‘Snow fell in the garden of the Tsar, turning everything to a pure, pristine white. Would she come again? Young Ivan pulled his fur coat over his mouth, masking the telltale cloud of his breath as he hid behind the fountain, its waters frozen in a brittle cascade of ice. He’d been waiting for hours, and now, the cold lay heavy on his eyelids and sleep stretched out her arms to draw him near.
But just then, the soothing howls of the north wind drew silent. One second, two, and then he heard another sound, faint in the distance and yet drawing nearer. A beating of wings.
The Firebird swooped down over the wall, making for the one tree that still bore fruit. Her flaming feathers singed his brow, but he couldn’t look away. She grabbed the golden apple hanging from the branch and hurtled herself skyward, her wings flapping desperately against the bitter chill that threatened to bind her to earth.
And as she disappeared into the sky, from above him, a single golden feather danced playfully to the ground. Ivan gazed upon it, transfixed. It sizzled and flared as it settled on the snow. He reached out to touch it, but already it had faded to a black cinder.’
‘The Firebird’, The Anthology of Russian Tales