Legend

Essen Jara’s Pheasant Feathers did not come from a hunt. They were shed by a bird that spent whole days in the tall grass at the forest’s edge – so still that you could almost tread on it. Then it would burst into the air with a clatter of wings and a cry, scattering barred and speckled feathers all around.

In autumn, after the harvest was in, a rich man sent his son to Essen. The young man arrived in a litter and promptly sat down in the grass, too idle to stand. He yawned at every word.

“Nothing pleases me,” he announced. “I’ve seen it all.”

Essen gave him a sidelong look, then tugged him by the sleeve deep into the tall grass. Suddenly something exploded right under his feet – a whirr of wings, a piercing shriek, a cloud of feathers.

“Run!” shouted Essen.

The young man bolted, tripped over a molehill and went sprawling into a puddle. He got up soaked, his heart pounding like a hammer – and all at once he began to laugh.

“Life doesn’t wait for you to wake up,” said Essen. “It bursts out from under your feet, and you have to run after it.”

He walked back on foot, beside his litter, with a pheasant feather Essen had tucked behind his ear.