Once upon a summer, p.9
Once Upon a Summer, page 9
“You do not know,” said Art.
“I do,” said the princess. “You see, I am here, so that this will technically count as a fairy tale (even if that is not the correct spelling of faerie). And the reason Master Blagre was concerned about that was because he feared being excluded – and that was because,” she waited; a dramatic pause, “this is actually a PARABLE, and our unlikely escape is at the very heart of the matter. Am I right Mr Wizard?”
Blagre continued to smile.
“Ah ha!” said Art, “If you’re so smart – and if I am supposed to go along with this nonsense – then what is the message? Surely a parable must have some sort of theme or lesson to be learned. Where is the moral?”
The princess sat cross-legged on the table, adjusted her skirt and then shrugged. “I must assume you are either deaf or stupid – and I favour the latter – because the message has been literally shouted throughout. Whoever this author of Blagre’s is, he cannot be accused of subtlety.”
“Gak, call me names if you will, but I still fail to understand any of this. Blagre, I feel a little exposition may be justified at this point.”
The wizard settled back in his chair, stroked his beard and then, with a wistful look in his eye, touched the small bald patch at the crown of his head.
Eventually, he said, “Do you imagine this was all nothing more than second rate pulp fiction with the odd fart gag thrown in? There was much more to it than that but, until you accept true reality and your own fictional nature, you will never discover the meaning in anything. And... when you do finally accept it, so you will know the meaning of life, and you will come to understand there are fundamental principles that govern everything.”
“Is that it?”
“I offer you the meaning of life, and you’re not satisfied. By golly, you’re a tough fellow to please.”
“Pah... What meaning? What laws? It sounds like a riddle, and you know how much I hate riddles. Nobody like riddles – especially not your readers, you barmy old fool.”
“Well, the most important principle of all is ‘show, don’t tell’; sadly, therefore I can’t explain it all to you. The corollary of this principle is that one should never underestimate the intelligence of the reader. After all, you may not understand, but they most certainly will.”
“What? Both of them?”
“Indeed.”
Blagre turned to one side, “My dearest reader, am I right or am I right?”
S. Markem is an accidental writer of fiction. You cannot find him anywhere.
These Burning Bones
Laila Amado
1.
Once upon a time, in a town encircled by the shell of white-stone walls, nestled in the shadows cast by the golden onion domes of its dozen churches, in the tall terem of her father’s house, lived a girl. You’ve all heard that story.
Beautiful and, of course, virtuous, as such girls are expected to be, she was known far and wide for her unsurpassed skill in lace making. Under her deft fingers, the silken threads twined and looped, fox and deer emerging, lifelike, from a landscape of fine white thread. So famous she became across the land for her art, that Koschei himself, the deathless ruler of the lands beyond the nine green forests, came to see with his own eyes if the rumors of magic in the hands of a mortal were true.
Disguised as a traveler—worn boots, gray beard, and a brown coat—he walked into town, joined the crowd queuing at the gates of the house where the girl lived, scoffed at the infatuation of gullible humans with the poor replica of magic that is human art. Yet, when he reached the vaulted upper chamber of the terem, with its spiraling columns painted red and green, and cast but one look at the delicate threadwork in the girl’s hands, he was stunned. A mere mortal creating works of beauty so rare and precious, the likes of which he himself did not possess in his enchanted lands.
Awed and humbled by the wonder in front of him, Koschei bowed to the girl and offered to take her to that fabled land beyond the nine green forests where rivers of milk flow between the banks of sweet kissel and where she could weave her wondrous lace for all eternity.
The girl refused his offer.
Cornflower blue eyes cast downwards, she whispered that she would never abandon her parents, her beloved town, and her faith for the lands of godforsaken sorcery.
Anger flared in Koschei’s deathless heart. Magic spilled from his fingers, turning the modest girl into a firebird, red of feather and gold of wings, so that she may never work her magic again.
The poor girl could not bear to be kept away from her art. She wept tears of fire, her body combusting into flames, and, wherever the ambers fell, crimson red flowers sprang from the ground, blooming for those that can admire beauty without seeking to possess it.
That story is famous, but none of it is true. I know better. That girl was me, and that girl was vain. Lace making had nothing to do with it, for I never cared for artistry.
And neither did Koschei.
2.
The first time I saw him he entered the terem as a merchant, scattering pearls and silk on the pillows propped beneath my feet. I suppose he did cut a splendid figure, in red boots of saffian leather and a fur-trimmed kaftan. My nanny certainly seemed to think so – I saw her cast an appraising look, cheeks flashing a faint pink.
One ride in a boat down the Volga river was all that he was asking for, just to be in the presence of my unrivaled beauty for a few hours of this warm summer day. I’ve heard it all before. Unwilling to listen further, I rolled my eyes, slapping the hand of the servant girl who had pinched my hair with a crooked tooth of a bone comb.
I didn’t even bother to watch him leave, only heard the door bang, as my nanny frowned and shook her head.
3.
The second time, he came before me as a prince of a faraway land, peacock feathers gracing the tall turban. A cloak of azure blue silk flowed behind him like a river. He spoke of stars hanging low over the desert sands and of blooming pomegranate trees hidden in secret gardens, promising to build me a palace on the shores of a wide warm sea in return for one single kiss.
He looked so earnest, brows knitted in concentration, when he recited the odd, ancient love poems, and the vowels of his words carried the strangest echoes. I laughed.
This time I watched him leave, storm to the door in a cloud of silk the color of a vicious tempest. Nanny gave me her sternest look, but I just could not stop giggling.
4.
The third time, he came as himself. Shadows roiled around the gleaming crown of white bone on his brow. He spoke of his kingdom that lies in a far, faraway land, beyond the blue seas and the green forests, on the other side of the dawn, and I watched his face – the finely curved lips, the proud, hawkish nose, the darkness underneath his eyes cast by the long, black lashes. Now and again, in the light of the lanterns, a brittle edge of a socket or a yellowed hinge of a jaw showed through his features, like a ghost of the deathless skull hovering beneath the surface of his human face, bleeding through into the daylight world.
He offered me power and half of his immortal throne to go with it. I wasn’t impressed. Words twisted on my tongue, sharp and poisonous, and as I opened my mouth to spit them out, nanny went pale.
“Why would I want your throne?” I hissed. “What’s in it for me? I’m the most beautiful girl in this whole land. I can have anything I want, so why would I want your kingdom of cheap magic tricks and rotting bones?”
He swayed as if I slapped him, but this time he did not leave. Instead, he leaned close, bending over my hand, as if to plant a kiss, and said, “Three times I came and three times you rejected me. All I have to offer is not enough for you. For your vanity, I will turn you into a prize that everyone wants and no one wins, a harbinger of misfortune.”
I tried to yank my hand away, but it was no use. Magic flowed through his fingers and into my flesh, cold like ice and hot like flame. It felt like fire burning in my bones. I opened my mouth to scream, yet nothing but a screeching caw of a bird burst from my throat. Hands flailing, I reached for Koschei’s coat, but he stepped away, snapped his fingers and was gone, leaving behind wisps of black smoke.
Consumed by the burning pain, I crumpled to the floor, tearing at the fabric of my dress. Golden specks shone through my skin, merging into pools of molten lava, and then little tendrils of fire began to peel away, curling over my aching skin like tiny feathers. One final contortion and my human body was no more. Where a human girl cried and flailed, a firebird, its plumage red and golden, flapped its wings.
The servant girl, comb still clutched in hand, passed out, tumbling over a redwood bench, and the old nanny caught the bird with a tablecloth, swaddling it in heavy, embroidered fabric.
5.
Father moaned at the sight of me, but mother said, “Don’t fret. Remember my sister living in the woods? Let’s call on her, she would surely know what to do.”
And so they did. A caravan of heavily laden wagons, loaded with wool, barley, wheat, and barrels of mead, rolled down the winding paths of the forest towards the doors of a hut teetering on a pair of chicken legs. Three days later my mother’s sister walked into the terem, her bone leg clanking on the oak floors.
She stooped over the crate where I was pecking seeds, eyes the color of swamp water boring into the body of a bird. My parents hovered in the doorway.
“I cannot undo this spell,” she said after a long pause. “But I can alleviate it.” She turned to me and continued, “You will become free of this form, the day you care for someone other than yourself.”
Enraged, I bit her hand and flew out of the open window.
6.
It’s boring to live the life of a bird. No matter how bright your plumage, how melodious your songs, each new day is the same as the previous one and the one before it and all the other days, past and future. It didn’t take me long to discover that flying high makes me dizzy and hopping from tree to tree provides a limited source of entertainment.
No wonder that one night, when a group of men set up camp in the forest on their way to the fair held in the capital city, I let one of my magnificent tail feathers fall to the ground between the trees.
Soon, I saw one of the men – a boy really – approach, staring open-mouthed at the treasure glowing between the gnarled knots of the roots. He was pretty, in a simple, hayseed way, with a swath of reddish freckles splayed across his cheeks and nose, and a soft baby mouth. Maybe the others warned him against venturing towards the strange light shining in the woods and he didn’t listen. Maybe he snuck away from the group in secret, when the older men had sensibly gone to sleep. Maybe he didn’t know any better. Whatever brought him here, he suited my goals perfectly.
He picked up the feather, cast a quick glance around to check if anyone was looking, hoping to keep the feather a secret, of course. So naïve. For a few seconds the bright plume of the feather burned in his hand, throwing sharp jagged shadows on his young face, and then its light was no more, hidden in the boy’s coat.
I cannot know for sure what happened when he reached the capital, but there were rumors. I had to be patient and wait.
It didn’t even take that long.
The boy got himself a job in the palace’s stables, carrying straw and water, shoving out manure, brushing manes, mending saddles and, after each long and tiresome day, he climbed into the hayloft, where he had his bed, and pulled out the feather from its hiding place, unwrapping the bundle to gawk at the pretty light. He didn’t know yet that if a secret is bright enough, you cannot hope to keep it to yourself. One night a laundry maid saw him and told the cook. The cook told the falconer. The falconer told the seneschal, and by morning the news reached the tsar himself.
Ushered into the throne room, the boy fell to his knees and took out the feather, its stem shaking in his sweaty hand. The bright, red and golden plume burned with a fire bright as daylight.
“Bring me the bird that left this feather,” said the tsar. “I want my land to be a beacon of light for all the others.”
“But I do not know where to find the firebird,” the boy cried. “You have the feather now. Please don’t send me on this quest for I will surely perish.”
“In that case the executioner will have your head tomorrow,” the tsar said and shrugged.
And so, seeing that he had no choice, the boy packed his knapsack and went in search of the firebird.
I made it easy for him, since I wanted to be taken to the palace and live out my firebird days in opulent luxury. He didn’t have to travel far on that first quest – I made a nest in the branches of a sprawling oak he was bound to notice. After all, it also housed a talking cat and a couple of mermaids. All he had to do was cross the three rivers, one green, one blue, and one of fire, and then climb to the top of the highest hill wearing a pair of iron shoes. Sweet boy, he’d managed just fine.
He brought me to the palace of milk-white spires and arched doorways, to the tsar and his court, to the tastiest seeds, nuts, and berries. The tsar set me up in an elegant golden cage and the boy was sent back to the stables.
At first, the tsar came to see me every day. He fed me from his hand and watched my feathers glow, fascination softening his harsh features. Life at the palace was good and I was content, but the bliss didn’t last long. Soon, the tsar’s visits became few and far between and his eyes took on a haunted, hungry gleam. Then he stopped coming at all and was gone for weeks. Alone in the room, I discovered that the life of a bird was still quite boring even at the royal court and with the best selection of seeds.
One day the tsar came back to the parlor where my golden cage hung from the rafters, and when he did, he paced up and down the span of the room, muttering to himself, “I’ve heard, a sheikh in the south rides a griffin and a king in the west owns a deer with golden hooves, and I have nothing but a bird. A stupid creature with a pea-sized brain that can do nothing but flap its wings.” I shrieked in indignation, but he paid me no heed. The next day he called for the boy again.
“Far away, in the malachite mountains lives a wondrous creature. A fox predicting the future with a swipe of its tail. Bring it to my palace and I’ll let you keep your life,” said the tsar.
The boy wept as he packed his knapsack, but he already knew that he had no choice. He was gone for a month and when he came back with the magic fox on a leash, the freckles on his face looked faded and dull.
This time, it took the tsar barely more than a month to get bored with the fox and its predictions. He called for the boy again.
“Far away, in a saltless sea lives a fish that can grant wishes. Bring it to me and your life will be spared,” said the tsar.
The boy did not object. He left and was gone for a whole winter and, when he came back, there was no softness left in his mouth and his eyes turned the dirty gray color of melting snow.
The more wonders the boy brought to the palace, the greedier the tsar became, the hungrier his eyes looked at the world. Forgotten in my golden cage, I watched him spiral into madness and the boy fade away, his young face more haggard after every quest. Fire gnawed at my bones, blistering and cruel. In my fevered dreams, I heard Koschei’s laughter echo in a land beyond the nine forests, on the other side of the dawn.
One sweltering summer day the tsar, drunk on greed and wine, left the cage unlocked. The latch slipped open, setting me free, and I flew away in search of a land less bleak and dreary. I don’t know what happened to the boy.
7.
There was a kingdom, and in the kingdom there was a palace, and around the palace sprawled a garden, and in the garden stood a tree, and on the branches of that tree golden apples swayed and ripened. I came to like their taste, sweet and tangy. It was a lovely place. Until the king called for the apple thief to be captured, and his three sons – the angry one, the lazy one, and the handsome one – set out on a quest to find the firebird and win the crown.
Three young men began the journey but only two came back. The youngest prince was smart enough to catch me, I admit, but wasn’t smart enough to understand his brothers’ nature. Once he did all the work for them, they stabbed him in the back, chopped his body up into little pieces, and dumped the remains into the deep and desolate ravine. There was no raven nor the wolf to save him. Stories lie.
The two brothers traveled back to the palace and claimed the throne, feigning ignorance of their sibling’s fate, and soon the kingdom went up in smoke, princes tearing apart the land in their quest for ultimate, undivided power. Day after day, locked in my gilded cage, I heard bone dice rolling from Koschei’s long fingers, tumbling across the long table in a faraway land beyond the nine green forests.
One night, the fire – started by one brother or the other – burned the palace down. Invulnerable to the flaming tongues, I flew off into the pitch-black darkness, swearing to never be captured by a man again.
8.
There were other kingdoms, of course, tsardoms, empires, and duchies. There were men, young and old, clever and simple, handsome and not so much, who saw but a shadow of my flame and lost their peace, burned down their homes, sacrificed love, friendship, and life itself.
No matter how I tried to evade them, they always found me. In a plowed-up field and in a sacred grove, in the palace gardens and in a back alley. Fire burned in my bones, biting and bitter. In all the lands I roamed I heard Koschei’s lips whisper words I couldn’t quite understand, close but forever out of reach.
9.
Imagine a splash of light meadow green in the jagged rift between the malachite crowns of the trees. Imagine a horse in full gallop, flying like an arrow. Imagine a rider leaning forward in the saddle, fearless and agile.
From high up in the sky, I saw them racing across the field, a man and a beast perfectly fused together in one fluid motion. Transfixed, I could not help but stare, circling lower down to get a better look. By the time I noticed one of my feathers slip free and flutter downward into the shivering grass, it was too late. I cried out in despair, but the sound was lost, carried away by the wind.
