The Shining Falcon

She bit her lip. If only she didn't always have to be the brave one! If only, just for a short time, there were someone else, someone on whom she could lean! A muffled oath from her father made Maria look up. He was wrestling with Brownie, trying to mend a snapped rein. Before Maria could move to try to help him, Vasilissa, who'd been hanging wash on an improvised line, gave a wail of anguish. Maria whirled to her, thinking her sister must have hurt herself. But no, Lissa, helpless as ever, had only managed to drop the end of the line into the dirt.

«Oh, Lissa," Maria scolded, «I just washed those clothes!» She stopped with a sigh. «Lissa, girl, stop crying. It's only an accident. Lissa, stop it!»

«If‑if only you'd help me…» her sister began plaintively.

«Never mind that!» Danilo cut in angrily. «Maria, come here and hold Brownie for me!»

Maria started forward, only to trip over the spilled basket of laundry. Vasilissa gave a new, despairing wail, Danilo uttered a short, sharp oath, and Maria, who'd found herself standing in one place, turning from father to sister to father again, gave a sudden wild cry of despair.

«Father, you know you can handle Brownie alone! Lissa, you just pick up that line and retie it yourself. I'm going to get us some water!»

She snatched up the buckets and fled.

Maria let out a slow sigh of relief. Ah, the quiet, the wonderful forest quiet. Nothing around her but tree rustlings and the stirrings of small animals and birds. Surrounded by new leaves and ancient, slow vegetable life, she sat on the trunk of a fallen tree, and sagged, letting the vast, nonhuman, impersonal forest peace sweep through her, flooding her till she felt drained of all petty human cares. That there was danger in the forest, Maria admitted, even without those nebulous demons her sister conjured‑danger from bandits or bears. But she wasn't going to worry about mat. The forest seemed to be one great living being, and if it wasn't actually welcoming her, at least it wasn't trying to drive her away. It asked nothing of her, nothing at all, and Maria sat where she sat and revelled in its simple… neutrality.

But, decided the young woman reluctantly, she supposed she'd better be getting back. Her father would start to worry if she was away too long.

Slowly she got to her feet, bending to pick up the wooden yoke with the two water buckets, then straightening, lingering a moment to breathe in the sharp, spicy greenness of the air.

And then a loud, harsh clang cut into the quiet. Maria froze in alarm, then winced as she realized it had been the cruel sound of a trap snapping shut. She didn't begrudge hunters their need to earn a living, but she couldn't help hoping that whatever was snared had been killed outright, mercifully.

But what was that faint, terrified sound like sobbing?

That's the voice of a child!

The thought of the cruel strength of those iron jaws made Maria fling down the yoke and go racing toward the frightened sobbing.

«Where are you? Little one, I'm coming to help you. Where are you?»

The sobbing had stopped abruptly, as though some little wild thing, trapped, was trying desperately not to attract attention to itself.

«Oh, please, please, don't be afraid of me! I'm not going to hurt you! I only want to help you, child. Let me know where you are.»

There, now, if she stood still, she could vaguely make out something, the faintest of muffled whimperings… Following that slight sound, Maria pushed through a tangle of bushes that somehow didn't seem to be hindering her— almost as though the forest knew she meant well. No, that's ridiculous!

But there before her was the savage shape of the hunter's trap, and firm in its shut jaws was a small, trembling bundle.

«Oh, poor little one! Let me see…» The small form pulled sharply away from her, one pudgy-fingered hand over its face in fright, but not before

Maria, falling back on her haunches in disbelief, had gotten a good look at the childish body and face. Childish, yes—but certainly not a human child! Slowly the stubby hand fell. Wild, dark eyes peered up at her, echoing the forest's own wildness, peered up out of a snub-nosed, triangular, green-furred face, not quite fox, not quite boy.

«Oh," said Maria. «Well. I, uh, I don't know who you are, child» — or what, she added silently — «but I still do mean to help you.»

The terrible iron jaws had miraculously not crushed the child between them. In fact, the child didn't seem to be more than bruised, protected from genuine harm by the way its baggy, furry caftan—fur over fur? thought Maria wildly—had chanced to bunch up to form a cushion.

«You were fortunate, ah… child. Wait, now. There's usually some sort of release lever to these things, a hunter showed me that once when he stopped at our house, and— ah! There we are!»

The child was up and away in a silent rush of motion. And Maria could have sworn she saw the bushes hastily part to let it pass.