By Roland Clarke
The sun warmed the world as Vasy’s goats nibbled the coarse grass. Light sparkled on the winding Berezina River. A tree stump in the sandy forest clearing gave Vasy the perfect place to tend her friends and watch.
On the far bank, the Nazis were unloading explosives and weapons from trucks. Guns they would use to kill her Soviet comrades. These invading vipers must be driven from her Motherland.
Their noise drowned out forest life. They had felled trees and levelled a track to the water’s edge. They were assembling a bridge from boats and pre-built parts.
“They forget us partisans,” she said to the goats, to the land, and to the sky. “We can stop them.”
She gazed at some birds flying high above her. Was her older sister, Kalyna safe? Her heart swelled, proud of her pilot sibling who brought terror to the enemy. The Germans feared her and her female comrades, calling them Nachthexen—Night Witches. They rode the night winds to bomb fascist lines.
Maybe targets like this encampment.
But Kalyna was many miles away. When this war ended, they’d be together again. For now, Vasy would dream and forget her own fear of flying.
Work first.
Vasy finished counting the troops, the gun positions, and the armoured vehicles cluttering the far bank. She’d learnt to count the chickens on their farm, nine years earlier. Her throat tightened, but she stifled her memories.
Just remember the numbers. Anyway, writing anything down was dangerous.
The surprise Nazi build-up had to be important. Her comrades needed to know.
She walked into the pine trees, re-tracing her zigzag route back to the hidden partisan camp.
A bird attracted her attention as it looped over the herd.
“It’s Zharptica,” she told Zoya, the mother-goat. “I wonder if we should follow.”
She knew the nanny wouldn’t answer, but her imagination kept her dreams alive. The bird wasn’t the mythical Firebird either. Vasy’s father had taught her what hoopoes were—with their long, thin bills for probing the ground for insects. She must push the memories of her parents away, though. Well, their execution as ‘counter-revolutionaries’. Why had she survived?
Better not answered. Dreams were her escape.
“When the Firebird suns herself with her wings open, she might leave a feather. A magic feather that takes us on an adventure.”
Zoya just stared up at her. An accusation and a warning. The clever animal companions in the fairy tales warned the hero not to take feathers. Stealing was wrong—even when to survive.
But she would be the heroine Princess Vasilisa. At twelve years old, Vasy was wiser than any boy or hero. She’d take a feather and avoid the enemy traps and tricks—with Zoya’s help.
The bird had settled on the dusty ground of a clearing to spread its wings and bask in the afternoon sun.
Vasy leant against a tree and waited. Watching a mythical creature was more fun than watching fascists.
In a letter, Kalyna wrote she had painted the Firebird on her plane. As children, they learned the Zharptica folklore from their mother.
Tears returned with the memories of losing Mama and Papa. They had hidden her and Kalyna from the secret police, who then arrested their parents as former kulaks—wealthy peasants.
Duty pulled her from her tears.
She walked into the clearing and the bird flew away.
A single brazen feather waited on the sandy earth. It glittered like fire. With magic.
She stuck the feather in her skirt pocket and Zoya led the way homeward.
They reached the partisan camp buried deep in the forest and invisible from the air. Nazi patrols feared to hunt here as the partisan territory grew every day.
Vasy led Zoya past green and brown tents scattered between low timber shelters covered with grass.
She smelt smoke and cooking. Her stomach gurgled. But food must wait. Anyway, not everyone liked the smell of goat at meals—just the taste.
Most partisans were locals from Byelorussia, but there were Ukrainian refugees like herself and Red Army survivors of the fascist invasion.
And, there were the Communist Party officials—bullies she tried to avoid.
But she needed to face Commander Yuri Bogomolov. He would know why the invaders were building the bridge.
She found the unit leader in the underground shelter used to control operations. He was beetroot-red from shouting orders.
“I need radio communication restored—no excuses. We’re not using runners again. What will my superiors do if we go silent? They'll accuse us of being disloyal to Comrade Stalin. ‘Not one step back’, were his orders.”
But how perfect is our leader, thought Vasy, not daring to speak her mind as her parents had done. Bullies had forced them from their home when Mama and Papa said the famine was deliberate. Vasy, stop there. Just report. When I’m noticed.
She felt worthless and was tempted to leave. Adults held more pressing concerns than a girl with goats.
As the Nazi vipers believed.
Bogomolov’s bulk and gestures forced every command. Or was it his threats?
She had learnt ‘to toe the party line’. She had become invisible.
“What does our little blonde kulak want?”
She ignored the insult. Even if the government prohibited owning property, the memory of her family’s small farm made her stand tall.
For now, her report mattered more.
“The fascists are building a bridge across the Berezina. I counted fifty men and at least six tanks visible under the trees.” He said nothing, so she asked, “What does it mean, Comrade Commander?”
“Nothing my force can’t handle. Kulak, forget this. Time to tend your herd.”
Dismissed. But she wouldn't forget the incident.
On the edge of the camp, beside her tiny tent, she found Zoya and her family dozing off. They didn’t judge her like Bogomolov and mean adults.
“He ignored what we saw, Zoya. I’m just a child. Scum. Why am I here?”
“To brighten our lives.” Vasy turned and smiled at Galina Sokolov, the woman who had rescued her and Kalyna. “You are better than Yuri and his lackeys. They don’t see your true worth, zolotyy.”
A frightened ‘golden one’.
“If he ignores what I saw, we’ll be in danger. What then?”
“He no longer acts alone. The Party has given others power—like Commissar Krupin. Tomorrow, Yuri will decide he has a superior plan—”
“—and he’ll still ignore me.”
“Better ignored than injured. You must come and eat. And distract us with another story.”
Vasy followed Galina to the central firepit where the partisans ate and talked. Smoke, soup, and chatter curled around her. Her mind searched for a tale she hadn’t told them.
In her skirt pocket, her fingers brushed the feather. Only one fable felt right. The origin of Zharptica—the Firebird.
Haggard faces gathered around her. Word had spread that she would weave her magic again.
Serious men, cunning women, and admiring youngsters stared at her, eagerly.
She was not kulak scum tonight.
“You remember The Firebird and Princess Vasilisa—”
“—you told that last week.” A sandy-haired boy her own age groaned. “You have to know another. Why don’t you?”
“I haven’t told you who Zharptica is.”
“It’s a bird of ill omen,” said one of Commissar Krupin’s gang.
“Only if you’re the Tsar and driven by greed and ambition. Only evil is punished. We aren’t like that, are we?”
A chorus of voices replied, “Never.”
Vasy nodded and raised her hands, palms down to settle them.
“You all know Zharptica comes from a distant land as a blessing for those in need. But what was the Firebird’s origin?”
“A magician,” said a young soldier clutching his ancient rifle.
She smiled. “Someone knows then, but I suspect not everyone. According to folklore, the Firebird is very rare, with plumage blazing red, orange, and yellow like the flames of a flickering fire. When removed, the feathers continue to glow. That is why some people try catching Zharptica.”
She paused and studied her spellbound audience.
“Once upon a time, thousands of years ago, a meek and gentle orphan girl named Maryushka lived in a small village. People came from everywhere to buy her needlecraft. Many merchants asked her to move and work for them.”
Vasy changed her voice to sound like her heroine and held out her hands. “‘I will sell my embroidery to anyone who finds my work beautiful, but I will never leave this village where I was born.’”
Vasy paused, letting her words sink in.
“One day, the evil sorcerer Kaschei the Immortal heard of Maryushka's beautiful needlework. He turned himself into a handsome young man and visited her. Upon seeing her skill, he became angry. A mere mortal could not produce finer work than he owned.”
She switched her voice again, making it sound deeper and darker. “‘I will make you Queen of this realm if you will embroider for me alone.’”
“‘I’m grateful and humbled by your offer. But I must decline. I never want to leave this village. I am sorry.’”
“This wound to Kaschei’s pride sparked his magic.”
Vasy drew invisible threads in the air.
“The evil sorcerer turned Maryushka into a flaming bird. Zharptica. He became a great black Falcon and picked her up in his claws.”
Vasy flapped her arms like a bird as her words flew across the gathering.
“He stole Firebird Maryushka away from her village. To leave a memory of herself with her people forever, she shed her feathers onto the land below. As the last feather fell, she died in the falcon's talons.”
Vasy’s head dropped onto her chest. Silent and still as the crowd gasped. Then, she raised her head and stood, the Zharptica feather in her outstretched fingers. Moonbeams danced along its brazen edges.
“To this day, the glowing feathers are magic and remain bright. However, they show their rainbow colours only to those who love beauty and seek to make beauty for others. Together we can create the Firebird’s world.”
The hush turned to clapping, smiles, cheers, and nodding heads. Hands grasped her. Patted her on the back. Some even hugged her. The few brave ones stroked her magic feather.
“Next time,” she said. “I would like someone else to tell a story. Others will have heard different tales. Stories must inspire us forever.”
People agreed, then walked to the firepit’s warmth or to the shelter of sleep.
Galina clasped her hands, grinning but serious as she said, “You sound as if you are leaving. Where to?”
“Wherever this Firebird feather takes me. Aren’t we all dreaming of a journey?”
They strolled over to the edge of the encampment, arm in arm.
“One day, leaving might be vital to our survival,” said the special woman who had taken her in.
“After this war? Life is meant to be better—brighter.”
Galina trembled, so Vasy leant closer to catch her reply.
“People like the Tsar and Kaschei will continue to make rules and control us. I’m proud to be Ukrainian. We’re both survivors, me from the state’s famine, the Holodomor. You and your sister from Stalin’s Purge. Those that call you kulak will never give you freedom. Escape.”
The warning words frightened Vasy. Her heart thumped. Her limbs grew weak. Galina hugged her. Stroked her hair and cheek.
“Where? What happens to you? My goats? We can escape together.”
“Together would be dangerous. Maybe I can create a plan. Some friends left years ago for a land to the west with forests, snow, rivers, and freedom. Now sleep and dream, but don’t be afraid.”
Vasy fought her tossing mind and body. She slept and dreamt of escaping on the back of Zharptica. Unafraid.
Not until she was awoken by someone shaking her—roughly. Fingers dug into her shoulder and orders into her head.
“Get up. At once. The Commander and Commissar want to see you—immediately.”
The harshness screamed traitor. Had someone reported every disloyal word shared with Galina?
Her fear grew as she trudged with the armed guards to the command shelter.
Commander Bogomolov and Commissar Krupin were with their three company officers, leaning over a map table.
“When the fascists retreat from Mogilev,” said Bogomolov, “they will fall back to Minsk, fighting our Red Army in front and us in their rear—”
“—though, they’ll need to cross the Berezina River,” added Krupin.
Everyone ignored her, and the guards forced her into a corner.
“How can we trust our kulak goatherd?” asked Bogomolov. “Nobody else saw any enemy build-up in that area.”
Krupin turned and pointed to her. “Not the most reliable spy. But in case there is a new bridge, it’s our duty to stop the Nazis using it.”
One officer stabbed at areas of the map. “Our forces are stretched, Comrade Leaders. We risk too much when other attacks are planned on their supply lines.”
“Why not radio for an artillery strike on their camp—or bombers?” asked another officer.
“I can’t. Some idiot failed to keep our radios working,” said Bogomolov. “That’s why you need to prove what you saw, little kulak.” He waved her over. “As you spotted the fascists, you will take a message to our forces to the east and tell them what you found.”
Vasy swallowed as she studied the map. Her dream of magical adventure dissolved.
“Across the front line? Alone?” she said.
“Exactly. Unless you were seeing more folk fantasies. The sooner you leave, the sooner that bridge is destroyed. You are dismissed.”
“I’ll provide you with a pass to get you through Soviet lines to my superior,” said Commissar Krupin, “Convince him and return, kulak.”
She returned to her tent where Galina waited.
“I have to report what I saw at the bridge to the Red Army leaders. I must make them believe me. Then come back.”
“Don’t. Find Kalyna and stay with her. You should be together.”
Vasy wanted to be with her sister, but her heart was torn. She couldn’t lose another mother.
“What about you? You’re family too.”
“I’m a survivor, remember. Your goats can stay with me. Just take Zoya. My love and strength to Kalyna when you find her. You are both in here.”
Galina clasped a hand to her heart, then wrapped her arms around Vasy. The long embrace ended too soon.
“Go, my brave girl. Fight and survive, zolotyy.”
The tears for her second mother would come—after she grabbed food for the journey. Black rye bread, hard cheese, and raw red cabbage.
Goat’s milk was also refreshing and valuable.
Zoya would be her sole companion for the journey. A young girl with a goat would not attract suspicion.
Not for the miles of forest they covered that morning and into the afternoon. The Nazi patrols were easy to avoid. They were wary of the partisan-controlled forest paths.
From the sound of gunfire, Vasy knew the front drew nearer. She must stay in the shadows, especially when the fields replaced the trees.
Burnt-out homes and dead bodies warned her to remain alert. How was she to cross the Dnepr River which the fascists were fighting to hold?
An easy night crossing for Kalyna, since she had a plane. Vasy only possessed a feather.
An abandoned village offered shelter while the sun set.
But a three-man German patrol emerged from the ruins, wielding guns and shouting at her. She didn’t understand the words, but the meaning was clear from their gestures.
Who was she? Why was she here?
Vasy made a sad face. She pointed at the burnt-out buildings as if one had been her home. Then Zoya bleated, so Vasy touched the goat’s udders. She pretended to milk her, then offer them a drink.
The soldiers grinned and nodded.
A shared bowl of fresh milk distracted the enemy. They left her to mourn in the ruins. Except, she planned her river crossing instead.
The moon and stars lit her search of the twisting riverbank. No boats or even logs. Tired and frustrated, she was ready to fall asleep there on the damp ground.
The planes drew her attention first. Whispering through the air. Soviet biplanes. Night Witches flying east after a raid. One could be her sister. She noted where they seemed to land. That was her journey’s end now.
Then, she heard voices—on the eastern bank. Speaking Russian.
She called out in a friendly voice.
“Please, can you help two lost partisans cross the Dnepr? We have fresh milk.”
Frenetic whispers led to an answer.
“For the Motherland, yes. But what are your names? You sound young.”
“Not too young to fight for freedom. We’re Vasilisa and Zoya Chayka. Our sister flies with the 46th Taman Guards—Nochnye Vedmy.”
Cheers rang for the Night Witches.
Splashing in the glistening river followed. A soldier in strange balloon trousers appeared.
“I’ve brought you both floating devices like mine.” He stared at Vasy. “Where’s your partisan sister?”
She pointed to Zoya. “She’s adept at fooling fascists.”
He laughed, then helped attach the trousers on the curious goat.
Once across, Vasy told the Russian soldiers her mission. She asked if the 46th were nearby.
“Our nearest commander is there,” said the platoon leader. “As part of our Air Army, she will pass the information on—or act.”
One soldier offered to escort Vasy—once they had milk and breakfast.
Half-an-hour later, they reached a forest clearing.
Open-cockpit biplanes were parked around the edge. Female mechanics quietly tapped their wrenches, so as not to disturb their aircrews. The pilots and navigators slept under their planes’ wings.
Vasy was tempted to find her sister. Warmth flooded her body, and she whistled their favourite folk song. They had so much to share, but duty came first.
She went to see the regiment’s commander, Yevdokia Bershanskaya, and told her Kalyna Chayka was her older sister.
"One of our most fearless pilots," said the dark-haired Bershanskaya. "Sometimes I fear she takes too many risks. Perhaps as an all-female regiment we take risks to prove ourselves. What brings you here?"
Vasy explained about the bridge over the Berezina River and the enemy forces gathering there.
“Our radios are broken, so my commander ordered me to inform his superiors. I must find them.”
“I will send that information. Stay with us. If we are ordered to raid that enemy base, we will need you. Meanwhile, spend time with Kalyna. She flies tonight.”
Vasy searched the clearing for her sister.
Word had already reached Kalyna that her sibling was in the camp. She plucked Vasy from the ground and whirled her around. Zoya bleated and skipped around them.
“I never dreamt we would be together until this horrific war ends.”
“Nor I. Strangely, I saw a fascist build-up that my commander ordered me to report. I've done that. Now I want to be with you.”
Kalyna took her hand and led her to a tent where other women ate and drank. No haggard faces, just laughter and chatter. Even flowers sat on the tables, adding to the tempting smells.
“These are my flying sisters. You’ll love them. We’re living like gypsies now, moving from clearing to clearing as the army pushes forward. Temporary camps for a day or two. New targets every night. Wherever we are needed.”
Most of the women were young. And there were not just Russians but Belarusians, Ukrainians, Cossacks, Tatars, and a Kazakh. Here was the wealth of the Motherland.
When one woman hugged her, Kalyna said, “This Ukrainian sister is my navigator, Irenka Gorecki.”
Vasy embraced the navigator, her face brushing hair as brown as Kalyna’s.
“At least we won’t be moving until the main attack starts,” said Kalyna. “We’ve been here for two days already, flying eight raids every night.”
“I might have seen you returning last night. I was trying to cross the Dnepr.”
“You crossed through fascist lines?” asked Irenka. “How?”
“With my goat Zoya’s help.”
A small face nudged her knee, and she gave Zoya a slice of cabbage. Nobody seemed to mind her faithful companion—unlike in the partisan camp.
Vasy let the chatter wash over her, relaxing in the warmth of this new family.
“Time to show you our Polikarpov U-2, our faithful Zharptica,” said her sister.
“You remembered our dream.” Vasy produced the feather. “I only have this to guide me.”
Her sister stroked the feather. “Beautiful. A rainbow. Come and see ours, zolotyy.”
Kalyna and Irenka’s Zharptica was not just any wood-and-canvas biplane. A fiery red, yellow, and orange Firebird adorned both sides.
“We scrounged and made the right paint for our Po-2’s masterpiece.”
“Although it took months to complete," said Irenka. "Kalyna wanted it perfect.”
“The Firebird inspires me to stay alive. To survive, as we’ve both done—”
“With Galina’s help,” said Vasy. “She sends her love—and promises to keep fighting for freedom.”
Nightfall approached, and the crew left to learn about their next target. Vasy stared at the fragile plane and realised the bravery of these women.
She hugged her sister when she returned for the missions ahead. Raids on enemy positions. Real danger.
The forest runway was too short for normal take-offs. So, the ground crews held the planes as their pilots built up speed. When the pilots signalled, the Po-2s leapt forward into the night, one by one.
Vasy couldn’t sleep. She sat up all night with Kalyna’s ground crew, waiting, praying, and biting her nails, even when the plane returned safely.
But the crew refuelled and rearmed the plane. Kalyna and Irenka made seven more raids.
By daybreak, Vasy had learnt what these Night Witches lived through.
Bershanskaya was there all night, concerned for her family. In the morning, when the last Po-2 was home, she approached Vasy.
“Command radioed back. The bridge must stay intact. We need it for our main attack. We must stop the Nazis using or destroying it. Tonight, three of our planes will bomb that camp. One will be your sibling.”
“As my sister brought the information, I will lead,” said Kalyna. “If she agrees.”
Vasy agreed. "I'll show your navigators where the vipers are.”
Except, she hesitated. She could find the bridge on the ground or on the map. But providing landmarks visible from the air?
Could she give them enough? Her sister and the others could die by her mistakes.
Attempting to sleep during the day, under a wing with Kalyna, fear disturbed her. To one side, Irenka tossed, too. Was she also afraid?
Kalyna whispered to Vasy. “You’re worried for us. Don’t be. We’ll find that camp and bring terror to the fascists.”
“I want you to be safe. Those stories we created as children felt so real. Some still do. Like the Firebird. Does she always triumph? Or only at a price—her death?”
Her sister rolled closer and held her tight. “We’re not paying that price. Our dreams will win. That’s what helps me—us—survive. The Firebird can triumph, but it’s never easy in this world.” She searched Vasy’s eyes. “Someone has hurt you. I can sense the pain.”
The tears and the words were ready. “Partisan comrades who believe I am kulak scum, like my commandant and commissar. I’m not going back.” Vasy hesitated before adding. “Galina told me to escape without her, but with you. West somewhere.”
Kalyna rolled on her back, staring up at the wing. “Freedom. Mama and Papa’s dream. We should fight for it. Although, I fear not. Some male officers in other regiments call me scum. I risk my life for the Motherland—as do you. Maybe it’s time.”
“For what? You have a plan? For when?”
Her sibling turned over and held her face in her hands. “Trust me. First, we sleep. Second, I attack those invaders. Then, we disappear. Patience, zolotyy.”
Sleep came against the sound of mechanical woodpeckers—mechanics repairing aircraft. She dreamt she flew on the back of the Firebird with her sister.
A nose awoke her, and the tangy odour of goat.
“I found her something to eat." Kalyna’s chief mechanic smiled at her. "I grew up tending goats. None as clever as—"
“—Zoya. I brought her into the world hence her name ‘life’. Where’s my sister?”
The mechanic’s face darkened. “In the medical tent. Irenka awoke with a fever. She was wounded yesterday.”
Irenka had tossed in her sleep from pain not from fear.
“Who will navigate for my sister tonight?”
“The commander will decide. Talk to her.”
Vasy ran to the command tent. The air crews were gathered with Bershanskaya around a map.
“Perfect," said the commander. “Please, come in. We need your help. Where are these fascists camped?”
Vasy pointed at where the bridge was being built on the partisan operations map.
“I can’t describe any useful landmarks. I’ve never flown, except in my dreams on the Zharptica.”
Bershanskaya chuckled. "Like on your sister’s plane. A good omen for tonight.”
Vasy turned to her sister. "With Irenka wounded, you haven’t got a navigator.”
“I'll follow the river. There’s an unusual bend nearby on the map.”
“I can fly with you.”
The words were out. Not thought through. Just gut reaction. Her fear of flying and authority were dissolving.
“But I’m not trained,” she added.
Bershanskaya stared at her. “That is correct. It takes months. You have three hours. We’re breaking every rule here.” She turned to the regiment’s Commissar. “Will the Party condemn us if the enemy is stopped?”
The older woman studied the keen faces. “Unacceptable. I could have you all shot—if our brave sisters don’t get killed.” She paused and walked up to Bershanskaya. “This never happened. I wasn’t here. I didn’t allow fearless Navigator Vasilisa Chayka to fly tonight.” She turned at the tent’s opening. “Sisters, create more legends.”
Vasy see-sawed between excitement and fear as she spent a tense three hours learning what she could from the real navigators. Gathered around Irenka's cot, they encouraged her, especially the two flying in the other planes.
When the others left for the night’s missions, Kalyna knelt and whispered to Irenka.
“You’ll always be my Hero of the Soviet Union. We have survived together, had fun together, and will always be family. Stay safe, my bravest friend.”
Tears filled Irenka’s eyes, so Vasy knew this was farewell.
Walking to the Po-2 in silence, Kalyna kept stopping to smile or hug her friends. The longest embraces were for her ground crew.
Vasy hugged Zoya. “You will be in safe hands.”
She climbed into the Zharptica. It felt strange and yet familiar. Her sister’s world.
She leant over Kalyna and stuck the precious feather above the instrument panel.
She’d returned the stolen feather.
Then, the roar of the engine. The wind rushing past her goggled face. Through the wires. Lifting the plane into the starry night-sky. Over the forest. Above her world. Across the Dnepr. Heading west.
How was she to navigate for Kalyna?
She leaned over the side of the Po-2. The ground threatened to pull her out and down—to her death.
She rejected the stupid threat as she gazed at her land’s beauty from Kalyna’s world. From Zharptica’s realm.
The features below were familiar. She could find the bridge.
“Keep on this heading west, Kalyna. We can take down the tyrants. This is our challenge to their cruel rules. I was born to fly with you.”
“We were born to fly together—with Zharptica.”
Fields, villages, and forest sped past as the wind whispered. Then, the Berezina River glistened under the moon and stars like a sparkling snake. Coiling across the Motherland. Twisting around that bend towards the camp.
“Down. Ahead.”
Kalyna wiggled the Po-2’s wings for her sister pilots, then slowed the engine as they neared the target. The wind whistled past creating the sound of their broomstick. The witches were coming for the fascist soldiers—Nachthexen.
They glided to the bomb release point with only wind noise left to reveal their location.
“Now,” said her sibling as tanks appeared below. Vasy released their two bombs. The plane shot up and safely away.
They returned three more times to awaken the viper’s nest and create chaos.
On the final run, as the bombs dropped, machine-gun fire shot past, ripping into the canvas wings. Flames started on the tips.
Ash falling like feathers. Dropping towards the earth.
Behind more explosions as the two other Witches found their wrecked target. Sisters who escaped the bullets and headed home.
Unlike Zharptica. Fire was eating them. Heat blazing red, orange, and yellow like the sun. Burning them.
Scorching Vasy’s face. She struggled to breathe. She tensed.
Yet, Kalyna kept flying westwards. Twisting Zharptica. Spinning her.
Wind ate the flickering flames. Devoured them. Sparks fell like glowing feathers onto the land below.
“Reborn from the fire,” said Vasy. “Can we fly forever?”
“Our sisters will believe the flames killed us,” said Kalyna, grief choking her voice. “However, we can fly further, wherever this Zharptica feather takes us. Family is life.”
Tears came as Vasy replied, “A long voyage lies ahead. Head west—for forests, snow, rivers, and freedom. Our dreams of the Firebird’s world will keep us alive. We're survivors.”
The End
After diverse careers, Roland Clarke was an equestrian journalist and green activist when chronic illness hastened retirement. But he hasn’t stopped exploring rabbit holes and writing - mainly mystery novels and varied shorts. Roland and his wife – both avid gamers - now live in Idaho (USA) with their four fur-babies, although their hearts remain in North Wales (UK).
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