Three for a girl,
Four for a boy,
Five for silver,
Six for gold,
Seven for a secret never to be told…”

“Two magpies mean good luck?” I asked.

“Yes,” said my twin, “because they’re married!”

“What would a magpie wedding be like?” I wondered aloud.

Our eyes sparkled at the thought—imaginings of glistening feathers and treasures exchanged beneath the moonlight. We debated whether they gifted each other coins, silks, or pendants. Surely, coins would be too heavy, we reasoned, so ribbons tied to their legs seemed better. But we paused again.

“What if it’s just one magpie?” my sister asked, suddenly subdued.

“It means the other has died,” I replied.

“Or flown away,” she whispered. “Why is three for a girl? Is that bad luck?”

The question hung between us like a shadow. Were we, twin girls, unlucky too? We glanced at one another—not with fear, but with recognition. We knew each other’s faces more intimately than we knew our own. We were our own mirrors.

“Maybe it’s not bad,” my sister said. “Maybe three just means… one extra.”

We turned to the window, brushing aside the muslin curtain to spy on the magpies settling into the branches. In the attic light, their coats shimmered green-blue and their movements seemed deliberate, like royalty retiring to their chambers.

Grandma combed our hair into bunches we hated, but we endured it for the promise of the day. We skipped hand-in-hand down the lane, chanting, “One for sorrow, two for joy,” like a charm. At each sighting, we paused to count. When only one magpie appeared, we always called out, “Good morning, Mr. Magpie! How’s your wife?”—alternating “Mrs.” and “husband” to be fair.

A stranger chuckled one morning. “They could be your witch familiars,” he teased. “You two look just like them.”

We weren’t sure what he meant, but we liked the sound of it.

Next door’s cat had a habit of stalking the magpies, and we’d cheer when ten of them joined forces to chase it off. “What’s ten for, Grandma?”

“Ten for a surprise,” she said, winking.

Sometimes she added darker versions of the rhyme, ending in whispers: “Eight for a kiss, nine for the devil…” and then she’d chase us, cackling.

“Are magpies evil?” we asked one another.

We weren’t sure. But it always came back to two for joy. We took comfort in being a pair. It made us lucky, no matter what the rhyme said.

We began planning, like children do when fairy tales begin to feel real. A midnight mission to find the magpies’ true hoard. We’d steal back stolen treasures, return them to their rightful owners, and become heroines. It felt rebellious, magical, and just a little bit dangerous.

The night of the half-moon, we crept into the forest with jumpers zipped and hands clasped. We weren’t afraid—not together. We carved two notches into every tree we passed, chanting “two for joy” as a compass back home.

The forest shimmered with shadows. The trees breathed around us. The leaves whispered secrets. Then, at a clearing, we saw them.

The Magpie King, perched on a throne of opal and amethyst, surrounded by a heaving mound of silver and gold. Dozens of magpies flitted around him in a storm of black and white, cackling and chittering. Their feathers shimmered like oil on water. We froze. We had found their court.

“Who dares trespass in the court of the Magpie King?” came the screech.

He was magnificent—silver chains resting on his chest, gold ribbons streaming from his talons. His eyes gleamed like polished coal.

“We came to see your treasure,” we said honestly. “We wanted to admire it.”

“Not to steal?” he hissed, stepping closer, wings unfurled. “You have seen the secret. A bargain must be struck.”

Before we could answer, the magpies surged. Their wings were a whirlwind of sharp, dizzying flutters. We were pulled apart—for the first time in our lives.

“Bring treasure back,” said the King to me, his beak inches from my face. “Only then will your sister be returned.”

I stumbled home alone, winded and weeping. Our room was full of shadows now. I opened drawers, hunted for shine, for shimmer. I became a magpie, snatching trinkets and heirlooms—Granddad’s pocket watch, Grandma’s pearl earrings, tiny spoons, and brooches. I didn’t think. I filled a bag.

I ran.

Back in the clearing, the court was gone. The forest was silent. My sister—gone.

I dropped to my knees, waited for hours, then days. My hair tangled with leaves, my hands dirtied from digging. I clutched the bag of offerings, staring up at the sky that shifted from black to grey.

At dawn, a single magpie landed above me, chittering.

One for sorrow.

Moral of the Story:

Curiosity and innocence can lead us deep into mystery, but every secret has its price. Never take joy for granted—it can be stolen, just like silver.