The Song of the Sirin (Raven Son Book 1)

by Nicholas Kotar

It took all his remaining strength—little as there was— to croak out his daily answer to her pleas: “I would sooner gnaw on that table than eat what food is on it.”

  “Get out, pig!” The hag had returned, brandishing a clawed fist. Voran scurried out of the hut—his stomach reluctantly groaning—the hag after him, now wielding the pestle-club. She contented herself to a mere three blows this morning. Must be tiring of me, he thought, and did not know whether to be relieved or afraid.

  This was their monotonous routine, their eternal courtship. After withstanding the temptation of food, he experienced a certain reawakening of his heart. He tried to inflame his hatred, hoping it would give him enough resistance to break the hag’s power. But the moment he began to gather strength from such thoughts, as if by enchantment his fall with the maiden-hag flashed on his memory, and he stewed in his guilt, trying not to think of Sabíana.

  This morning, he was so overwhelmed by despair that he searched for large stones to dash his head against. But the moment that he bent over to pick a particularly jagged rock, total apathy was thrust on him, leaving him powerless. Again, he fumed in impotent anger, and the cycle repeated itself endlessly, until he merely fell over from exhaustion.

  That internal war was far worse that the degrading tasks she forced on him—cleaning after her, washing her, dressing her, mending her clothes. Soon, time blurred into a single unending day of drudgery.

  “The outhouse needs scrubbing,” she growled at him, her hands twitching on the handle of the pestle.

  His legs felt more like lumpy rocks than usual, and he rose—too slowly for her tastes, as the pestle-club reminded him—to do her bidding.

  To his surprise, Voran heard the unmistakable, and very unexpected, sound of a human voice. A man’s voice, apparently speaking nonsense over and over again. Soon some semblance of words reached Voran’s ears.

  “Broken windows, broken heart

  All beyond your feeble art.

  Strong you are, but wise are not

  If you think to hide your thought

  To force that Raven Son to speak

  Better drown him in a creek!

  Too late! The Lows are here to call

  Your naughty actions to account.

  If you lose, the cursed goes free,

  And his care will come to me.”

  The speaker was an old man with a curly, matted black beard unevenly streaked with grey. His head was a shock of tangled white bursting from under a woven black cap. His face was remarkably free of wrinkles, his eyes innocent and childlike. He wore a nondescript grey robe, and rough shoes woven from tree bark peeked out from the tattered hem. He held a dark wooden staff with a crooked crossbar on top. As he approached the hag, he placed his hands on the crossbar. A kestrel appeared out of nowhere and sat on his head.

  “Oh, there you are, you silly thing,” he said, smiling like a child, eyes nearly rolling back into his head in his attempt to look at the kestrel perching on his skullcap.

  His behavior was as strange as his appearance. He leaned down and kissed the roots of every tree in the vicinity, as if they were objects of sacred worth, wiping his forehead on the bark of the trunk and jumping up with all his might to reach the leaves, until he ran out of breath. The kestrel held on to his cap the whole time, nonplussed. All the man’s movements were punctuated by a clicking of the tongue and an awed murmur, with the occasional hop in place.

  The hag stood with her hands on her hips, an expression of half-disgusted indulgence on her face.

  “Have you missed me, hag?” he said, as though remembering the reason for his visit.

  “Humph,” she said.

  He walked up to Voran and smelled him, making an exaggerated grimace. He faced the hag and smiled lopsidedly.

  “Why are you bothering me again, Tarin?” growled the hag. “I don’t want to hear any stories today, especially after the horrific one you sprung on me, for which I paid you a king’s ransom.”

  “Don’t lie,” he chuckled, “you loved that story. But I’m not here to entertain you. I’m afraid you’re in a bit of a pickle. You’ve got the attention of the Authorities. And not for the right reasons. Seems you’ve annoyed the Alkonist with your mistreatment of this poor specimen.”

  Voran’s heart hammered. He did not quite understand what was happening, but he had heard of the Alkonist. They were Creatures of Aer, High Beings. It seemed they were the ruling authority of the Lows of Aer. Would they take his side over one of their own?

  “You have no authority to speak for the Alkonist, Tarin. You’re only a man.” Voran thought he detected a sliver of fear in the increased shrillness of her voice. “Let them come themselves and speak to me. I dare them.”

  “Baaaaaah! Do you really?” said one of the trees near the watermill. Except it wasn’t a tree at all. It was a giant, covered with matted hair and green moss, with acorns and pinecones sticking out of his long beard. He sniffled like a porcupine. Voran had heard that sniffle before, in the sleeping-wood, what seemed like such an age ago.

  “What are you doing here?” complained the hag. “Don’t you have some travelers to scare with your clapping?”

  The giant took an angry step away from the trees and shrank in a second to the size of the grass blades surrounding the hut. “I hate it when that happens,” he muttered in a mouse-squeak.

  Something laughed in the trees. It was a girlish laugh, uninhibited and slightly insane. She had thick, waving blond hair reaching to her heels. It dripped wet, but still covered her body. Voran was grateful for that, because she was completely naked. She rocked back and forth on an oak-limb, tears of laughter streaming down her face.

  “What do you have to laugh about?” complained the former giant, who by now had grown to the height of a tree-stump.

  She gasped and fell silent, hands raised to her mouth in mock alarm. It was such an exaggerated gesture, that Voran felt he was watching a very badly-done stage play. The girl broke into laughter again.

  “What do you expect, Lesnik?” drawled a bored voice from the roof of the hut. “She is drowned, after all. Can’t help herself.”

  The girl stopped laughing and began to moan, tears of sorrow seamlessly replacing the tears of laughter. The bored voice came from a huge tawny cat with the most cunning eyes Voran had ever seen.

  The stump-sized former giant named Lesnik snuffled into his overgrown, mossy beard.

  “Hag,” said the cat, yawning so hugely that Voran was surprised its jaw remain hinged, “we of the Alkonist have been keeping an eye on you. It seems you’re breaking the rules again.”

  “I haven’t done anything illegal,” she grumbled.

  “Do you know? I never liked liars,” said the cat. “I knew you were the worst when we let you into the Lows, but I didn’t expect you to be so blatant about it. Yes, we can all appreciate occasionally harassing a human. We all do it! But what you’ve done with that poor creature is unforgivable. You should know better.”

  The hag bristled at the cat’s manner. “Don’t insult me, cat-thing. I demand a trial by ordeal.”

  Lesnik laughed. It sounded like a pig eating swill. “We thought you would. So we brought the storyteller. It will be an ordeal of story.”

  “Couldn’t I just tickle the human and be done with it?” said the naked girl. To Voran’s horror, she had the same expression a wolf might have after being starved for weeks. To his even greater horror, he found himself strangely attracted by that expression. He tried to shake it out of his head.

  “Only if the hag wins the ordeal,” said Lesnik. “You know the rules.”

  “An ordeal of story?” The hag groaned. “That’s the most idiotic—”

  “The ordeal of story is the most ancient ordeal in the world, hag,” said Tarin, clicking his tongue. “And who better to judge than the original storyteller?” He bowed to the cat, who graciously acknowledged the compliment. It purred, conceit evident in the fluffing of its tail.

  “Perhaps I can tell a story while
you decide, hag?” said the cat, its eyes wide and excited. “In a certain kingdom, in a certain land…”

  “No!” The hag stomped in frustration. “Your stories are the worst. If I win the ordeal, what do I get in return?”

  “You?” said Lesnik, one eyebrow—which was actually a chestnut—raised derisively. “You get nothing. Continued permission to reside here, that is all.”

  “And if I lose?”

  “Tarin takes your slave for himself.”

  Voran’s heart leaped. Tarin was strange, it was true, but anything would be better than bondage to the hag.

  “For the benefit of all concerned,” the cat drawled, extremely upset at being interrupted, “I will review the ancient rules of the ordeal. Its premise is simple. Two tellers will weave a story of their choosing, and we three Alkonist will decide the winner. We will consider the following criteria: originality, beauty of language, musicality of expression, and truthfulness.”

  “Truthfulness?” The hag made a sour face. “That’s very vague. Very subjective.”

  No one paid any attention to her.

  “Now for the traditional incantation,” said the cat.

  “Oh, this is too much,” said the hag. “I will not say it. It’s silly and outdated.”

  “It will be done in the proper way, or not at all,” said Lesnik. He was nearly man-sized again, his voice deepening with the growth.

  “Maybe I should just tickle him?” ventured the drowned girl. Everyone ignored her, as though they only tolerated her presence out of necessity. Voran tried not to look at her as her hair waved lazily in the wind.

  Tarin drew himself up to his full height, and the kestrel flew up and re-alighted on his shoulder. It looked intently at Voran, as though trying to think something at him. Tarin intoned.

  “The art of story is sacred and old,

  So, teller, beware, lest your heart be revealed,

  For the power of words can turn iron to gold

  Or bind fetters as fast as the roots of the elm.”

  The hag repeated the incantation through gritted teeth. Tarin raised his staff and began to tell his story.

  The Tale of the Sirin and the Child

  In ages when the earth was untamed and curious as an infant, men were yet a thought in the mind of the Heights. Strange and magnificent creatures inhabited the earth. Wardens of this wild earth were the Sirin, highest of the natural creation, fiercely beautiful and glorious. The Sirin reveled in the delights of mountain and steppe, lake and river, basking in the simple company of the beasts who adored them.

  In those days, mankind was created and began to sing their quiet songs. The beasts listened in awe, and man tamed Nature to his gentler hand. But man had yet to meet the Sirin.

  A morning bright and fine it was when one of the Sirin beheld a marvelous sight. A giant warrior, mounted on a giant horse, towered over the forest. His mount’s shoulder reached the crowns of the trees; its mane flashed like lightning with each shake of its head; the earth trembled with each step. The warrior scowled through a mountainous beard as he spoke aloud to himself, dispersing the hordes of ravens perching on his shoulders.

  “Oh, my strength, my curse! Why do I have such power if I find none to test it, none to challenge me? Oh, if only the earth would grow a great ring from its bones, that I might grasp it and turn the earth inside out.”

  He stopped. In his path lay a rough purse. Hardly giving it a thought, the giant nudged it with his spear, but it would not move. He tried to lift it, yet it was as though rooted to the ground. Intrigued, the giant dismounted, but even his tree-trunk arms could not budge the purse. Pleased by the challenge, he pulled with all his might, and buried himself to the ankles. He pulled again, and buried himself to the knees. He pulled again, and buried himself to his neck.

  The Sirin, watching silently, saw a new wonder. A small creature, all softness and grace, approached the trammeled giant. It was a young man, leaning on a stick. He limped as he walked. His beauty pierced the Sirin’s heart. The youth reached the purse and lifted it off the ground, as though it weighed no more than a goose feather.

  “How is it that you,” said the giant, amazed, “a crippled human, can lift what I—mighty as I am—cannot?”

  The youth opened the purse and poured its contents to the ground. They were nothing but kernels of wheat.

  “The wheat has a great secret, giant. The secret of all power. In order to flower, it must die. True strength is found in that most humble of acts—the death of one’s self for the sake of another.”

  Years passed. The Sirin often returned to look upon the youth, but never revealed herself to him. Over the years, his crippling illness worsened. His grieving mother would carry his emaciated body to a seat near the window, where he would sit and stare with unnaturally round eyes at the world moving past him, paying him no heed. Every day, when his mother left to work in the fields, he repeated the same prayer.

  “I give my legs, my life, to all those who sicken and die on this earth. May my sacrifice prove useful to them.”

  And his prayer was answered. Every day sick children jumped with renewed vigor, every day the dying found life again. And every day the young man faded a little more.

  One morning, the youth heard a loud voice outside his small hut.

  “Rise up and greet your guest, young man!”

  The young man obeyed, and his limbs knit together, and life flowed through them once again. He came outside to greet a bearded ancient in long robes. He held a bowl carved in the likeness of a mallard. The old man presented it to the youth.

  “Drink this,” he said. “The bees labored over it in their clover-fields, their strawberry-meadows.”

  The youth sipped thrice.

  “How do you feel, young man?”

  “I feel life in me again, as I have not these many years.”

  “Now dip the bowl in the running waters of the river and drink.”

  The youth did so.

  “How do you feel now?”

  “I feel the strength of ten men within me.”

  Suddenly the old man was there no more. A glorious creature—half-woman, half-eagle— stood before him and sang to him. Thus were the Sirin bound forever to their beloved, and while the bond lasted, the earth gave fruit, the mountains gave pure springs, and the Heights reached down to earth in a harmony of endless song.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever heard such utter nonsense,” muttered the hag. “You expect to win with that story? It’s a mishmash of several battered horses. But you knew that already. And who ever heard of a Sirin who could transfigure?”

  Tarin winked at her and smiled. “Poetic license.”

  With a loud harrumph, the hag sat on a tree stump and began her story.

  The Curious Princess

  You have probably heard the horrible story of the prince and the raven. I hate that story. It ignores all the important details and never considers the Raven’s point of view. Well, I’ll tell you the true end of that story. As you probably already know, after the Raven had his fun with the prince, the Sirin caught the Raven and imprisoned him in Vasyllia.

  The prince came home and—somehow getting over the grief of killing his own beloved—married and had a daughter. She must have inherited some of his restlessness, because she could not be prevailed upon to stay in any one place for more than a few minutes. There was too much to be seen! She would disappear from the palace to wander around the city, the fields, the wild forests. The prince finally had enough of his little girl’s wanderlust, and he ordered that she be confined to the palace.

  Unfortunately for him, the palace itself was an endless labyrinth of discoveries, especially in the dungeons. There, the mountain itself bled into the palace, and some of the rooms were hardly distinguishable from caves. Most were empty, but some had fascinating treasures—ancient tapestries, old rotted chests with moldy drapery and robes woven with dulling gold, drafty armories with rusted swords and mail from the forgotten days of Lassar. The
princess was nearly in constant ecstasies.

  But her curiosity was insatiable. Naturally, there was a single door that would not open, no matter how hard she pushed. She could not simply ask someone to open it for her. Soon all other rooms lost their charm. She would come to this old wooden door and sit in front of it, staring.

  One evening, she was caught prowling the dungeons and brought to her father. He looked grave, but not angry. He didn’t even scold her. Instead, he put her on his lap and petted her hair and spoke softly to her.

  “You must not seek beyond that door, my dear. There is great evil there. It must never be let out, or many will die.”

  Well, so much for the prince’s wisdom. Anyone knows that for a child as inquisitive as that, a prohibition is little more than an invitation. But the problem was still all too real: how to open the door? She decided to wait. Despite her impatient curiosity, she knew very well that if she really wanted something, there would always be a way to get it. She was a prince’s daughter, after all.

  So she waited. Every day she would spend at least an hour in front of the locked door, but no idea presented itself on how to open it. Finally, her patience was rewarded. One late evening, a hunchbacked and very deaf servant carried a bucket of water right up to the forbidden door. She managed to hide before he saw her. To her delight, he pulled out a set of keys bigger than his head and opened the door. To her even greater delight, he walked in and left the door open. She sneaked in behind him.

  They entered a long passage that ended in another shut door of heavy black iron, bolted in ten places with locks and mechanisms that made her head spin as the servant deftly worked them open. Another passage followed, faintly illumined by torches, smelling unpleasantly of pitch and tar. This passage ended in a huge stone. Pushing with all his might, the servant managed to budge it enough to open a small enough chink to walk through. She followed.

  The room was so dark, she had no trouble hiding. Barely illumined by the torches in the hallway, the old man poured the contents of his bucket into a well in the center of the room, then wiped his forehead with his arm. To her chagrin, he immediately walked out and pushed the stone back into the doorway. Blackness fell. She was shut in.