Ivan and the Firebird (Tales of the Thrice-Nine Lands #1)

Chapter 1

The Feather

That day started out no differently from any other.

The rooster’s crow woke me up in the dawn hours, when it was still dark out.

Our izba had cooled overnight, and I shivered as I removed the covers.

I slept by the door, in the draftiest corner of our hut, and moved quietly to heat up the pechka, so as not to wake up Papa and my two older brothers.

The stove occupied half of our living room and kept us toasty in the long winter months.

I cleared the ash from the firebox, opened the flue damper to check the draft, then brought in small, dry pieces of firewood made of birch bark from the inner porch and placed them on the bottom, carefully positioning the larger logs on top.

I lit the kindling and smiled as it made a satisfying crackling noise, getting the fire going.

By the time Papa and my two older brothers, Peter and Ilya, got up, our izba would be warmed up, just how they liked it.

Having finished with the pechka, I prepared to go to the well. The second I cracked the front door open, it made a screeching sound and immediately I heard Peter’s voice, still hoarse from sleep.

“Ivan, you’re so loud. I’m trying to sleep, you dimwit.” A loud snore followed.

I didn’t answer, but stepped outside, carefully closing the door behind me.

I saw my breath in the cold air. Late March was a tricky season and I quickened my pace, pulling the tulup over my shoulders.

There were still patches of snow on the ground, but the first signs of spring had appeared everywhere, the birds chirped happily, and the snowdrops were popping up.

“Hey there, good morning, Ivan the Dimwit.” I heard a woman’s voice. I turned around to see Dasha, our ruddy-cheeked neighbor. “Looks like I beat you to the well this morning.”

“Good morning.” I kept my voice steady. I’d asked her to stop calling me the Dimwit, but she must have forgotten.

“You’re looking fresh this morning.” She winked at me and stepped closer, then reached to pinch my cheek. Her icy fingers felt like a slap against my flushed face, and I flinched. “You’d better be careful with the ladies, a good-looking lad like you.”

I swallowed hard, unsure of how to respond.

“Let me help you.” I reached down and helped Dasha to adjust the yoke on her shoulders.

“Thank you. How are those good-for-nothing brothers of yours doing?” she asked. “Why is it you’re the only one fetching water? And you’ve been doing it since you were a little lad?”

“Peter and Ilya are going to get married soon—they’re busy with the preparations,” I explained to the neighbor. I didn’t mind taking care of the house. After all, I was the dimwit in the family, and my brothers had more important things to do.

“Busy, eh,” she snarled. “You take care of yourself, and be careful with those brothers of yours.” She walked away, swaying her hips. I could just hear a tune Dasha was singing.

“I will, Dasha,” I promised, forgetting about her words as soon as she was out of view.

Once I got back home, I set the samovar to boil so that Papa, Peter, and Ilya had freshly brewed tea first thing in the morning.

The samovar was the centerpiece of our izba.

It was a metal teakettle that boiled water with coals.

The samovar had two compartments inside: One was for the water, and one was to load and heat up hot coals, which then, when burning, boiled the water.

It was served through a spigot, and when I turned it, it made a lovely hissing sound, releasing steam.

I poured the water into a teapot filled with tea leaves, which I then set on top of the samovar, to keep it warm.

Ever since I was a little boy, I had been in charge of making tea, and I hadn’t missed one morning.

Hot tea on a cold morning was a must, and we wouldn’t have made it through that icy winter without it. After bringing the samovar into the living room and putting it on the table, I arranged the cups for the three of them.

The sun was about to rise, and it was time to go to the stables.

Papa traded horses and trained them for the boyars.

Each spring after Easter, we went to the market near the tsar’s palace, where we sold our horses.

Taking care of my father’s horses had been my responsibility ever since I could remember, and, I’d been told, I was three years old the first time I took them to pasture.

I stuffed a piece of bread left over from dinner into my pocket as I headed out the door.

That would be my meal for the day. I always hid the bread, wrapped in a cloth, in the darkest corner of the hut so my brothers wouldn’t find it.

It had been a long winter, and we were almost out of food, so each time I took the horses to pasture, I ventured into the forest for game.

So, I placed a hunting knife into my pocket just in case, then swung the bag with the bow and arrows over my shoulder.

The soft neighing of the horses greeted me at the stables. I walked over to Star, my favorite mare, and checked on her week-old colt. Star ran her tongue over my hand.

Papa promised me a horse this year, I thought. Maybe he’ll let me keep Star’s colt.

“Hey there, good morning,” I greeted her, then led the seven other horses outside, walking up the steep hill that led to the grassy knoll right on the edge of the forest. I’d gotten used to leaving the horses there to graze on their own while I ventured into the forest for game.

It wasn’t the best thing, but there was no other way.

Each time I prayed the wolves wouldn’t take my horses away, and so far, I’d been lucky.

Our herd had been spared from the worst wolf attacks.

Some villagers even said I had the magical power to keep the wolves away, but I didn’t think much of it.

“All right, you stick together, I’ll be back in a jiffy,” I told them. The bright sun had risen above the horizon. The sky had turned a vibrant shade of pink, with an orange stripe right above it, and the colors reminded me of the Firebird.

Our whole village had been dreaming of the bird for months. We hoped it would grace us with one of its feathers. Everyone in the village would examine every feather, hoping against hope it was the magical one, the one dropped by the Firebird.

We all knew what to look for: The Firebird’s feather was bright red, but if you held it up, it glowed like gold in the sunlight. It was also warm to the touch.

The reason everyone wanted to find the feather was that if you ever found it, you could make a wish and that wish would come true. Not only that, but the magical feather kept its powers for one full year. On the anniversary of finding it, you could make another wish, and it would also come true.

Legend had it that the Firebird used to live nearby.

Back then, everyone got a chance to find one of its feathers, and simple folks like my family saw it at least once in their lifetimes.

Everyone was happy back then. No one ever went hungry.

If there were ever a bad harvest, the Firebird would appear and drop a feather, and then whoever found the feather would make a wish for a great harvest and the whole village would be fed.

Those were the times long ago, back when my papa was a little boy.

But one day, the tsar’s people captured the Firebird and put it in a gilded cage. And after that the common people stopped seeing the magical creature and the tsar kept the bird entirely to himself.

The tsar only let it out once a year, for one hour, and no one knew when that hour was, for the secret was kept by the tsar himself.

We all prayed the Firebird would fly over our village, land nearby, and drop the feather so that we could make a wish.

But it had been years since we’d seen it, and we hadn’t heard of anyone finding a feather and making a wish in the whole land of Zorya.

Staring at the beautiful dawn colors, I sighed, thinking of the Firebird. If I saw it now, I’d wish for food for our whole village, and for Peter and Ilya to get married to their sweethearts.

So absorbed was I in my thoughts, I barely noticed where I was walking.

An owl hooted and jerked me back to reality.

I’d made it deep into the forest. Adjusting the bow on my shoulder, I pricked up my ears.

There was a rustling noise, a barely perceptible one, but I’d been hunting in the woods all my life and immediately knew it was a hare.

Easy prey and so close. My heart leaped at my good fortune.

I pulled out one arrow and froze in place, waiting for the hare to move.

Once it did, I’d shoot and would come home triumphant.

I could almost taste the stew I’d make for dinner that evening.

Picturing Peter and Ilya smacking their lips, thanking me for the kill, and Papa nodding in approval.

The vision was so tempting that I salivated, and at that moment the hare dashed out and ran.

It moved fast, looping around, as hares always did, but I expected that and kept up.

I was almost upon it when I tripped on the root of a tree and nearly fell.

The mere seconds it took me to straighten back up were enough for the hare to dash off.

And that’s when I saw it.

The red feather, glowing. It wasn’t on the ground, but on a branch, eye level.

Hands trembling, I reached for it.

And the world stopped.