Author S. M. Dunning

Once there was a young man who lived with his mother and grandmother. They had lost his father to a wounded boar many years before, so many indeed, that the young man could not remember him at all, though there was something about his uncle’s voice, the smith, that comforted him. He liked to think that his father might have sounded something like his burly brother. Our young man was a great hunter, winning all the shooting contests in his village. He was also fleet of foot and remarkably powerful, even though he had not yet come into his full strength. His uncle alone in the village could best him. The young man knew that it would be some years before he too could lift the massive anvil off the dirt floor of the smithy. But he would get there.

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        All the village girls were mad about him, of course, but none of them stirred him. And though he was polite enough, they soon learned not to waste their wiles on him, and wrote him off as conceited and aloof, which was unkind and not entirely accurate. The truth was that he lived by his heart’s impulses and was waiting for someone or something to awaken its interest.

        One day he was out hunting, and towards the end of a frustrating day in the forest, he saw at a great distance what he took to be a large bird roosting in a black spruce, perhaps an eagle or a huge pheasant cock. He couldn’t get a fix on it, but somehow he was fascinated by this creature whose feathers seemed to shine at times, and then dim. He assumed that it was moving in and out of shadow and wanted to get a closer look. But there was no way to close the distance on his quarry without spooking it, so he unwisely decided to shoot from where he was. And he knew it was unwise. For one thing, it was taboo to kill an eagle, but the boy persuaded himself that it was likely no eagle, though a moment before he had taken it for one. More importantly, his uncle had often told him that it was ignoble to risk wounding an animal, and as a boy, he had seen him pass up many a chance that the boy himself would have taken. But now there was no uncle at hand to caution him. And he was young and proud, unwilling to return to the village with empty hands.

        He was, as I said, an excellent marksman, and the arrow flew true. He knew from the moment it left the bowstring that it would hit its mark, that or shave it by inches. What he didn’t expect, however, was the scream of outrage that reached his ears moments later. It sounded almost human, but rose to a pitch that no human, at least no human the young man had ever met, could equal. He then raced to the black spruce, fearful of what he might discover, but driven by a terrible curiosity. Again, he was surprised by what he found lying near the base of the tree--a single feather, too large to have come from any bird he had ever seen, or even heard of. Yet there it was, glowing blue black in the sunlight, its tip edged by an impossible iridescence. He stood staring at it, entranced. Then his wonder increased when the sun went behind a cloud, and the feather began to glow with an uncanny silver light. Trembling, he picked up the treasure and placed it inside his leather vest, hardly believing that such a thing could be--and be his.

        When he returned to his home, he found his grandmother taking one of his favourite treats out of her large masonry oven: buns stuffed with egg and onion. His mouth watered at the enticing smell, reminding him that he had not eaten anything since breakfast many hours before. He reached over and popped one in his mouth, ignoring his grandmother’s warnings to let them cool first. Though he burned his mouth on the filling, this didn’t dissuade him from starting in on another. He then placed a third and fourth in his pocket as he headed up the stairs to the loft where he slept above the common living area. He was eager to study his prize in private, so told her he was tired from his day’s hunt and was turning in early.

        As the evening darkened to night, the feather glowed steadily brighter. He soon had to hide it under his bedclothes for fear that his secret be revealed to those below. It now shone with a steady light, plenty good enough to read by, if he were the reading type. Seated around the kitchen table, his mother and grandmother talked seriously but quietly. If he had heard what they were saying, he would have known that he needn’t bother keeping the feather under covers, for his grandmother had caught a glimpse of it in his vest as he had reached over to help himself to the buns. She knew what it was instantly, and would likely have warned him of the danger he was in. But he had annoyed her by ignoring her warning to let the buns cool, and she decided that maybe it was best to let him discover for himself the risks of trafficking with such creatures. What could a babushka possibly teach him, eh? Enough to save his life perhaps. Of course, she continued to reflect, it depended on whether the feather was from a Sirin or Alkonost. Maybe he’d prove lucky. Both could be lethally dangerous to humans; the Sirin, destroying a life through unbearable misery; the Alkonost, through an equally unbearable joy. But she had heard stories in which humans survived such things, so maybe the boy had a chance. Out of some strange streak of perversity, she swore her daughter to secrecy before telling her what she had seen. And the mother kept the word faithfully though her heart quelled to think of what might betide her precious boy. She prayed that he might share what he had found with her, which would release her from her promise. But he was no more inclined to share than to read. And she was not a promise breaker.

        That night the young man dreamed more vividly than he ever had before, too vividly apparently, to allow for translation into the grey waking world. He simply could not remember any of the bright particulars, though he was left with a haunting memory of the dream mood, as he called it, a memory that made his quotidian village life even more dissatisfying than usual. Within a fortnight, he was in a bad way. He decided to get away for a while, to go and visit his cousin who lived with his wife on the far side of the forest. The man always needed help on their farm, and had told him, just last feast day, that his strong back and willing hands would always find welcome at their table.

        It was a two-day journey, which would require him to spend a night in the forest, but he was a familiar of the place and had slept there often while on extended hunts, though never alone till now. He felt his spirits rise as he went about gathering his things. His mother, however, had tried hard to dissuade him from going, telling him that she was sure it would rain a deluge, that he would find no place to shelter, that there were rumours of wolves running amok, that her tea leaves didn’t bode well for a journey, that she’d had a dream of ill omen. Anything that came to mind. He smiled at her and told her to stop being such an old hen, since he’d stopped being her chick many years past. He’d be fine, he reassured her.

        He made good time on his journey, reaching the old oak at dusk, just as he had planned. His uncle and he had camped there often, and he took comfort in the familiarity of the place. Despite all his mother’s dire predictions, the night stayed clear, though it was cool enough for him later to wrap himself gratefully in his travel blanket as he lay next to the fire under the sheltering tree. He must have fallen asleep, he realized, because the fire had burned down to coals. But what had wakened him? A song, yes a song, which echoed still in his mind. No not just in his mind, he realized with a start. His heart began pounding as he heard it start up again, terrible words carried by unimaginable beauty of voice. He had never heard the like, and never would again:

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She weeps and weeps 
And will not cease 
Refuses consolation 
Resists oblivion of sleep. 
 
Tree of remembrance 
Each lancing leaf 
Each blasted branch 
And every twisted knot. 
Upon the bitter bark 
She tells her beads 
Of endless grief 
  
Such wretchedness 
And avarice of sorrow 
This loss she will not lose 
And loose herself 
And will protest 
Time’s cures 
Joy’s songs 
Love’s longings 
Though all the world 
Grow bright about her

 

        He was on his feet before the last notes melted into the silence and darkness that seemed to have birthed them. Somewhere to the north of the forest path, he could see lights flickering and found himself running towards them before he knew what he was about, forgetting his uncle’s frequent admonitions never to leave the path in this part of the forest. There was safety near the oak and on the path running from it to the spring hard by the forest’s border. But the music had moved him irresistibly, and he knew only that he must hear it again.

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        Crashing through the brush like a maddened thing, he burst into a clearing, in the centre of which stood a blasted tree in which burned three torches set in iron brackets mounted to its highest branches. Beneath the tree sat a solitary figure, her back to the young man, a woman, judging by the length of her sable hair that flowed over her dusky shift almost to the ground, and by the necklace and earrings he could make out as they caught the light of the torches high above them. Her head was down, exposing a long ivory neck. Not knowing what else to do, he addressed her, assuring her that he meant her no harm. At this, she turned, revealing a face of heart-aching beauty. Had it not been for that face he might have noticed sooner that what he had taken to be a shift proved to be wings, which she now stretched out fully to either side, before folding them again with a studied casualness. He then also realized that she was not seated but standing firmly upon massive talons. A thin crown of gold sat upon her head, housing a single sapphire that blazed darkly in the middle of her brow. 

 

        When she spoke, he knew at once that he had found his singer, though this proved little consolation, as it turned out: “Sleep impertinent mortal,” was the last thing he heard before unconsciousness rose up to claim him. Into this darkness, he took the image of her face as she pronounced his doom, an image branded forever into his mind, of a visage distant with disdain, terribly beautiful, yet coloured throughout with implacable sorrow. World without end, without end, without end. . . . it seemed to whisper to him as he slid down and down and down the coils of his being to rest in whatever lies beneath all that may be known. . . .  
. . .  
How long he remained in this state he did not know, but when he awoke it was full daylight. He knew this because he hung suspended by ropes from a pole slung between the shoulders of two massive brutes, the sun shining fully on his face. Seeing that he was back in the land of the living, they called a halt, announcing that they were sick of lugging him about and that he could now shift his own weight. He was relieved to find that he was still in the forest, if it was the same forest, but in a part he didn’t recognize.

 

        After a brief rest during which one of his three captors forced some foul-smelling, thick brown liquid down his throat, he was lifted to his feet and then shoved from behind by the butt end of a spear. He almost fell, which would have bruised or broken something, since his wrists were bound behind his back. His captors had attached a rope to his bonds, the other end of which was held by a particularly ugly miscreant, who delighted in yanking hard on the rope for no particular reason that the young man could see. Perhaps he is testing the strength of my shoulder sockets, he mused bitterly. It was clear that escape would be nigh on impossible. On a more positive note, it appeared that they didn’t intend to kill him—at least not immediately.

        He learned more about their intentions that night as they sat around the fire. They had tied him firmly to a nearby tree, but not before rebinding his feet and then using another rope to cinch these tightly to his hands, which still remained tied behind his back. He was thus trussed up like a pig for the slaughter, unable to straighten his unnaturally folded legs more than a few inches. The rope that secured his chest to the tree prevented him from rolling on to his side and finding some relief for his cramping muscles and aching joints. And he could find no comfortable way to sit against the tree with the rope running up beneath him from his feet to his hands. Here his great strength did not serve him at all. When he had begun to test his bonds by trying to straighten his legs, they had begun to cramp. He stopped immediately, knowing he was helpless.

        Having no choice but to endure, he closed his eyes and resigned himself to getting through the night. To distract himself from the growing agony of his limbs, he tried to make out what his captors were saying as they ate their meal. At first, he thought that they were speaking an unfamiliar language, but as he listened longer, their words resolved themselves into something recognizable. This, he realized, was a dialect of the common tongue then spoken in one form or another by nearly all men east of the Urals. But in their mouths, the familiar vowels of his language had taken on strange new sounds, and familiar words received emphasis in unexpected places, sometimes losing (or gaining) entire syllables. He discovered that the key was not to stumble over individual words that he found incomprehensible, but rather to allow the meaning of the sentences to emerge as a whole. Doing this helped him grasp the gist of what they were saying, which did nothing to reassure him, though he remained impassive, with his eyes closed, hoping that they wouldn’t realize he could understand them.

        The first words he had recognized clearly were “slave” and “strong.” One of his captors was goading his companion, saying something about it being a good thing that the young man was bound, given how strong he looked. But his companion did not take the bait. He insisted calmly that he wasn’t afraid of the prisoner, and that in any case the stronger he was the better price he would fetch at the slave market. Both laughed at this, the third grunting agreement. So, he was to be sold as a slave. His battered spirit sank even further. His own people had no traffic with slavery, but he had heard rumours of the vile practice, and had often thought that he’d sooner die than remain subject to another’s will. But now faced with the imminent reality, he was surprised by the strength of his desire to live under any conditions whatsoever, a desire that filled him with self-loathing.

        After some time, he fell into a fitful, shallow sleep, out of which he was yanked periodically by his head falling off to the side. Each episode sent lightning spasms of pain coursing through his limbs. Yet there was nothing he could do to prevent the cycle from repeating. He thought fleetingly of his home and of those who loved him and wondered bitterly if he would ever see them again. In his infrequent moments of lucidity, he prayed distractedly to the gods that his mother and grandmother believed in, and to which he had previously given little thought. He knew that he would gladly take help from a magical turnip if one showed up. And he smiled inwardly at this, despite his distress.

        Some time later, he became aware that he was no longer in pain and that he had been sleeping much more peacefully. He was lying on his side, stretched out under the tree, his hands pillowing his head. As he opened his eyes, he discovered a world bathed in what he would later describe as golden moonlight. The ropes that had bound him lay coiled neatly at his feet. Three figures lay sleeping heavily around a fire that had burned down to coals. He started to rise, desperately afraid that his captors would awaken and retake him. But he was interrupted by a melodious voice coming from behind him. “Peace, mortal. They will not awaken till you are well away.” The young man sat up, and turning towards the voice, discovered the source of the light. 

        At first, he recoiled instinctively in fear when he saw the creature who had spoken. But this fear soon turned to wonder as he realized this was not the bird-woman who had handed him over to the slavers, though it must be her twin. Both were beautiful beyond imagination, both sported crowns set with stones of coruscating excellence, necklaces and earrings of inestimable value. Yet, where his nemesis had seemed the incarnation of dark grief, this one radiated joy, for she was clothed in golden feathers. These, along with her radiant face, proved to be the source of the light.

        Her voice, too, was every bit as bewitching. “You have something that belongs to my sister, I believe,” she intoned melodiously. The young man marvelled that simple speech could achieve such musicality. So taken was he by the voice itself that it was some time before he realized she was waiting patiently for him to respond. “I’m sorry,” he finally managed. “What do you mean?”

        “You would do well to be sorry,” declared the woman solemnly, “for it nearly cost you your life.  It was all I could do to persuade her not to slay you immediately. Both for the assault on her person and later for the intrusion on her privacy.”  Seeing the confusion on his features, she continued, “I speak of the feather you still harbour next to your bosom.”

        Then realization flooded him.  As hard as it is to believe, so traumatized had he been by his captivity that he had not connected the feather he had found with the singing bird woman. As quickly as he could manage, he reached deep inside his vest and found the feather, still intact, somehow undetected by his captors. Holding it in both shaking hands, he bowed his head and offered it to his deliverer, who received it in one of her talons. “See that you use wisely the gift of your life restored. You will not be spared again so lightly.”

        When the young man raised his head, she was gone, the scene once again plunged into darkness, though the first hint of dawn stained the eastern sky. Her final admonition echoing repeatedly in his mind, he fled from the camp where his captors now began to stir uneasily in their sleep, seeking not his cousin’s farm but rather his own village, which now rose in his mind as a kind of sanctuary. Fear of recapture drove him hard throughout the long morning. But he recovered his wits as the sun began to pursue its course through the sky. At first, he had simply fled in animal panic. Later, he recovered himself sufficiently to think about how to find his village, which he knew must lie somewhere to the east. Thus oriented, he headed southeast, reasoning that sooner or later he must cut the main path running roughly east to west through the forest. Both his reason and luck held, for he reached the path not far from the oak tree under which he had sheltered. Finding himself in familiar surroundings, he began to relax. As he drank deeply at the spring where he and his uncle had often replenished their waterskins, he began to consider what he would tell his mother and grandmother of his adventures when he returned. He was still deciding how much to share when he stumbled into the village exhausted, just after dusk. 

        As it turned out, he decided to say very little. In reply to their repeated inquiries, he mumbled something indistinct about realizing that he didn’t want to work on a farm, that he had everything he needed right here in the village. And from then until the day of his death, he told no living soul of his forest adventure—no, not even his wife. At first, his mother was glad simply to have her son back, though she recognized a troubling change in him. When she shared her concerns, her mother replied cryptically, “I told you no good would come of that feather.” “Umm…” agreed his mother sadly, “I feared as much.”

        He was indeed a changed man. To one who hadn’t known him, he might have seemed perfectly normal, a typical villager, content with the simple pleasures to be found in hard work and in the life such work made possible. The young women of the village noticed the change in him, of course. One, a maid whose face in certain lights might suggest some features of the feathered beauties the young man now only dimly recalled, sought out his company as often as decency allowed. Making bold, she soon put it about that she was interested in sharing her life with him. When the young man learned of this from his mother, he went to her and proposed marriage. And they were joined within the month.

        As the details of his adventure became more and more blurred over time, he thought less and less of what his experiences might have meant. He focussed instead on meeting the daily needs of his growing family. Such experiences, however, leave a mark on a man, and initially his dreams were often haunted by a sense of loss and longing. Waking from such dreams, he found it hard to look upon his wife’s face, which despite its rough beauty somehow evoked within him feelings of panic. He could almost feel ropes encircling him, binding him to a life he would not choose. But over time, these dreams became rarer. As he and his wife aged, he found himself more often than not gazing upon her with great affection. One day, long after their children had moved out to make their own lives in the village, he considered his wife as she gazed out of the window, the sun falling full upon her well seasoned face, as she cradled her chin in a palm supported by the rough-hewn pine table. Wisps of her hair had escaped her increasingly futile attempts to contain them, and these caught the midmorning light, gracing her with a frizzy aureole. From somewhere deep within, a spring of gratitude bubbled up to fill him. He thought about the irrepressible energy of their grandchildren, of the delight they carried in their wake—and smiled. As he did, his wife’s face seemed to shift subtly, and for the first time since he had left the forest, he glimpsed again the preternatural golden beauty that had set him free. At this, he smiled more deeply still.

        That evening he died while attempting something foolhardy. Since his return from the forest, he had refused to compete in the village fêtes. No one knew why, though some of the older folk still told tales of his past skills in archery, of his speed and strength. While to most of the young people, he was just another old man, to his grandchildren, he was their beloved dedushka. And they at least knew that he retained some of his legendary strength, having seen him lift logs that had defeated younger men. One time, he had single-handedly hoisted a cart while a neighbour replaced a broken wheel. But even they were shocked to see that he had managed to move their great-great uncle’s anvil before it had cost him his life. And through their tears, their eyes shone with pride as they looked upon him lying on the packed dirt floor of the smithy.

Many in the village attended his funeral, a goodly company, and upon his tombstone they carved a hopeful verse.