The Wild Swans

Far, far away, in the land where the swallows fly for the winter, there lived a king. He had eleven sons and one daughter, Eliza. The princes wrote with diamond pencils on golden slates and could recite their lessons so smoothly that their teachers could only shake their heads in wonder. And Eliza sat on a little glass stool, turning the pages of a picture book worth half the kingdom.

The children were very happy. But not for long.

The king’s wife died, and he married again. The new queen had a pretty face, but she was as cold as a stone in winter. She disliked the children from the very first day. At a feast, everyone was served pies and baked apples, but the little ones got a cup of sand.

“Just pretend it’s a treat,” the queen said with a smile.

A week later she sent Eliza off to live with country folk on a faraway farm. And she told the king so many nasty stories about his sons that he stopped even looking at them.

One night the queen went into the princes' room and waved her wide sleeve:

“Fly out into the world and look after yourselves! Fly away as great birds without voices!”

But it didn’t turn out the way she wanted. Instead of ugly monsters, eleven white swans stood in the room. With a strange cry they flew out through the windows, over the park, over the forest, and away.

At dawn the swans flew over the cottage where Eliza lay sleeping. They circled above the roof, stretching their necks and beating their wings. Whoosh, whoosh! But no one heard them. So they had to fly on, beyond the clouds, out into the wide world.

Eliza grew up on the farm. She played with a green leaf: she would poke a tiny hole in it and look through it at the sun, and it seemed to her that she could see her brothers' bright eyes. And when the wind rocked the roses by the cottage, they whispered to one another:

“Who is lovelier than we are?”

“Eliza,” they answered themselves.

When she turned fifteen, she was called home. The queen saw how beautiful her stepdaughter had grown and turned green with envy. She dropped three toads into the bath and whispered a wicked word to each one. But as soon as Eliza stepped into the water, the toads floated to the top and became three red poppies. Magic simply couldn’t stick to such a good heart.

So the queen rubbed Eliza with walnut juice until her skin was as brown as tree bark, smeared her face with a smelly ointment and tangled her golden hair. The king took one look and stepped back:

“That is not my daughter.”

No one knew her. Only the old dog who lived in the yard licked her hand, but who ever listens to a dog? Eliza quietly slipped out of the palace and walked wherever her feet would take her.

By evening she had wandered into a thick forest. She lay down on the soft moss, and all night long she dreamed of her brothers. They were children again, writing on their golden slates and laughing. In the morning she found a forest lake and washed her face, and the old Eliza looked back at her from the water, fair and bright.

She walked on until she met an old woman with a basket of berries.

“Granny, have you seen eleven princes?”

“Princes? No,” said the old woman. “But yesterday eleven swans came swimming down the river. And each of them wore a golden crown.”

Eliza followed the river all the way to the sea. On the shore, among the wet seaweed, lay eleven white feathers. She gathered them up in her hand and sat down to wait.

The sun was sinking toward the water when the swans appeared in the sky. One after another, like a long white ribbon, they glided down onto the sand. The moment the sun disappeared, their feathers fell away, and eleven princes stood before Eliza.

“My brothers!” she cried.

They hugged, laughing and crying all at once.

“By day we are swans,” said the eldest. “But when the sun sets, we turn back into men. That’s why we have to be on land by evening. If we changed up in the sky, we’d fall into the sea. We live far away, across the sea. Once a year we fly here for eleven days. And tomorrow we have to leave.”

“Take me with you!” Eliza begged.

All night long they wove a net from willow bark and tough reeds. Eliza fell asleep right on top of it. When she woke up, she was already high above the sea. Her brothers were holding the net in their beaks, and the youngest flew just above her, shading her face from the sun with his broad wings.

They flew for a long, long time. The sun was already touching the waves, and still there was no land in sight. Eliza grew frightened: her brothers were flying so slowly, and it was all because of her! Then, far below, she saw a dark rock, as small as a seal’s head peeking out of the water. The swans landed on it just as the last ray of sunlight went out. The eleven brothers and their sister stood there holding hands tightly, while the waves went splash, splash! and sprayed them with salty foam. And that is how they spent the night.

In the morning they saw a new land: blue mountains, cedar forests, and above them a castle made of clouds that kept changing. First it was towers, then ships, then gardens. The brothers set Eliza down by a cave hung with green climbing vines, like carpets.

“Let’s see what you dream about here,” said the youngest.

“I hope I dream of a way to save you,” she replied.

And she dreamed of a fairy from the cloud castle. She looked just like the old woman with the berries, only she shone like the morning sky.

“Your brothers can be saved,” said the fairy. “Do you see the nettles? They grow by this cave, and also on the hill by the old chapel. Pick them with your bare hands, however much they sting. Crush them with your bare feet, spin them into thread and knit eleven shirts with long sleeves. Throw the shirts over the swans, and the spell will be broken. But remember: from the first stitch to the last, you must not say a single word, even if it takes years. If you speak even one word, your brothers will stay birds forever.”

The fairy touched her hand with a nettle, and Eliza woke up. Beside her lay a stinging green stalk.

She set to work at once. Her hands were covered in blisters and her feet burned, but she kept on spinning, silently, stitch after stitch. In the evening her brothers came flying back. They asked her questions, they called her name, but their sister only shook her head. Then they saw her red palms and understood. The youngest began to cry, and wherever his tears fell, the burning pain went away.

One day hunting horns sounded in the mountains. Toot-toooot! Dogs barked and hooves thundered. Hunters rode up to the cave, and leading them was a young king in a green cloak.

“How did you get here, my beauty?” he asked in wonder.

Eliza said nothing and hid her stung hands under her apron.

“You can’t live out here all alone. Come with me.”

He lifted her onto his horse, and they galloped away. Eliza cried the whole way.

At the palace they dressed her in silk and braided pearls into her hair, but she was still sad. Then the king opened the door to a little room. Its walls were hung with green carpets, exactly like the cave. In the corner lay a bundle of nettles, and on a hook hung the shirt Eliza had already finished.

“So you won’t miss your home,” said the king.

And Eliza smiled for the first time in a long while. Soon there was a wedding. Only the king’s old adviser frowned and whispered:

“She never says a word, she drags nettles about... Could she be a witch?”

But the king paid him no attention.

Every night Eliza crept off to the little green room to knit. Seven shirts were done, but the nettles had run out. The only place they still grew was the hill by the old chapel, where no one went at night. Eliza threw on a shawl and slipped out there by moonlight. And behind her, like a shadow, crept the old adviser.

In the morning he told the king everything. The king didn’t believe him. But Eliza didn’t have enough nettles for the last shirt, and when she went out a second time, the king followed her. He saw with his own eyes how she disappeared among the dark bushes on the hill.

“She is a witch,” said the adviser.

The king hung his head. The judges gave Eliza the harshest punishment known in that land.

She was locked in a tower. Instead of a bed they tossed her a bundle of nettles, and instead of a blanket, her shirts.

“Let her sleep on her witch’s weeds,” the guards jeered.

But they couldn’t have given her a better present! Eliza sat down and started knitting right away. Toward evening, wings rustled at the bars of the little window. It was her youngest brother. He had found her! Eliza wept for joy, even though she knew this night might be her last. Little mice dragged nettle stalks over to her feet, and a thrush outside the window sang until morning so that she wouldn’t lose heart.

Just before dawn, eleven young men came to the palace gates.

“Let us see the king!” they pleaded.

“The king is asleep,” the guards snapped.

While they were still arguing, the sun came up, and eleven white swans rose into the air above the palace.

That morning Eliza was driven to the town square in an old cart. She wore a rough shirt made of sackcloth, and her fingers kept flying and flying, because the last shirt was almost finished.

“Look, the witch is muttering over her knitting!” people in the crowd shouted. “Grab those rags away from her!”

Hands reached for the cart. Then suddenly, whoosh-whoosh-whoosh! Eleven swans swooped down from the sky. They surrounded the cart and beat their wings so hard that the people backed away.

“It’s a sign from heaven,” the crowd whispered. “Maybe she didn’t do anything wrong after all?”

Eliza snatched up the shirts and threw them over the swans. There was a flash of light, and eleven princes stood on the cart, handsome and strong. Only the youngest still had a white swan’s wing instead of his left arm, because the last shirt was missing a sleeve.

“Now I can speak!” said Eliza, and her voice trembled. “I have done nothing wrong!”

The eldest brother told the whole story: about the stepmother, the rock in the sea and the nettles. While he was speaking, the dry stalks left in the cart suddenly turned green and burst into roses. And at the very top bloomed a single white flower, bright as a star. The king picked it and pinned it to Eliza’s dress. The bells in the towers began to ring all by themselves, and flocks of birds circled above the square.

That evening there was a feast at the palace. The brothers sat at the long table, chatting and joking: now they didn’t have to hurry back to the ground before the sun went down. The youngest brother sat next to Eliza, and his white wing rustled softly every time he laughed.

Eliza touched the soft feathers, and tears shone in her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I was only one night short.”

“Don’t cry,” her brother said with a smile. “We’re all here, all eleven of us. And with this very wing I once shaded you from the sun above the sea.”

He put one arm around his sister and wrapped his wing around her shoulders. And so the youngest brother kept a swan’s wing for the rest of his life, in place of the one sleeve Eliza didn’t have time to finish.