Little Bird

Many years ago, long before words moved swift as light but not before the fires of man saw the deeds of night, there lived a girl named Nascha of the Powtow people. For three handfuls of years, Nascha worked alongside her mother in the villages of the Powtow tucked high in the mountains where the evergreens brushed the clouds and the eagle’s cry carried to peaks of snow. She would wake early each morning and run to the wood — her long, black hair trailing behind her and her little feet moving briskly like the rabbit’s — to hear the songs of the morning birds.

“Be back when the sun comes to the short,” her mother would say before she ran off, which meant when the sun reached the tip of the mountain’s shortest tree on the East. This was quite early and Nascha disliked her mother’s order very much, for it meant she would not sing with the birds till the next morning.

The Powtow were a hunting people who spoke little but worked hard under the savage rule of Chief Matchitehew and his ferocious army. The women of Powtow made beautiful garments of fur and feathers and all things hunted by the men, and the Chief took these treasures and traded with the farming tribes that lived lower on the mountainside. The Chief and his tradesmen would return with food for the village and strong brew for the men; and on his trip up the mountain, on occasion he would take as his own the beautiful daughters of his people. The young girls were dragged away awash in tears, and were seldom seen again. Nascha was small for her age and so her mother could hide her well from the Chief. And so she lived: working by day and hiding at dusk. Of this, she could take no more.

“I am not meant to stitch garments, mother,” Nascha said one day. “I am meant to sing the songs of the bird to the people of the mountain.”

“We must work if we are to eat,” her mother said.

“I find plenty to eat among the wood each morning,” Nascha said. “With far pleasanter company.”

“You are now a young woman,” her mother said. “You must stop pretending to talk with birds.”

“But I can, mother. They sing to me and I sing to them, and we talk so all morning long until I must leave; but they ask me to stay.”

Now her mother looked sharply at Nascha, though she did not stop her stitch-work, and she said, “I’ve not heard a single note of song come from your mouth. Now please, Nascha, stop this nonsense and take up your stitch-work so that we may eat tonight.”

Nascha stared at her mother with big, brown eyes and her youthful lips curled into a smile; and then she sang. Her voice was soft as new-fallen snow but with all the magic of the whistling wind. The notes fluttered like the bluebird’s wings and danced in her mother’s ears till her eyes were wet with tears.

“You sing as your grandmother did, so I must now call you Little Bird,” her mother said. “Why haven’t you shared this joyous gift?”

“The Powtow are quiet. I’ve not heard any sing before, and was afraid to be the first.”

“But a gift like that,” came the sturdy voice from the wood. “Could bring about such fortune.”

Nascha and her mother looked fast and saw a man coming out of the wood with the tattoo of the Powtow tradesman: a brown bear on his burly forearm. His jaw came to sharp points and his narrow eyes fastened to Nascha.

“My name is Ahiga. Your voice is worth all the treasure of the mountain. Tell me your wish, she that is called Little Bird, and I shall make it true.”

“I wish only to sing for all the people of the mountain,” Nascha said and her eyes sparkled.

“How have you hidden from the Chief these many years?”

“You see I am small,” Nascha said. “I hide well.”

“Let me take you away from the quiet Powtow, to a place where you will be free to sing without fear of the Chief.”

“But I see your arm,” Nascha’s mother said suspiciously. “Do you not work for the Chief?”

“I do,” Ahiga said.

“Then how can I trust that you will not bring her to him?”

“You can trust me,” Ahiga said and then looked at Nascha. “Because I love you, Little Bird.”

“I will go,” Nascha said. “For I would rather die than live without song, and so I have no fear.”

Her mother held her tight for a long moment. She told her daughter that she loved her and wished her a safe journey, and then bade her one last order.

“Never stop singing,” her mother said.

“Stretch your ears to the mountaintops, mother,” Nascha said. “You will hear me sing again soon, and you will know that I am free.”

With that, Ahiga and Nascha set off on the long, treacherous journey deep into the wood.

“Sing for me, Little Bird,” Ahiga demanded. “That I may keep a piece of you for myself.”

Nascha sang and they continued on, and deeper into the wood they went until the sun fell past the short of the West and Nascha’s voice and feet grew tired.

“The day is nearly done,” she said. “We have traveled far to unfamiliar land. Can we not rest?”

“Further we must go,” Ahiga said. “We shall journey to land man has yet to see.”

At last, they came upon a densely wooded space that Ahiga declared her new home.

“But how will any hear me from this place?”

Ahiga admired the softness of her cheek, upon which the setting sun painted a golden hue. Such beauty, he thought, should be mine; and he smiled at Nascha.

“Because your voice is magic and will travel far,” Ahiga said. He kissed her forehead and she felt happy. He pitched her a modest abode and built a fire, for the winter fast approached to bring its chill to the night. She slept with his massive arm around her as a blanket to keep warm.

The next morning she rose early and found him preparing to leave.

“I must do the Chief’s work,” Ahiga said, and he promised to return with food that he would hide as he drank strong brew with his fellow tradesmen. “Sing quietly, Little Bird, that you do not alert nearby tribesmen; and do not leave this area of the wood. The chiefs of our neighbors are wolfish and shall surely take you prisoner if they find you.”

Nascha was now certain that none would hear her, but was no less happy to sing and so ran into the nearby wood. The morning birds greeted her with a cheerful song and Nascha sang back, and when the sun reached the short and she did not run, the birds rejoiced.

“You do not work today?” the birds asked.

“Nor any day hereafter,” Nascha said. “I shall fill my days with song.”

On the other side of the mountain, after a long day’s work, Ahiga sat with his fellow tradesmen drinking strong brew when he shared his story.

“Yesterday I came upon a most beautiful girl with a most enchanting voice. I knew she would win the Chief’s favor, and so I took her from her mother to bring to him. Sadly, on our way up the mountain, she fell from a cliff. She that is called Little Bird is dead.”

Ahiga knew the tale would reach every ear of the Powtow by morning, and that no one dared search treacherous terrain for her body. So he started on his long journey into the wood. When he trampled loudly into the clearing, he found Nascha chatting with owls.

“You smell of strong brew,” she said. “But I see that you have forgotten to bring food.”

“Indeed,” he said. “Come inside and sing to me.”

“But I am very hungry,” Nascha pleaded.

“And so you shall remain,” he returned. “Now sing to me, and perhaps I will feed you tomorrow.”

She obliged; and after singing Ahiga into a deep sleep, she crept into the opposite corner and curled into a ball, shivering all through the night. The next morning, the birds found that Nascha’s song was worn and wary.

“You are sad like your mother,” sang the birds.

“What do you mean?”

“She sings the song of mourning,” the birds said. “It is the one song all creatures sing the same.”

“She thinks me dead?” Nascha said, knowing nothing of the terrible lie Ahiga told. “I must go to her and ease her mind, but I cannot find my way home through this wood.”

“If only you could fly,” the birds said. “For we know not the way of the wood. You are a friend to the birds, so here: we shall learn the way and then lead you through.”

And so the birds worked diligently for days to learn the way of the wood, and Nascha continued to sing for Ahiga’s appeasement. He found that Nascha sang more beautifully when he brought food; so he hid potatoes and bread in his satchel each night after drinking strong brew with his fellow tradesmen.

One old tradesman saw Ahiga do this night after night and became suspicious; and so one day, he followed Ahiga deep into the wood. From the shadow of an old tree and the cover of night, he watched Ahiga throw this food to a young girl. Then the girl sang, and her voice was magic and made the eyes of the old tradesman wet with joy.

“Ah,” the old tradesman whispered. “The boy has deceived his tribe. The Chief shall not forgive him this treachery.”

The next day was cold and gray and the clouds sat heavy upon the mountain. The birds told Nascha they would soon know the way, and so she sang happily despite the day’s gloom. Her voice captivated a nearby hunter, and he came out of the wood to see the inventor of such magic.

“You sing with the charm of gods,” the young man said.

Nascha blushed at the man with humble eyes and soft voice. He asked why she sang softly to the birds and not boldly for the mountain. She said she could not find the way back to her people.

“I will take you,” said the man.

“I will not trust you,” Nascha said. “Unless you leave here now and come for me tomorrow.”

“My name is Sakima of the fair Bellasaw people,” said the man. “And I will come for you always. Please tell me, what is your name?”

Nascha paused.

“Little Bird,” she said.

Later on, after Ahiga had trampled through the wood and threw Nascha the scraps of food, and after she sang to him, she fell asleep hopeful that the next day would bring freedom. But late in the night came the fire, raging from the war cry behind it. The monstrous flames forced Ahiga and Nascha to flee from their shelter.

“Your voice,” Ahiga shouted. “It has led the enemy to us!”

Then came the arrows, swift and exact, to punish Ahiga and end the beating of his disloyal and selfish heart. Nascha collapsed into a ball and trembled violently as a beastly man emerged through the towering flames; and then she saw that it was Chief Matchitehew.

“Sing,” he ordered. “And show me your magic.”

The tears fell from her eyes and her voice shook, but still, the notes came with the majesty of the skies; though the Chief’s eyes were not wetted.

“You will be mine and shall sing for me and only me,” said the Chief, and then he dragged her up to the peak of the mountain and cast her into a dark abode where she slept the night alone upon the cold ground.

The next day, when the humble Sakima honored his promise and traveled to the clearing deep in the wood, he found only the charred remains of shelter and arrows sprouting from Ahiga’s body like the flowers of spring. There was no trace of the girl with the voice of gods, and so he vowed to find her.

Yet on the highest peak of the mountain she stayed hidden by day, away from the song of birds. Each night, while Chief Matchitehew ate rabbit breast and sweet berries, she sang to him.

“Closer,” he would say. “Come to my ear.”

She would move nearer his face and put her mouth to his ear, and she would feel the heat of his sweaty cheek and hear crisply the sounds of his mouth as he devoured the animal; and she would cry. She cried not for the darkness of her days or the hunger of her nights but for the sound of her voice. For her voice had brought her great misfortune; and she loathed its sound.

One night, she refused to sing for the Chief.

“Sing, woman,” said the Chief. “Or you shall not eat.”

“I shall not eat anyway,” Nascha said. “And my voice sickens me all the more.”

“Sing,” said the Chief. “Or die.”

“I choose death,” Nascha said bravely; and the Chief promised to throw her from the cliff the next day. Nascha slept soundly that night, for she had no fear of death given no song in life.

The next morning she woke early and slipped quietly outside. She desired not to flee; but rather, to honor her mother’s parting wish: never stop singing. And so she sang. She sang as sweetly and boldly as she ever had before. When at last the Chief saw this, his face became fire. He grabbed her by the wrist and dragged her to the cliff.

“A fine song,” said the Chief. “And also your last.”

Then, like a stitch-needle pierces a toughened hide of elk, a single arrow came through Chief Matchitehew’s chest. The dead Chief held Nascha’s wrist firmly as he fell toward his plummet from the cliff. Then Nascha felt a pair of strong hands pull her to safety. She spun fast to find the humble Sakima backed by the mighty army of the Bellasaw.

“I heard your song this morning,” he said. “And Chief Sakima always keeps his word. I told you I would come for you always, Little Bird.”

He took her gently by the hand and led her to a perch high above the mountainside.

“Sing, Little Bird,” he said. “And share your magic with all upon the mountain.”

She looked out over her majestic homeland. The eagle soared before her, and just as the sun reached the short, she sang the prettiest song she knew; and far below, the notes danced to her mother’s ear and tears filled her eyes. She knew her Little Bird was free.

 

THE END

 

Little Bird was written as a Round 1 submission to the NYC Midnight Short Story Challenge 2016. The assignment: write a 2,500 word story in eight days. The prompts: fairy tale (genre), an aspiring singer (character), and starting a rumor (subject).