Free The Firebird by Susanna Kearsley Page A

the grey wolf carried Ivan to the other land, and in the stables there they found the horse, and hanging near the horse there was a golden bridle, and the wolf said to Ivan, “Now, go get the horse, but whatever you do, don’t touch that bridle.”’
    Rob said, ‘And I’m guessing Ivan didn’t listen.’
    ‘No, of course he didn’t. He was caught again, but the owner of the horse with the golden mane told Ivan he would forgive him and let him keep the horse, if he’d first journey to this other land and bring back the Tsarevna there, Yelena the Beautiful …’
    And on it went, with the patient grey wolf helping Ivan through trial after trial, sometimes by shape-shifting, sometimes by giving advice that more often than not was ignored. After Tsarevitch Ivan sat down on the ground for the third time and wept, Rob pronounced him an idiot. And when Ivan’s brothers appeared near the ending to kill him and cut him in pieces, Rob thought it fair justice.
    ‘That isn’t the end, though,’ I told him. ‘The grey wolf came back, and found Ivan in pieces—’
    ‘And ate him.’
    ‘No. He brought Ivan to life again, and Ivan went to his father’s court and reclaimed all that his brothers had stolen: the horse with the gold mane, Yelena the Beautiful, even the Firebird.’
    ‘And what did the wolf get?’ Rob wanted to know.
    ‘Nothing, really. He just went away.’
    Rob looked sideways at me, and then back at the road again.
    Hiding my smile I said, ‘That’s not the only Russian folk tale with a firebird in it, though. There is another one I know …’
    ‘Is Ivan in it?’
    ‘No. The hero of the second tale’s an archer, with a magic horse, and one day the archer sees a feather on the ground, a gorgeous feather, like a flame. Of course he wants to pick it up, except his horse says—’
    ‘It’s a talking horse?’
    ‘I said the horse was magic. Pay attention. So the horse says, “Leave the feather where it lies, for it will only bring you trouble.”’
    ‘And of course he doesn’t listen to his horse,’ Rob guessed, but gamely he sat back and let me tell the second fairy tale.
    This one was rather different to the first. The archer
did
pick up the feather, true, and take it to the Tsar, and, as with Ivan, he was sent to catch the Firebird, but after he had done that he was sent to bring a princess from her home across the sea, and on the way he fell in love with her, and she with him. And even though the archer faced much trouble, as the horse had warned, it ended as it ought to, and the archer got the princess for his bride for ever after.
    ‘And to show his thanks,’ I said to Rob, ‘the archer built the magic horse a stable made entirely of gold.’
    Rob said, ‘I like that story better.’
    So did I.
    Rob drove in thoughtful silence for a few miles longer. ‘Both those stories are alike, though, really.’
    ‘How is that?’
    ‘The firebird drops a feather,’ was his summary, ‘and if you’re fool enough to pick it up and chase the bird itself, you’re in for trouble.’
    ‘And adventure.’
    ‘Aye.’ He nodded. ‘True enough. But what you bring back with you in the end,’ he said, ‘might not be what you started out in search of to begin with.’
    I was thinking of that while we made our approach to Dundee on the long bridge that crossed the broad firth where the River Tay swept out to meet the wide sparkling sea.
    Rob asked, ‘What’s the time?’
    I’d forgotten I still had his watch. Feeling for it in my pocket now, I drew it out. ‘It’s nearly half past ten.’
    Why did you keep this?
I wanted to ask him, but Rob only held out his hand for the timepiece and strapped it back onto his wrist with the ease of long practice, and asked, ‘D’ye ken where she lives?’
    All I knew was the address. We had to stop twice to ask people to give us directions.
    Dundee was a lovely town, built up the south-facing side of a hill so it always looked straight at the sunshine, its