by Jane Yolen
Lann looked about him again, wondering if it had all been simply a seeming after all, a tale to while away an afternoon, a magic entertainment planned by his mother. But then, on a chest at the foot of the bed, he saw the pieces of his broken instrument. Picking the pieces up sadly, he shook his head. His life, he felt, was as broken as the lute. His friend’s solitary death was, indeed, a consequence he could scarcely bear.
It was then Lann saw the open door. He went through it and found himself in a long hall hung with rich tapestries.
At the hall’s end was yet another door. And when he opened it, Lann found himself in a large, pleasant room filled with well-dressed people. As he walked through the door, the people all bowed.
“Hail, Lann, Sianna’s son,” they said at once.
Lann looked about him wonderingly and approached the people. For surely someone there could explain the things that had happened to him and help him find his company of friends.
Yet as he approached, the people fell back, bowing and opening up a pathway. At the end of the path was a throne. On the throne sat a kindly man who seemed tall as a giant, for he sat straight and proud. He was dressed in royal robes, yet beneath his golden crown was a face that was familiar.
“Jared!” cried Lann.
“It is indeed I,” said Jared.
To his right stood a small man in robes of blue. A gold medallion hung around his neck. He was a counselor who looked at Lann with an expression he recognized at once.
“Coredderoc, too?” asked Lann.
“Cored one,” said the counselor. “Both in one head.”
Lann could contain himself no longer. He ran over to the two and threw his arms around them. There was a gasp from the people and Lann drew back, suddenly remembering that Jared was a king.
But the noise from the crowd was not for that. They were drawing apart to let a beautiful girl step through. Her hair was as soft as feathers and her face as gentle as the wind.
“This is my daughter,” said the king, “whom I had thought lost forever. Bridda.”
But Lann had not waited for her name. He had already gone to her side.
It was then that Cored explained what had occurred. “It was, as you have probably guessed, mostly seeming. We have all been enchanted, for our own folly or the follies of others. The king, the prince, the princess, and I in our own sad states in which you found us; the lords and ladies and cooks and stable-boys as the gray-green rocks on which Bleakard’s castle was built. For he was so evil, he could build only upon the wreckage of others’ lives.”
All the people gathered in the room nodded at this and whispered, “How right,” and “So true,” each to his neighbor.
The king broke in then, saying, “We would have remained forever thus if you had not come by. With love and courage you inspired us to great deeds.”
“But it was Bred who saved us all,” protested Lann. “It was his sacrifice.”
“Yes, in the end it was Bred, my son, who gave his life for us all,” the king agreed. “Gave it without knowing who we all were—except that we were friends.” He looked around at the assembly of people and then stood up. “Brave men do that, that others may live. And it will always be my special burden to know that at the moment of asking—though I guessed what it was that was required of me—I could not do it. I was not as brave as my own son. That is a piece of knowledge that will guide me when I must judge others.”
Lann turned to the princess. “But if you are of royal blood, then I fear what I hope for may not come to pass. For though there was never a one such as my mother, she is of the blood of peasants, and so am I.”
“Lann, my friend, my son,” said Jared, “you are ever as dear to me as the son I had for only a moment and lost. Marry my daughter and rule in my place. For any son of a woman as wise as Sianna of the Song is more than worthy to be a king. And Cored and I will serve as your counselors whenever such a need shall arise.” And, taking the crown from his own head, he placed it on Lann’s. Then Jared knelt before the minstrel-king. “Your servant and your friend till death,” he said.
“May that be a good long time,” said Lann.
“I sincerely hope so,” replied Jared with such fervor that the two friends at last were able to smile.
So Lann and Bridda married with the blessings both of her father and of his mother, who came with her minstrel husband to the wedding. The young king and queen shared in the ruling of the kingdom. Jared was ever at their side, leavening their judgments with his caution and wit. And Cored, too, served them well, as wise as two men, always seeing two sides of any question and balancing them both in any answer.
It was said that every night a silver bird with a blood-red ring around its neck visited the castle tower. King Lann played it songs on his lute. Queen Bridda fed it red berries, green salad, and wine. They called it Brother Gander and swore that it brought them news of all the people, great and small, who lived under their rule. Or so it was said in the kingdom—but many things are rumored, and not all are true.
What is true, though, is this: from that day on, no one within the kingdom was allowed to draw bow against any bird that flies in the sky or swims in the streams. And a flock of geese still lives contentedly in the palace courtyard, petted and beloved as any friends.
The Boy Who Had Wings
In a village deep in Thessaly, where horses grow like wheat in the fields, a boy was born with wings. They were long, arching wings, softly feathered, and golden-white in color. They moved with delicate grace. And they were like nothing ever seen before in the whole of the Thessalian plain.
The boy’s parents named him Aetos, which means eagle, because of his wondrous wings.
But Aetos’ father, who was a herdsman, could not abide him. “Who has ever heard of a child with wings?” he asked, and made a sign with his hands to protect himself from evil spirits each time the child came near. “Surely the gods must be displeased with me to have sent me so strange a son. What good is he to me? He is something for wise men and fools to wonder about, but not a fit son for a keeper of horses.”
And as Aetos grew from an infant to a boy, his father found one excuse after another to stay away from home, taking his herd of horses higher and higher into the surrounding hills.
At last he came home only when the driving rains made him seek shelter or the drifting snows closed the mountain trails.
Now Aetos’ mother loved her son, but she too felt uneasy at the sight of his wings. Were they really a sign of the gods’ disfavor? Or were they a blessing? It was hard to tell, but one dared not take chances. And if the villagers knew of this strange thing, they might do Aetos some hurt. So she made him a black goat-hair cape to cover his shoulders and forbade him ever to fly or to let people know of his wings.
And Aetos never disobeyed her.
But gradually Aetos became the forgotten one of the family. He played by himself in the corner of the house.
When shoved outside by his older brothers, he would wander alone down by the river. There, from behind a large olive tree, he would watch the women washing clothes in the water and the children playing on the shore.
Once in a while he would raise his eyes to the birds that raced the clouds across the skies. And sometimes his own wings would respond to the sight. They would try to stretch and arch. Then Aetos would pull his goat-hair cape more tightly around his thin shoulders and carefully study the ground until the wings were quiet once more.
It happened one day that the winter winds blew icily across the plain. Snow fell steadily in the mountains for a night and a day. But Aetos’ father, high in the hills, did not come home. The snow had trapped him and his horses behind a wall of white.
The days grew colder. The winds came fiercely from the north. And still the herdsman could not bring his horses home.
In the village, Aetos, his mother, and his two older brothers sat by the fire shivering with the cold and wondering about their father.
Finally, the oldest broth
er, Panos, arose. “I will try to find my father,” he said. He took a leather pouch and filled it with olives and flat bread. Then he went out into the storm.
But scarcely a day later, Panos returned. He had been able to go no farther than the foot of the mountain before the icy winds had driven him home.
So once more the herdsman’s wife and his three sons sat by the fire. Finally, the second brother, Nikos, arose. “Now it is my turn to seek our father,” he said. He took the leather pouch and filled it with goat cheese and hung a goatskin full of wine from his belt. Then Nikos went out into the storm.
But scarcely two days later he returned. He had been able to go no farther than the first mountain pass when the icy winds and the wall of snow had driven him home.
So once more the herdsman’s wife and his three sons sat by the fire. As the embers began to cool, Aetos arose. He pulled his goat-hair cape tightly around his shoulders. “It is left for me to seek our father,” he said. “For if I had not been born with wings, he would have been safe at home even now.”
And though he was still too young to brave the winter mountains all alone, neither his mother, nor Panos, nor Nikos told him no.
So, filling the leather pouch with a crust of dark bread and the goatskin with fresh milk, Aetos went out into the storm.
As he walked toward the mountain, the icy winds tore at his clothes. One chilling blast ripped the goatskin of milk from his shoulder and sent it spilling across the plain.
“It does not matter,” thought Aetos. “I will be lighter now.”
As Aetos reached the mountain’s steep foot, a second chilling wind tore the leather pouch from his belt and tossed it high up on the hills.
“One thing less to carry,” he thought. And he began to climb the snow-covered mountain.
Yet a third blast of the icy wind ripped his goatskin cape from his shoulders, whipping it away like a giant black hawk.
Aetos uttered a sharp cry as the cold winter air found his shoulders and back, for suddenly, without his willing it, his wondrous wings arched against the wind, stretching high and pushing out beyond his shoulders. For a minute the wind seemed to grow gentle. It played with the feathers, stroking them, petting them. And then, before Aetos could think what to do, his golden-white wings had started to beat by themselves. High above the path they carried him, above the trees and above the mountain.
As he whirled, dipped, dived, and soared, Aetos felt happy and free for the first time in his life. He saw how small his house looked, how small the village looked, how small the mountain that imprisoned his father.
His father! In the joy of flying, Aetos had almost forgotten about his father, trapped behind the cold, white wall of snow. So he squinted his eyes in concentration and mastered the beating of his wings. Then carefully he glided down near the tops of the trees and began to search the steep sides and valleys for a sign of the herdsman and his herd.
At last he saw a few small, dark dots against the snow. Catching a current of air, he floated down to investigate. There, huddled between two mares shaggy in their winter coats, was his father, fainting with the cold.
Aetos swooped down and lifted his father into his arms. He marveled at how light his father felt, for the herdsman had gone many days with no food and only melted snow to drink. Then, with his wings beating against the cold air, the feathers beginning to stiffen and grow heavy with ice, Aetos took off into the mountain air once again, his father cradled in his arms.
In less time than it takes to tell it, Aetos and his father had crossed up and over the mountain, sailed across the Thessalian plain, and landed in front of the herdsman’s house.
Panos, Nikos, and their mother ran out and carried the herdsman inside, where they warmed him by the fire. But it was some time before they paid any heed to the chilled and drooping boy who shivered by the door. It was even longer before they noticed his frozen wings. But finally they signaled him to stand by the fire and filled him with warm broth and even warmer thanks.
The herdsman recovered quickly, for he was a hardy man. But Aetos lay in bed, shivering first cold and then hot, for many days.
When he was finally well, his wings, which had become frostbitten by the icy winds, lost all their feathers one by one. At last the wings themselves dropped off. All that was left were two large scars on his shoulders where the wings had been.
At first Aetos was sad, remembering the wild, happy freedom of his ride in the sky. But afterward, when both his mother and father hugged, kissed, petted, and praised him, and he was allowed to join the other boys at their games, he all but forgot about his lost wings. For they had brought him no happiness except for that one brief moment.
As the years passed, and Aetos grew into a man, he was loved and respected by all. He lived as other men in the village did and became a herder of horses. His wings and his one great flight into freedom faded into a childhood memory. Except for the scars on his shoulders, he would have counted them as a dream. But now, no longer burdened by the wings, his soul could fly.
Yet generations later, the people of the village prayed to a guardian angel of the horse herders, an angel they called St. Aetos. You see, the people never knew how unhappy the boy had been before he lost his wings, and only thought of how glorious it must be to fly. And boys and girls prayed each night to grow great, arched, golden-white wings that would carry them up over the mountains. Or they prayed that their own children might be born with such wings to bring them safely home across the plain.
But from that day to this, no one else has ever been so blessed.
The Girl Who Loved the Wind
Once many years ago in a country far to the east, there lived a wealthy merchant. He was a widower and had an only daughter named Danina. She was dainty and beautiful, and he loved her more than he loved all of his treasures.
Because Danina was his only child, the merchant wanted to keep her from anything that might hurt or harm her in any way, and so he decided to shut her away from the world.
When Danina was still an infant, her father brought her to a great house which he had built on the shore of the sea. On three sides of the house rose three huge walls. And on the fourth side was the sea itself.
In this lovely, lonely place Danina grew up knowing everything that was in her father’s heart, but nothing of the world.
In her garden grew every kind of fair fruit and flower, for so her father willed it. And on her table was every kind of fresh fish and fowl, for so her father ordered. In her room were the finest furnishings. Gaily colored books and happy music, light dancing and bright paintings filled her days. And the servants were instructed always to smile, never to say no, and to be cheerful all through the year. So her father wished it, and so it was done. And for many years, nothing sad touched Danina in any way.
Yet one spring day, as Danina stood by her window gazing at the sea, a breeze blew salt across the waves. It whipped her hair about her face. It blew in the corners of her room. And as it moved, it whistled a haunting little tune.
Danina had never heard such a thing before. It was sad, but it was beautiful. It intrigued her. It beguiled her. It caused her to sigh and clasp her hands.
“Who are you?” asked Danina.
And the wind answered:
Who am I?
I call myself the wind.
I slap at ships and sparrows.
I sough through broken windows.
I shepherd snow and sandstorms.
I am not always kind.
“How peculiar,” said Danina. “Here you merely rustle the trees and play with the leaves and calm the birds in their nests.”
“I am not always kind,” said the wind again.
“Everyone here is always kind. Everyone here is always happy.”
“Nothing is always,” said the wind.
“My life is always,” said Danina. “Always happy.”
“But life is not always happy,” said the wind.
“Mine is,” said Danina.
“What do you mean?” asked Danina. But the wind only whirled through the window carrying one of her silken scarves, and before she could speak again, he had blown out to sea.
Days went by, happy days. Yet sometimes in her room, Danina would try to sing the wind’s song. She could not quite remember the words or recall the tune, but its strangeness haunted her.
Finally, one morning, she asked her father: ‘Why isn’t life always happy?”
“Life is always happy,” replied her father.
“That’s what I told him,” said Danina.
“Told who?” asked her father. He was suddenly frightened, frightened that someone would take his daughter away.
“The wind,” said Danina.
“The wind does not talk,” said her father.
“He called himself the wind,” she replied.
But her father did not understand. And so when a passing fisherman found Danina’s scarf far out at sea and returned it to the merchant’s house, he was rewarded with a beating, for the merchant suspected that the fisherman was the one who called himself the wind.
Then one summer day, weeks later, when the sun was reflected in the petals of the flowers, Danina strolled in her garden. Suddenly the wind leaped over the high wall and pushed and pulled at the tops of the trees. He sang his strange song, and Danina clasped her hands and sighed.
“Who are you?” she whispered.
“Who am I?” said the wind, and he sang:
Who am I?
I call myself the wind.
I’ve worked the sails of windmills.
I’ve whirled the sand in deserts.
I’ve wrecked ten thousand galleons.
I am not always kind.
“I knew it was you,” said Danina. “But no one believed me.”
And the wind danced around the garden and made the flowers bow.
He caressed the birds in the trees and played gently with the feathers on their wings.
“You say you are not always kind,” said Danina. “You say you have done many unkind things. But all I see is that you are gentle and good.”
