The Six Swans

Long ago and far away, a magician, his wife and their six sons lived in a mountain cave.

The wife grew pregnant and, one stormy night, she gave birth to a girl. The magician held the girl, looked into her eyes and felt a love for her such as he had never felt for anyone. Yet she was early, and she wouldn’t feed.

No – she couldn’t die. He had magic and he would use it. He chanted, prayed, and smeared her with arcane ointments.

She wouldn’t feed. She barely breathed.

An idea came to the magician. There was a sacred spring high up in the mountains; its waters might heal her. He gave his son directions to the spring and sent them out into the storm.

He waited.

Two nights later, when they hadn’t returned, his temper broke.

“They dawdle,” he said. “They sport in mountain pools, leaving their sister to die. If they wish to swim in pools, let them do so forever.” Summoning his power and fuelling it with his fury, he spoke a spell. High above him, six lost boys turned into swans.

The storm passed. The girl began to breathe more deeply and then to feed. Death lingered in the cave for some days, then finally left.

The girl grew up to be small and slender, but happy and healthy. Her parents called her Raven. Her brothers were never spoken of. As far as she knew, she had no brothers.

As Raven grew older, she noticed her parents didn’t love one another as they loved her. One night, she awoke to hear them whispering.

“Twelve years and no sign of them!” said her mother. “They’re probably dead—”

“They deserved it!”

“They were your sons, and you turned them into swans!”

Finally Raven learned the truth. After they fell asleep, she lay awake thinking. What if they were still alive? What if the curse could be broken? She made her decision and crept out of the cave.

Raven wandered through the forest, sleeping on beds of leaves. One evening, after weeks of searching, she spied a hut.

She went inside. It was empty, so she sat down to wait by the fire.

She fell asleep.

Woke up.

It was dark. In the dim firelight she made out six men looking down at her. Somehow… she knew them.

“My brothers!” she said.

“Yes,” said one. “And you must leave now. This hut belongs to a band of cut-throats; they will kill you.”

“Of course, I’ll come with you—”

“You cannot. The curse still holds. We are swans but for fifteen minutes each day. It can be broken, though. If you sew for each of us a nettle shirt, and remain silent until they are completed, we will be men again.”

They ran out of the hut. Raven ran after them, but they were gone. The next morning, Raven began picking nettles.

Raven did as her brother had asked. She picked nettles and with a needle she sewed shirts. It was hard work, yet she kept at it and remained silent.

Years passed. One summer evening, Raven was sewing in a glade when she heard hoof beats. She scurried up a tree and remained still as a man rode beneath her.

He stopped.

Looked up.

Raven stared at him. He wore fine clothes and a crown of gold, and his eyes were kind. He was surely a king.

“Come down,” he said. “You won’t be harmed.”

Raven climbed down.

“Come with me,” he said. “I’ll keep you safe.”

For reasons she couldn’t understand, she nodded. She mounted his horse and they rode away.

They entered the city and rode through the streets, Raven’s eyes bulging. In the castle she was given a room, where she sat down to sew.

The King came to see her every evening. He talked as she sewed, telling her every story he could think of.

One evening, he put a ring on her finger.

She smiled at him.

Raven and the King were married. The entire kingdom rejoiced, but for one person: the King’s mother.

The old Queen hated Raven. She had wanted her son to marry a beautiful princess, not some mute savage he found in a tree. But he wouldn’t listen to her.

Raven grew pregnant. She gave birth to a son; the kingdom rejoiced again. It was too much.

One night, when the King was away hunting, the old Queen entered his bedchamber. Raven sat there, sewing; she had only the sleeve on the final shirt to sew. Her son slept in his crib.

Raven looked up at the old Queen, who carried a goat under her arm.

The old Queen drew a knife and cut the goat’s throat. She rubbed her hand in its blood, smeared the blood on Raven’s face, took the child and left.

Raven went on sewing.

The King returned in the morning.

“What has happened - ”

In came his mother. She gasped.

“She has eaten her baby! Witch! Witch!”

The cry went through the city. Soon they were shouting, “Burn her! Burn her!”

As the mob howled at his gates, the King relented.

“Do it,” he said.

Guards came for Raven in the morning. She went with them through the streets, clutching her sack.

A pyre had been built in the main square. She climbed it as the crowd jeered.

Drums beat.

Raven scanned the sky.

Black-hooded men lit torches. As they approached the pyre, six swans flew down and circled them. Raven threw each of them a shirt. They became men and overpowered the torch bearers.

Then, in a voice that could summon storms, Raven spoke.

She told her story with such ferocity that none could doubt it. The old Queen admitted her guilt and brought the boy from where he was hidden.

The King begged Raven for forgiveness. For him, she had no words.

Raven left the city that day. She walked out onto the road with her son in her arms and her brothers beside her, one of whom wore the white, white wing of a swan.

— END —

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