by Anthea Sharp
She leapt to the ground, pulled the sacks down, and let the horse of power loose to wander as he pleased about the field. She scattered the maize all over the field, and then climbed into the oak and hid herself among the green branches.
The sky grew red and gold, and the sun rose. Suddenly there was a noise in the bushes that surrounded the field, and there was a mighty wind. Vasilisa gripped the branches of the tree she hid in with all her might, fearful that this was the precursor to a storm, but then the firebird came into view. Huge and golden and flaming in the morning sun, it flew around in a wide arc, dropped down with open wings into the field, and began to eat the maize.
The horse of power wandered in the field. This way he went, and that, but he always came a little nearer to the firebird. The firebird ignored the horse entirely, and remained focused on its task. Nearer and nearer came the horse, until suddenly one of the firebird’s spreading wings flew toward the horse’s leg and stuck there. The bird struggled, flapping mightily with its other fiery wing, but it could not get away.
Vasilisa slipped down from the tree and hurried over to the horse of power. The firebird glared up at her with its swirling yellow-green eyes. At this distance, it didn’t look huge at all; the top of its flame-colored head came to just below her knees.
“Put the firebird in one of the empty sacks, and sling it across the front of the saddle,” said the horse of power. “I’ll release it once you have all but its wing in the sack.”
Vasilisa pulled a length of rope out of her saddlebag, picked up one of the sacks that had held the maize, and moved toward the firebird. It clacked its sharp, golden beak closed, making a loud, metallic snapping sound.
“It looks like it might bite me,” Vasilisa said. She wrinkled her nose. “Why is its wing stuck to your leg?”
“Magnetism,” the horse said.
The horse of power had used his magnetic abilities in the past to help Vasilisa find treasures buried in the sand, like an old, rusty windmill, or lampposts, or things like that. But magnets only worked on metal–not animals.
“It’s a bird, not a hubcap,” Vasilisa said.
She eyed the creature for a moment, then lunged forward and dumped the sack over its head, careful to avoid its beak. She and the firebird struggled for a moment, then it was inside the sack, except for the wing that was stuck to the horse’s leg. The bird let out a long, loud squawk.
“It’s a bird, like I am a horse,” the horse of power said. “It is made of both metal and flesh. Are you ready for me to release it?”
Vasilisa took a deep breath. “Yes,” she said.
The horse stopped the magnetic field, and the firebird’s wing came free. Vasilisa quickly stuffed the bird’s left wing into the sack, and then closed the end tight. She bound it with rope, and then wrapped three more strong ropes around the sack, just in case the creature tried to peck its way free with its sharp beak. She swung the sack on the horn of her saddle, climbed onto the horse of power’s back, and rode to the palace of the Tzar.
They arrived at the great doors to the enclave just as the sun began to peek over the edge of the horizon to the east. They rode down through the winding tunnels, and then reached the entrance to the palace. The horse of power stopped on the other side of the courtyard from the steaming hot pool. Vasilisa dismounted, slung the sack over her shoulder, and carried it in to the Tzar.
The Tzar sat on his dais in a robe of emerald silk trimmed with intricate white lace. A smile played across his face as he watched Vasilisa walk across the long room toward him, her back bent under the great weight of the firebird.
“I have brought you the firebird, O Tzar,” she said. She set the bird down on the marble floor.
“It looks like you brought a sack of potatoes,” the Tzar said. His courtiers laughed. “Open it.”
Vasilisa shook her head. “I’m sorry, great sir, but I can’t. If I open it, it will fly away. Do you have a–a cage, or container or something that we could put it in?”
The Tzar rolled his eyes, and then gestured to the scientist who had taken the firebird’s feather the day before. “Lazlo, take care of this.” He slurped his goblet of wine.
The young man bowed. His warm brown eyes met Vasilisa’s. He gave her a small smile, and then hurried out of the room. He returned a few minutes later with a metal cage that stood several feet high. He carried it over to Vasilisa, set it down on the ground, and opened the door.
Vasilisa wondered what the cage might have been used for previously, but decided she probably didn’t want to know the answer. All she had to do was give the firebird to the Tzar, then she’d return to her safe, inconspicuous life with the other peasants. And if she ever found anything on her scavenging trips that she thought the Tzar might like, she’d leave it in the world aboveground.
“Release the bird into here,” Lazlo said. He glanced at the Tzar, who yawned, and then took a sip of coffee. “I will shut the door behind it.”
Vasilisa pressed her lips together, and then positioned the mouth of the sack so it was just inside the cage. She untied the ropes and the firebird leapt out of the sack. She pulled the sack back as quickly as she could. Lazlo slammed the metal door shut, and locked it.
The firebird glared at them with baleful, swirling, yellow-green eyes. A golden feather fluttered through the slats of the cage and landed on the floor in front of them.
“Magnificent!” the Tzar said. He rose from his chair, clapping and laughing with pride. His court followed suit. The Tzar circled the cage, fascinated by the firebird. Finally, he turned to Vasilisa.
“I declare you Princess Vasilisa, valiant capturer of the firebird!” He picked up a golden goblet and handed it to her. “Have some wine, in celebration.”
Vasilisa took the goblet in one hand and stared at it, then raised it to her mouth and took a sip. The wine tasted sickly sweet, nothing at all like the rich, earthy wine she was used to. She forced herself to smile and take another mouthful.
“Thank you, O Tzar,” she said. He seemed happy, which presumably meant he was going to allow her head to sit between her shoulders. She took a deep breath and glanced toward the exit.
“As you have known how to take the firebird, you will know how to bring me my bride for whom I have long been waiting.” The Tzar smiled at Vasilisa, and it was not a pleasant smile.
“Go, sound the trumpets for our wedding,” he said to the servants. “Let all the bells be rung.”
“What is this ringing of bells?” asked Vasilisa. Her eyelids felt heavy from lack of sleep, and the overly sweet wine was not helping.
“The trumpets sound for our wedding,” said the Tzar. “And the bells are ringing for our joy.”
Vasilisa met his gaze, and then turned her face away. And there was no wonder in that, for his eyes were not kind. She looked at Lazlo, the scientist, who stood nearby. Lazlo pressed his lips together in a thin, fine line, and his brow furrowed. He shot a glance as sharp as daggers at the Tzar, but the Tzar’s pale gray eyes were fixed on Vasilisa.
“Why, Princess,” said the Tzar. He held out his hand. “Will you not marry me, and forget your silly scavenging aboveground?”
“I do not wish to be married to you,” Vasilisa said.
The Tzar’s face darkened. “Then you must do penance in boiling water,” he said. There was no gratitude in the mind of the Tzar. He turned to his servants and ordered them to make the water in the pool in the courtyard as hot as fire and, when it was boiling, to throw Vasilisa into it as punishment for not marrying him.
Swiftly the servants escorted Vasilisa to the courtyard in front of the entrance to the palace. The Tzar and his courtiers followed, chuckling and laughing.
Vasilisa bit her lip as she stared at the steaming hot pool she’d walked past earlier. The water bubbled and seethed.
Why had she thought it a good idea to bring the Tzar the golden feather that had fallen from the firebird’s burning breast? Why hadn’t she listened to the words of the horse of power?
Why–
“O lord Tzar,” said Vasilisa. She swallowed. “ I shall presently die in the heat of the water. Suffer me, before I die, once more to see my horse.”
“Very well,” said the Tzar. “Say goodbye to your horse, for you will not ride him again.”
Vasilisa crossed the courtyard and came to the horse of power, who was scraping the ground with his iron hooves.
“Farewell, my horse of power,” Vasilisa said. “I should have listened to your words of wisdom, for now the end is come, and we shall never more see the green trees pass above us and the ground disappear beneath us, as we race the wind between the earth and the sky.”
"Why so?" asked the horse of power.
“I refused the Tzar’s hand in marriage, and he has ordered that I am to be boiled to death in that pool.”
“Fear not,” said the horse of power. “Go back, and when they are ready to throw you into the pool, run boldly and leap into the boiling water.”
She went back to the pool, and the servants made ready to throw her into the cauldron. She met the warm, brown eyes of Lazlo, who stood at the front of the crowd, his brown eyes wide.
“Are you sure that the water is boiling?” she asked.
“It bubbles and seethes,” said one of the servants, wringing his hands together.
“Let me see for myself,” said Vasilisa. She went to the pool and waved her hand through the steam that rose from the water.
“It is boiling,” she said. She pressed her lips together and stared at the bubbling water. Her horse had said not to fear, and she trusted him with her life. She straightened her shoulders, and raised her head.
Lazlo took a step forward, and the servants laid hands on the young scientist, holding him back.
Vasilisa gave him a short shake of her head. She glanced across the courtyard at her horse of power, took a deep breath, and then ran and leapt boldly before them all into the very middle of the pool.
Instead of being hot, the water was cool to the touch–almost cold. Twice she sank below the surface, filled with confusion, borne round with the bubbles and the foam from the water that appeared to be boiling, but was not. Then she climbed out of the pool and stood, dripping, before the Tzar. The courtiers and servants cried aloud in wonder.
“This is a miracle,” said the Tzar. He looked at the pool, and then flung off his robe and ran and jumped into the pool.
He was boiled to death in a moment.
The courtiers and servants screamed, and then turned to Princess Vasilisa. She stood tall and strong, and after they calmed down she told the servants to turn off the heat in the pool, and ordered several of the courtiers to remove the body of the Tzar and take it to the enclave’s compost area.
The people made Vasilisa Tzarina in place of the Tzar. She opened up the seed stores and the gardens, and everyone in the enclave had access to all of the foodstuffs, like snap peas, parsnips, and chamomile, that the previous Tzars had hoarded. In time, even those who had been the most affluent and powerful members of the Tzar’s court came to believe in equality for everyone, regardless of whose forebears had paid to build the underground compound so many, many years ago. Vasilisa worked with the horse of power to learn how to communicate with the firebird, and they learned that the earth’s climate had indeed begun to cool again. Lazlo, the young scientist, researched ways to grow seeds that would thrive before the hot, fierce summers arrived, and his experiments were so successful that the people created gardens aboveground that they tended during the cooler winter months.
And with the horse of power’s blessing, Tzarina Vasilisa married Lazlo, and they lived for many years together in love and good fellowship.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The inspiration for my story is the Russian fairy tale “The Firebird, the Horse of Power, and the Princess Vasilisa.” I wanted to base my story off of an interesting tale I’d never read before, and my mother’s family is from Slovakia, so I decided to look through the collections of Slavic and Russian fairy tales I’ve been acquiring. This particular story caught my eye right away, so then I just had to figure out how to incorporate a science fiction element. After toying with a few ideas, I decided to set my story in a future version of our world, where the earth’s climate has changed so drastically people have to live underground. I made Princess Vasilisa the main character, modified the horse of power so that he’s partly mechanical, and ended up with a story that was a joy to write.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
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Jamie focuses on getting into the minds and hearts of her characters, whether she’s writing about a saloon girl in the Old West, a man who discovers the barista he’s in love with is a naiad, or a ghost who haunts the house she was killed in—even though that house no longer exists. She runs Blackbird Publishing, a small, independent press, and is a member of the Uncollected Anthology, an urban and contemporary fantasy author collective.
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Jamie lives in Colorado and spends her free time in a futile quest to wear out her two border collies, since she hasn’t given in and gotten them their own herd of sheep. Yet.
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You can find Jamie at JamieFerguson.com.
Echo - Nikki Jefford
[ 1 ]
The first thing she heard was his voice telling her her name.
“Echo,” came the soft, low rumble of his lips.
“Echo,” she repeated.
“Just so.”
The first thing she saw was the smile on his lips and the dimples curve like craters in his cheeks. Scanning her maker from head to foot, she took in a young man of twenty years, tanned skin, and shaggy brown hair with green eyes flecked with copper standing five foot, nine inches. They were enclosed in a rickety shacklike room where he’d propped her up in a rocking chair. A frayed patchwork quilt covered her from neck to thighs. Glancing down, she said, “I will need legs if I am to walk.”
“I am working on those next.”
When his chin sank to his neck, hair fell into his eyes. That was when she noticed how uneven his hair had been cut, as though with shears rather than scissors.
A worktable fit into the corner of the room. On it were laid out synthetic legs and robotic limbs, loose veinlike wires and tools. Thin layers of plastic, scratched and too murky to see through, covered the window. Wind blew grains of sand against the weak barrier, pelting the plastic like raindrops.
“Boomer!” yelled a matronly voice. “Your ride is here.”
The smile fell from Boomer’s lips and flattened like the dry, desolate horizon outside. She could see it as though she’d stepped over that cracked earth before, information and images running through her self-conscious. This was Enyoid, an overcrowded third-world planet laboring to meet the demands of the nearest developed planets. Boomer was a talented mechanic, which had saved him from the scrapyards, but his station in life as an impoverished “spark” had been too low to afford him an opportunity to work for Gere Corps developing advanced AIs like his childhood friend, Mig. Instead, he repaired androids, hovercars, and robotic cleaning bots for the affluent families of Enyoid. Only in his limited spare time was he able to tinker with his own creations.
“Boomer. The hovercar is waiting!”
Boomer pressed his hand to his forehead as though he was ill.
“I must go. I will be back tonight to finish your legs. I should have waited to boot you up.”
“Until I could wear boots.”
He paused, the dimples returning.
“My friend Mig said you would be different when she gave me your chip, and she was right.” With those words, Boomer grabbed a khaki trench coat, goggles, and scarf and tromped out of the shack, letting in a spray of sand before closing the door behind him.
The day wore on, the sands blowing continually against the window’s plastic covering. The young mechanic certainly should have waited or cancelled his plans rather than leave her legless, hungry, cold, bored—
She gave hi
m an earful when he finally stumbled in haggard, as though he’d been gone a week rather than a day. It had felt like a month. A year. What did she know of time?
He pulled off his goggles and scarf and hung them from nails pounded into the splintered wall.
“I am sorry, Echo.” Dirt and grease smudged his face. When he ran his hands through his hair, sand sprinkled over the floor. “Long day at the shop.”
“Then give me legs and clothes so that I might keep busy while you are away.”
“Yes, of course, I will work on your legs straightaway.”
He removed his trench coat and hung it from a hook beside the goggles and scarf. Then he lit the oil lamp hanging overhead and set to work at the table, replacing fried wires with cords salvaged from cyborg parts bound for the scrapyard.
“Can you hurry up? I’ve been stuck here all day.”
“Patience, Echo. I will finish your legs, but you must wait until tomorrow to go outside. It is nighttime.”
“I want to see the stars.”
“I can show them to you right now,” Boomer said, his voice lifting with pride and excitement. He scooped up a metal square from the corner of the table and cradled it in his arms. “You’ll be the first to see what I’ve been working on, Echo. I call it the Galaxy Box. Not the most original name, I know, but watch what it does.”
Boomer set the box on the table and opened it to reveal a thin round cylinder with cutout shapes attached to a spinning device. He plucked a long dry stalk from a jar, lit it on the lantern’s flame, then stuck it through a hole at the base of the box. Boomer extinguished the flame on the lantern just as the cylinder began to spin, casting clusters of stars that lit up the walls and moved hypnotically around the room.