“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 It’s silly and outdated.”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.
