Cygnet Czarinas

by Jon Jacks

  Yes, she saw now that these five children were somehow her siblings: there were five swans on her card, and yet there had been seven on the knight’s shield, six of whom had been killed.

  She was a sister, a sister unborn at the time, murdered within her mother’s womb; that was why she had witnessed their deaths, their later acquisition of another form of soul – the swan veils, which granted them another level of life, a life in another, earlier time.

  Then why was she seemingly really alive here, while her sisters, her brother, had required her to wake them from what could have been an endless slumber?

  They all had a picture, a portrait of a kind, each one painted by her:

  Olga had Enid.

  Tatiana’s was The Portrait of a Girl with a Blue Cloak.

  Maria’s The Beautiful Wallflower.

  Anastasia, A Lady Holding a Rose.

  And Alexis now had Undine.

  Yes, this all had something to do with the paintings. (Although she couldn’t be quite sure what that something was!)

  So which was her painting?

  The icon!

  Of course, her painting was the icon – which she had somehow felt attracted to right from the very start!

  *

  Standing in front of the glorious icon, Sandy sensed once again, as she had on that unforgettable occasion when had first seen it, that there was an almost umbilical cord of mutual attraction running between herself and the painting.

  It drew her in, that strangely reversed use of perspective. The light, too, seemed to emanate from the picture, a light suffusing everything else that drew closer towards it.

  It wasn’t, of course, a picture of the Mother of God embracing the Christ Child.

  She had already seen, had witnessed for herself, the real subjects of this particular icon.

  The Ziva Swan Maiden, Lada – Love. And the child, the child with its heart of burning flame.

  Her soul: yes, she was sure now that the child was connected in some important way to her, for her own heart burned as she wholly accepted this as being true, undeniable.

  But then, where did an icon end, where was its vanishing point, but deep within the heart of its observer?

  It wasn’t a reflection of life; it was a gateway into another world, another realm of pure contemplation.

  Her heart burned like a white hot stone, upon which all secrets are inscribed, revealing the Seven Stages of Love, of Lada.

  Attraction.

  Infatuation.

  The Opening of The Heart.

  Trust.

  Worship.

  Obsession.

  And, finally, the Death of The Self

  *

  Chapter 37

  The swirl of creation spun around the head and feet of the beautiful Swan Maiden, all of it emanating from the weaving of her lustrous hair, all of it given life and fertilised by the dew she let spill across the heavens.

  By her side, there happily crouched the young girl, her flaming heart beating with joy, her eyes alive with hope.

  Sandy was no longer holding a card, a card revealing how everyone was formed from the white stone: she was now holding a white swan feather.

  ‘When the lives of your siblings were so unfairly cut short,’ Lada explained in answer to Sandy’s unspoken question, ‘you came to me for help; for, as yet unborn, you weren’t yet entirely a part of life, and so remained capable of talking to me.’

  She glanced down tenderly at the girl, who returned her warmly loving smile.

  ‘I have seven souls,’ she continued, looking towards Sandy once more, ‘and so I had six that I could use to grant you all another form of life.’

  ‘Then why is my life different to theirs? Why was I born in an earlier age?’

  Sandy sensed that she had no real need to ask the question, yet she unfortunately couldn’t fully control a surge of irritation.

  ‘My spiritual love could only grant them a heavenly happiness: to be awakened to an earthly existence, however, they had to be made aware of the Seven Stages of Love inscribed upon all living hearts – and as you were the only one who hadn’t taken part in the life originally prepared for you, you accepted that this must be your role.’

  She once again exchanged loving smiles with the child; with Sandy’s soul.

  A soulless existence?

  Is that my fate? Sandy wondered forlornly.

  ‘She’s here, safe with me: a shared soul,’ Lada answered, adding with a hint of apology, ‘You have a life to live: and Death, as you will hear, is something that even I do not treat lightly.’

  *

  Chapter 38

  The Death of Death

  On the shore of the Great Ocean, girls who are both women and birds sing and dance whenever they emerge in the spring to bring life-giving moisture to the fields.

  Some call these beautiful creatures nymphs, or Bereginy (meaning ‘shore’), Rusalki or Rozhanitsy (‘birth, origin’), goddesses of fate of whom the most famous is Makosh, the Ziva Swan of life, offspring and fertilising waters.

  As they joyfully played and sang by the water’s edge, a passing god fell in love with one of them, a nymph called Roz. And although Roz tried to hide her nakedness (for her feathered veil had been left upon the shore) by hiding behind a large white stone, the god threw a golden apple into the air that, bursting from the sky as a lightning bolt, struck the stone so fiercely that it was soon instantly aflame.

  Within that flame there burned an image of a man, and so Roz called upon the god Svarog to help her bring this man into life as Dazhdbog, or ‘Giving God’: for although he was only partially a god, it was a state that was thereby not entirely unattainable for him.

  And as he threw parts of that white hot stone over his shoulder, Svarog himself called upon the help of the goddess Lada, saying that wherever a white stone landed, a human should appear.

  *

  While riding high in the sky, Dazhdbog came across another rider, Zlatogorka, or ‘Bitter Gold’: and despite her being a daughter of Viy of the Underworld, and therefore an aspect of death itself, they were married. And while out riding together, they discovered a strange tomb, inscribed with a legend:

  ‘There will lie here the one who is destined to stay here by the will of Makosh.’

  Dazhdbog found the casket too small for him, but for Zlatogorka it was just the right size, even when the cover was slipped back into place.

  But now the cover couldn’t be moved by either of them, no matter how hard they tried to push it aside.

  Dazhdbog headed for the realm of Zlatogorka’s father, seeking help, his journey taking him to a grand palace in which beautiful music played on golden strings and a beautiful dark-haired young woman greeted him with the most delicious of drinks.

  The Drink of Forgetfulness.

  And he stayed in this darkness of forgetfulness the whole winter, marrying this beautiful girl called Morena.

  *

  The Goddess of Winter could indeed be beautiful, when dressed in her finest garlands.

  But as his mother Roz presented him with her wedding present – a blue handkerchief that transformed into a lake when waved – she warned him that Morena was also the old crone of cold, hunger, and death; a sorceress associated with witches and other demonic creatures, despite being Ziva Swan’s sister.

  So when Kashchej, son of Viy, pointed out that she had made a bad marriage – for Dazhdbog, after all, was only the son of a Rusalka, and therefore only partially a god (for they weren’t to know, of course, that Dazhdbog’s death lay safe and untouchable within her casket) – she decided she would rid herself of him. While Dazhdbog was in a daze of forgetfulness, Morena and Kashchej threw him into a deep well leading to the Underworld. Then transforming into a great black bird, Morena disappeared with Kashchej.

  When Dazhdbog finally awoke, he would have been endlessly trapped within the darkness if his horse hadn’t come on the call of his whistle and, dropping her long tail down the well, helped hi
m climb out. Yet when he found Morena once again, he foolishly believed her when she insisted Kashchej had forced himself upon her.

  More foolishly still, he gratefully accepted yet another of her poisonous drinks.

  This time he woke up nailed to a mountainside.

  *

 

  This time, it was the Ziva Swan who came across the crucified Dazhdbog.

  Fortunately, she could take him away to be healed in Yriy, where the birds fly to and souls go after death.

  No one could kill Morena and stop her bringing pain to the world: nor could Kashchej be killed, Makosh the Ziva Swan informed him – for the children of Viy were themselves death, while Morena was the Maiden of Death.

  ‘It can’t be true that Rod made the world this way!’ Dazhdbog insisted.

  As Makosh considered this, considering the whole of fate, she twirled her golden apple on a silver plate, such that all was revealed to her.

  The Death he was looking for, she informed him morosely, is hidden in the Egg.

  The Egg is in the Black Swan.

  The Black Swan is in the Hare: and so the Black swan will fly off if you kill the Hare.

  The Hare is in the Casket: and so the Hare will rear away if you don’t take care as you open the Casket.

  The Casket is one similar to her own, Makosh added: although hers naturally contained Seven Souls.

  So hearing this, Dazhdbog left to go looking for Death.

  *

  Aided by Makosh, Dazhdbog opened the casket, releasing his soul, his own death.

  She caught for him the Gold Hare of the Moon (who even now, when the moon is full, can be seen on its surface mixing the elixir of immortality): and so Dazhdbog found himself on a shore overlooking the dark yet silvery Great Ocean.

  Here he himself became a great bird, flying out across the Ocean all others need the winged serpent boat to safely traverse.

  He caught the Black Swan, its feathers spreading and falling as Grievances, its bones tumbling into the dark Waters of Death, where the Black Swan was reformed once more.

  Dazhdbog found his Egg, its fragile shell containing Death.

  But as he was about to break into the Egg, he heard a warning.

  From the broken Egg, a Celestial Fire will rage.

  And this raging Celestial Fire will take everything and everyone with it.

  For this will be the end of the World.

  This will be the Death of Death.

  And so the Egg remains unbroken for now.

  *

  Chapter 39

  Norwich was so much quieter than London.

  Sandy had returned to the town of her birth.

  Her soulless birth.

  No: that wasn’t fair.

  She had a soul, a soul seated in grace next to Lada, sharing in her endless love.

  And yet she despaired that, unlike her sisters, her brother, she couldn’t fly off as a swan to the shores of the Great Ocean.

  They were now Omninascent, forever being reborn everywhere.

  Whenever a concerned Leighton visited her, he could never understand her ever pervading sense of sadness; and she could never, ever, of course, adequately explain it.

  She would, however, make some attempt.

  She would write down her own tale, for him to read and take as the truth or not.

  *

  It was of course extremely late when Sandy, at last finishing her tale, laid her white quill to rest.

  When she looked out across her secluded garden, its innumerable stars of jasmine sparkled in the misty, silvery light of the moon. It was a garden naturally graced with marigolds, roses, hibiscus, and columbine; yet they all shone not with their usual bright colours but with a milky, mercurial glimmer.

  As the glass doors leading out to the garden opened, an electrically crackling breeze swam everywhere about her. The lawn stretching out before her no longer appeared to be of grass but, rather, could have been a dewy pool of milk strewn water.

  As it usually did, the swan landed elegantly upon these waters, its transformation into a beautiful girl all part of the same graciously flowing movement.

  By the time Olga stepped into the room, she was fully formed, her manner of dress as simple and modest as she preferred. Her smile was sincere and kind as, after she and Sandy had warmly embraced, she announced with all the thoughtful sensitivity she was loved for, ‘It is time, sister.’

  *

  Behind Olga, five more swans were gracefully coming in to land upon the pool of purest moonlight.

  Only one of them transformed as they landed however; becoming in a matter of seconds the girl of the flaming heart.

  The girl who was Sandy’s own soul.

  She had brought with her one of Lada’s Golden Apples. With the most demure of smiles, she handed the apple to Sandy, their hands touching, mingling and becoming as one.

  ‘Open for me the door of flesh,’ Sandy instinctively intoned as the glow of eternal youth shone about her, ‘and let the child lead me out into the light and freedom.’

  Her brother and sisters who had remained out on the pool were already taking to the air once more. Olga followed, her transformation into a swan smooth and effortless, her soaring into the sky elegant and graceful.

  And now, at last, Sandy could follow them.

  She didn’t wish to resist. She stepped through the doors, out into the starlit garden.

  Suffused in this silvery, mystical milk, she sensed her nakedness, that she was wearing nothing but her own glorious fleece of tumbling hair, as pure as Eve in Eden.

  She felt herself rising, her whole body as light and buoyant as if she were bathing within mystical waters.

  She rose upwards, heading towards the glittering moon; a vast hole within the darkness, a portal into another world.

  *

  Chapter 40

  Epilogue

  Leighton was mystified by what appeared to be Emma’s (he had always preferred to call Sandy by her birth name) sudden and unexpected death.

  It had taken him a while to painstakingly gather together the many pages of a bizarre tale that he had found fluttering around her garden like so many elusive white feathers, every sheet attempting to swirl away from him in even the lightest breeze.

  It was a glorious garden of jasmine, of white roses, a Moon Garden where they had met many times before.

  To ensure even a partial understanding of its meaning, his painting would naturally have to refer to Greek myths: for they, after all, were the myths most people were fully familiar with.

  Nemea: daughter of Selene, and one of the Crenaiai, the Naiad nymphs of wells and fountains.

  He portrayed her innocent and naked, but for the very finest of white veils.

  And yet within his Crenaia, the Nymph of the Dargle, there would be a hidden detail, one so small and seemingly unimportant that many might miss it.

  Above her heart, almost concealed amongst the folds of veil – the very merest hint of a pure white swan feather.

  *

  End

  Link to Frederic Leighton’s Crenaia, the Nymph of the Dargle

  If you enjoyed reading this book, you might also enjoy (or you may know someone else who might enjoy) these other books by Jon Jacks.

  The Caught – The Rules – Chapter One – The Changes – Sleeping Ugly

  The Barking Detective Agency – The Healing – The Lost Fairy Tale

  A Horse for a Kingdom – Charity – The Most Beautiful Things (Now includes The Last Train)

  The Dream Swallowers – Nyx; Granddaughter of the Night – Jonah and the Alligator

  Glastonbury Sirens – Dr Jekyll’s Maid – The 500-Year Circus – The Desire: Class of 666

  P – The Endless Game – DoriaN A – Wyrd Girl – The Wicker Slippers – Gorgesque

  Heartache High (Vol I) – Heartache High: The Primer (Vol II) – Heartache High: The Wakening (Vol III)

  Miss Terry Charm, Merry Kris Mouse & The Silver Egg – The Last
Angel – Eve of the Serpent

  Seecrets – The Cull – Dragonsapien – The Boy in White Linen – Porcelain Princess – Freaking Freak

  Died Blondes – Queen of all the Knowing World – The Truth About Fairies – Lowlife

  Elm of False Dreams – God of the 4th Sun – A Guide for Young Wytches – Lady of the Wasteland

  The Wendygo House – Americarnie Trash – An Incomparable Pearl – We Three Queens