And I Make Seven

By the edge of a wild sea lived seven brothers with their mother. After their father was lost to a storm, she forbade them to fish. But the boys grew hungry, and at last she could no longer hold back.

“Go,” she said. “But if you lose even one of you, don’t come back.”

They launched at dawn. They threw the nets and drew them in. The boat overflowed with fish, silver and thrashing. Dragging the catch ashore, the brothers turned toward home when the eldest stopped. “We swore we would not return if even one of us were lost.”

He set them in a line beside a tall tree. “One, two, three, four, five, six…” He counted again. Still six. Another stepped forward. “One, two, three, four, five, six…” One by one they counted. Six. Six. Six.

The youngest stepped forward. “One, two, three, four, five, six… And I make seven.” He pressed a finger to his own chest. The fear broke. Laughter followed. They lifted him onto their shoulders and walked home. Their mother met them at the door. That night they ate by firelight, and the house glowed with laughter.

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Any reckoning that leaves you out is false.

A folktale about the counting