Legend

Erkinai Aru’s Swallow Feathers were light and sharp at the tips, like the heads of tiny arrows. Every year swallows came back to the same eaves, and each autumn set out again on a journey whose end no one had seen.

When the birds were gathering to leave, Erkinai passed a cottage on the outskirts of the village. Nests of mud clung beneath the eaves, and on the threshold sat a grey-haired woman, staring ahead of her.

“All my life I wanted to see the sea,” she said. “Now it’s too late. I’m too old for such a journey.”

On the ridge of the roof the last late brood was fluttering about – awkward fledglings, their tails still short.

“Go out before they leave,” said Erkinai.

The woman got up and stepped onto the road. At that moment a flock swept low over the village. The young ones leapt from the roof and, one after another, joined the flight. The smallest swallow flew at the very end, keeping pace with the rest.

“She hatched too late as well,” said Erkinai. “And nobody asks her whether she’ll make it. She flies because her time has come.”

In spring the swallows returned to the eaves of that cottage. With them came its mistress, with salt in her hair. The Swallow Feathers stayed with Erkinai Aru – a sign that even the last bird in the flock arrives.