The morning of the day my life changed was no different from any other. I woke up when it was still dark out, scrubbed the floors, went to the well to get us water and heated the stove, and went to the stable to lead the horses to pasture. It was March, the snow had started to melt, and the snowdrops were popping up everywhere. It was still very cold out, and I shivered as I put on my coat and bit into a piece of bread left over from dinner. I always hid it, wrapped in a cloth, in the darkest corner of the hut, so my brothers wouldn’t find it. 

Peter and Ilya were always hungry, and Papa was worried about them. So did I. It had been a long winter, and we were almost out of food.

“My boys have to eat, go, hunt and bring us some food, Ivan,” Papa told me the night before.

“Yes, father.” I promised, and this morning I stuffed the hunting knife into my pocket and swung the bag with the bow and arrows over my shoulder. 

Creeping out of the house, I cracked the front door open. It made a screeching sound and immediately I heard Peter’s voice.

“Ivan, so loud. I’m trying to sleep.” A loud snore followed. I took a deep breath and stepped into the cold. 

I walked around our hut to the stable. The soft neighing of the horses greeted me. I patted Star, my favorite mare, and she ran her tongue over my hand.

“Hey there, good morning,” I said, and suddenly heard a strange noise coming from the corner of the stable. I went to the noise and saw a colt, a newborn, his legs still buckled underneath him. 

“Star, you foaled?” I turned to my favorite horse in awe. “I didn’t know you were pregnant.” I furrowed my brow at her. Star neighed proudly. “Alright, let me check how the little guy is doing.” I walked up to the baby horse, but Star made a warning noise and I stepped back. I sighed, deciding it was best to leave her alone with the newborn, and led the other horses to pasture. On the way, I thought of the baby horse and how wonderful it was. Maybe Papa will let me keep him for myself, I thought. Papa traded horses and trained them for the boyars. Each spring, after Easter, we went to the market and sold them. But this foal was unexpected. He would be too small for this year’s market, and I would be turning sixteen in August. Papa promised me a horse this year, I thought, walking up the steep hill that led to the grassy knoll. It was right on the edge of the forest, and if I had to hunt, I’d take the horses there and go into the forest, leaving them to graze on their own. It wasn’t the best thing, but there was no other way. Each time I prayed, the wolves wouldn’t take my horses away.

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“Alright, here you go.” I set the horses free. “I’ll be back in a jiffy,” I told them and watched as they dispersed. I cleared my throat and stared at the bright sun just rising above the horizon. The sky had turned a bright shade of pink, with an orange stripe right above it, and the colors reminded me of the Firebird. I hadn’t thought of the magical bird in months. Someone in the village had seen it, and the year prior we all went around, looking for the Firebird. Everyone in the village would examine every feather, hoping against hope it was the magical one, the one dropped by the Firebird. We all knew what to look for: the Firebird feather was bright red, but if you held it up, it glowed like gold in the sunlight. But the reason everyone wanted to find the feather was because if you ever found it, you could make a wish and that wish would come true. Everyone knew that. And not only that, the magical feather kept its magical powers for one full year. And on the anniversary of finding it, you could make another wish. And it would also come true. 

The Firebird used to live in the magical forest, far, far away. Back then, everyone had a chance to get one of its feathers, and simple folks like my family saw it at least once in their lifetimes. Everyone was happy back then. No one ever went hungry. If there was ever a bad year, the Firebird would appear and drop a feather, and then the whole village would get a great harvest. Those were the times long ago, back when my Papa was a little boy. But one day, the Tsar’s people had captured the Firebird, and put it in a gilded cage. And after that, the magic stopped. The people stopped seeing the magical creature. Now the Tsar only lets it out once a year, for one hour, and no one knows when that hour is. The secret is kept by the Tsar himself, and he alone decides when to let the bird out. Staring at the beautiful dawn, I sighed, thinking of the bird. If I saw it now, I’d wish for food for my whole family, and for Peter and Ilya to get married to their sweethearts.

I’d gotten so into my thoughts that I barely noticed how I made it into the forest. By the time I figured what was happening, I was deep in the woods. An owl hooted and jerked me back to reality. I adjusted the bow and pricked up my ears. Freezing in place, I listened. There was a rustling noise, a barely perceptible one, but I knew it was a hare. I’d been hunting in the woods all my life. Easy prey and so close. I was in luck. I pulled out one arrow and froze in place, waiting for the hare to move. Once it did, I’d shoot, and would come home triumphant. I could almost taste the rabbit stew I’d make that evening for dinner. Picturing Peter and Ilya smacking their lips, thanking me for the kill, and Papa nodding in approval. The vision was so tempting, I salivated, and at that moment the hare dashed out and ran. It moved fast, looping around, as hares always did, but I expected that, and kept up. I was almost upon it when I tripped on a root of a tree and nearly fell. The mere seconds it took me to straighten back up were enough for the hare to dash off. And that’s when I saw it. 

The red feather, glowing. It wasn’t on the ground, but on a branch, eye-level. Hands trembling, I reached for it. And the world stopped.