The Huntsman and the Swan

A Norwegian chronicler tells this tale.

A huntsman once rested beside a mountain lake as night approached. All was quiet except for the lisping of the water at the lake's edge. Then, barely audible in the air, the huntsman heard a ringing trill - the lovely sound called wing music, made by the mute swan in flight.

The huntsman looked up. High above was the flock, tiny specks growing rapidly larger as the birds began their descent. They wheeled in a gyre of white like the whorls of a seashell, each in turn setting onto the waters of the lake. There they floated in the swan's graceful fashion, inclining their long necks to watch their reflections. At length they turned toward the shore and, two by two, approached it, unaware of the huntsman who sat motionless among the trees.

But a curious thing happened as the great birds neared the shore: The figures shimmered in the twilight, and when they stepped upon the land, they walked not with the stately waddle of earthbound swans, but with the light tread of young women. They had shed their swan forms, which trailed from their slender fingers as feathered cloaks.

As the hunter watched transfixed, the maidens dropped their cloaks upon the ground and - in a manner as grave and courtly as their swan-swimming - danced. How long the dance lasted or what the music was, the huntsman never afterward could say. When the full moon rose high, silvering the maidens' hair, they gathered up their feathered cloaks and streamed toward the lake. They reached it, and two by two they entered it. As their feet touched the water, the maidens disappeared, and the huntsman saw only pairs of white swans, drifting in the moonlight.

Filled with longing love for the beautiful creatures, the huntsman returned night after night, but a month passed before the moon was full again and the swan flock descended to the lake. Again he watched the maidens' ceremony. This time, however, he stealthily approached them while they were absorbed in the patterns of the dance. As quietly as he could, he drew one feathered cloak from the white pile on the ground.

When the moon was high, the maidens gathered their cloaks and returned to the lake. But the last to leave had no cloak, for hers was the one the huntsman held. She began to search, while her sisters circled anxiously near shore. Then the hunter stepped from the trees, and the swans took wing in a rush of wind. The huntsman was left alone in the moonlight with the swan-maiden. He held out his hand to her. Bowing her head submissively, she took it.

He led the maiden to his house, where he dressed her in mortal women's clothes. In time, he made her his wife. The feathered swan cloak he put away in a locked chest. He wanted the woman, not the swan, but he was afraid to destroy the cloak that transformed her, because it was part of her being. The swan-maiden made a sweet and loving wife. She bore the huntsman a daughter - perfect except for the translucent webs of skin that joined her small toes - and seemed to love that daughter dearly. The huntsman grew accustomed to his wife's silence - she never spoke - and he came to accept her hours of sitting beside the lake where he had found her. She never seemed to tire of gazing at the water. In the spring and autumn, when the wing music of migrating swans sounded above the house, the wife's eyes filled with tears, and the hunter comforted her as best as he could with mortal love.

Thus the years passed peacefully enough, and the huntsman half-forgot the swan cloak. The day came at last when he opened the chest and saw it once more. His wife saw it, too, but she, of course, said nothing. She drew her small daughter into her arms, however, and watched while her husband locked the chest and put away the key.

The swan-wife left at the next full moon. The huntsman returned home to find the fire out, the house cold and his daughter playing alone on the floor beside the treasure chest, whose lid was open and whose interior was empty. At that moment, he heard the wing music of the swans, and when he carried his daughter to the door, he saw the flock overhead. The great white birds circled above the house, then headed away.

The huntsman lived alone with his daughter for the rest of his life. He never married, for no mortal could match his swan wife. And though he watched and waited patiently for years, he never saw the enchanted flock again. The swan fairy gave the huntsman love for love, in her gentle fashion. But she was a wild creature taken by capture. Out of her element in the world of mortals, she always pined for her own kind.