"Sister of the Swans"

Here is the first part of the novel I've been working on for too long. I get busy and I don't look at it for months, then I write a bunch and repeat the cycle. My goal is to finish this year. Since a YA audience is my target, any feedback is appreciated:) It's a retelling of the fairy tale "Six Swans" by the Grimms.

She could feel the sting of the burning fire upon her cheeks as she approached the growing flames.  Tightly she held to the shirts, frantically searching the skies.  She stared intently, not hearing the rising cries of the crowd.  In the distance, she could see their wings flap and her voice broke out carrying her pleas into the heavens.  At last, there was hope…

-1-

The Silver Stag

The sound of thundering hooves cut through the silent forest. “Come on, Bishop, faster, faster!” exclaimed King Rankin. He had just seen a sliver of white disappear through the thick grove of trees and he knew that today was the day that he would finally capture the elusive white stag.

Rankin had been catching glimpses of the beast ever since he was a young man and this was the closest he had ever been to the stag. He smiled to himself as he thought of mounting the head above his table at the banquet hall and how the kingdom would tell the story for years to come. He could see his six sons smiling with pride and his daughter wrinkling her nose.

“Your Majesty! Wait!" The impassioned plea slipped past his ears. The King raised a jeweled hand and waved it back. He knew he was losing his hunting party; it wouldn't be the first time. He rode harder and faster than anyone he knew--and his horse, Bishop, well, he was as fast as the wind itself. Besides, the party would always catch up. No one could track him as well as his faithful guard, Loren.  Loren would look at him with a hint of reproach but he was as excited as the King when they would haul back the bounty of the hunt to the castle.

There it was again, another flash of white, glimmering starkly against the darkening woods. He was in an unfamiliar part of the forest, but no matter, he was getting closer and closer to his prize. The King's hunt in the wood had yielded modest results but bagging the white stag would be worth the wait. It was uncanny really; he had actually seen the stag standing still for the first time today. He had always seen it running, but never at rest.  It was a regal animal, far taller and broader than any deer with a magnificent rack of silver antlers that glistened in the sunlight.  The stag’s coat was whiter than the snows that would blanket the forest in winter; the King had never seen it’s equal.

  The stag had been feeding in the meadow when Rankin caught sight of him.  He silently slid off Bishop and began creeping closer and closer.  His bow was taunt and ready to find its target.  The stag seemed oblivious to presence as he prepared to strike.  Then, without warning, the stag raised his head and his bright eyes penetrated Rankin.  The stag’s eyes were colorless save for pink rings around the outer edges.  This odd sight caused Rankin to momentarily pause and the stag took advantage of the hesitation and bounded into the dark woods.  Rankin dug his heels into Bishop’s flank and took off after the stag, chasing the flashes of silver throughout the wood.

There he was again, this time a hint of silver rounding the bottom of a rise covered in dark, dense trees. “So close”, Rankin muttered and turned after the stag but came up against a sheer cliff.  He pulled Bishop right then sharply left. Frantically searching the perimeter, his experienced eyes took in everything around him.  He could see no sign of the stag and had no idea how he could have rounded the cliff without him seeing him.

Rankin jumped off Bishop and began circling around the horse.  “Unbelievable”, he said aloud but there was no reply in the silence of the trees and cliffs. He took a deep breath; the excitement of the hunt had fatigued him. Rankin felt a shroud of intense disappointment.  He had almost had him, so very close.  He turned and looked at Bishop who was now covered in sweat with his chest heaving in exhaustion. 

“Ah, Bishop”, said the King, “We lost him again, maybe next time…” Rankin grasped the horse’s reins and led him to a nearby stream.  He rubbed his hands on Bishop’s damp neck as the horse bent down to drink of the crisp, cool water.  Rankin leaned down himself and let the water run down his throat and splashed it over his face.  It did taste delicious; he never knew water could taste anything but tepid, like the well-water he had at the castle.  He dismissed the brief memory of his mother telling him to never drink from the forest deep.  Swallowing again, he wondered if one of his men had a way to bring some of this sweet forest water back.

           Straightening up, he listened closely for any sounds of the party.  After they caught up there would be some good-natured teasing when they found the elusive stag had escaped again.  The men in his hunting party were good men, his trusted advisers and friends.  Rankin had known them since he was a child; most of them had grown up together and although he took the crown almost twenty years ago, the ease and friendship remained.  His six sons were in the party as well.  They had hunted with their father since they were boys and he knew they would have a good laugh at his expense later tonight.