by Bret Allen
~
Making her way from the forest to the hill, Ekaterina felt weak but her determination was stronger than ever. She had bargained with Death and though she could not help but feel that he had bested her somehow, she was still alive to tell the tale. There was no joy in her survival, just a grim satisfaction that made her keep walking. She trekked onwards through the trees and up a gradual slope that marked the start of the rocky, jagged hill.
A brief flicker of light at the peak told her that she was still going the right way. She carefully moved in that direction until she was able to spy more evidence; the tracks of a large bird in a patch of mud. She felt sure that she was on the trail of the firebird. Even with the witch’s eyes it was hard to track and navigate at night; fortunately, now that she was out in the open, she had some light from the moon.
Ekaterina picked her way up the slope, over rocks and loose stones. The trees had given way to grass, which in turn became scrub. She found herself becoming breathless sooner than she expected, while her wound protested at each step. She ignored the strain of the climb, bolstered by the thought that now she could not fail. She had eyes that could see any trail, a spear that could not miss and a net that drank the life of its captives. There was no longer any doubt that she would be the finest hunter of the village; her beauty was a small price to pay, for she had put aside girlish things long ago.
There were plenty of other trails to follow on the way, thanks to her sharp eyes. She saw several that might be the firebird, or indeed any bird, but the one that caught her eye was that of a hare. Spoors and chewed stems told her that a large hare was very close, so she crouched and slowed down. Her wound stung and kept trying to reopen. Soon she found a shallow depression in a patch of grass that must have been the hare’s form, where it slept.
After waiting for a little while, she spied the hare darting between rocks and shrubs, sniffing the air. She waited until it came very close, forcing herself to remain patient. Part of her wanted to curl up and sleep but in her current state she was not certain that she would ever awake. The hare failed to scent her and darted towards the form. Ekaterina cast the net, grunting at the pain of the sudden movement.
The net landed neatly over the hare. Ekaterina darted forwards to tie it, but she did not need to. The more that the hare struggled, the more it became tangled. The net almost appeared to constrict and knot around its captive by itself. The hare squeaked in alarm as the ragged thing tightened. Ekaterina gripped the net to be certain and watched the hare become still. Her wound changed immediately- it stopped bleeding, stopped hurting and stopped sapping her strength. The hare, meanwhile, lay quiet and struggled to breathe. Its wide and terrified eye met hers.
Ekaterina suddenly felt ashamed. She sighed and began to unwind the net, but it was tightly knotted, woven in a pattern that made no sense to her. She began to race as the hare piteously kicked out, tangling itself more. She fumbled at the net, shaking it and almost tearing it. The hare was weakening rapidly, quite defenceless. She doubled her efforts but the net was knotted.
When it finally came open, the hare was already dead. Ekaterina grimaced and chided herself for using such a powerful tool on such a small creature; she felt more like a farmer with a mousetrap than a great hunter. She lay the hare down in its form, wishing she had time to properly skin it. The carcass would at least be fodder for the forest instead.
The net seemed heavy in her hands, but she carefully folded it and slung it over her back. Something about using it bothered her, but she told herself that the stab of shame she felt was just because she had a kind heart where small creatures were concerned. Against the firebird, the net would be necessary. She was encouraged by the fact that her strength was returning and was very pleased to discover a scar on her side, where earlier there had been a vicious wound.
The climb was long, taking her past the midnight hour, but her eyes led her true. She saw a glimpse of light once more and found a definite trail, belonging to a bird she could not identify, which had to be the legendary and unique firebird. Congratulating herself on her boldness, she hauled herself over a cold outcrop of rock and onto a shelf in the hillside, a small ledge where a tree grew, bathed in yellow light.
The ledge was recessed and the tree’s lower branches were hidden from view; a perfect spot for a nest. Ekaterina’s sharp new eyes searched the branches for signs of the firebird but found nothing. Despite the yellow glow, the bird itself was not apparent. Confused, she finally spotted the firebird’s nest on the hard earth at the base of the tree. She had been looking for a nest of twigs up in the branches, but it looked more like a knot of stones and mud. The nest had been baked into clay.
