The Firebird

Long ago, in a land where birch trees stood white as candles against the sky, there reigned a king named Vuislaf. In the middle of his garden grew an apple tree like no other. Its leaves were tiny mirrors of green, and its fruits gleamed with pure gold. When the wind moved the branches, it sounded like ringing bells. The king had three sons, and the youngest was named Ivan. Every morning they walked with their father through the garden to count the apples, and every morning there were exactly as many as the evening before. That tree was the king's greatest pride, the apple of his eye.

But one morning the king came out and saw that one of the golden apples was missing. The next morning another was gone, and then a third. The king grew very troubled. Who was stealing his apples in the night? He set guards, but the guards slept. He loosed his dogs, but the dogs were silent. Then, on a still and gentle night, the king himself crept out among the trees. In the middle of the darkness he heard a rush of wings, and suddenly the whole garden lit up as if the sun had been born anew. An enormous bird of gold and fire glided down, plucked an apple, and vanished as swift as lightning. 'The Firebird,' whispered the king, trembling.

The next day the king called his sons to him. 'Whoever catches the Firebird,' he said, 'shall have half my kingdom in my lifetime and my whole crown after me.' The three princes bowed deeply and promised to try. The eldest, Prince Dmitri, was to keep watch first. When evening came he sat down beneath the apple tree with his sabre across his knee. The stars lit one by one, and the night grew long and still. Dmitri leaned against the trunk, blinked once, twice, and then his head fell forward. He fell fast asleep. In the morning he was woken by the king's footsteps on the gravel, and yet another golden apple was gone.

The king was both saddened and angry. 'You have failed me, my son. Tomorrow your brother shall watch.' On the second night Prince Vasili sat down beneath the tree. He had brought a jug of kvass and a great fur cap to keep himself awake. He hummed songs, he counted stars, he pinched himself on the arm. But midnight is midnight, and sleep crept in beneath his cloak like a cat. Soon his hand rested on the hilt of his sabre, and soon his cap slid down over his eyes. He slept so deeply he did not even hear the bird come. When morning broke the king stood there once more, and once more a golden apple was gone.