he begged. ‘Just this once!’ He whistled again, now with an air of desperation. His whistle brought a tirade of curses from the other men, and the bar keeper yelled: ‘Shut up, you dunce! Can’t you see we’re listening to the game?’
The fellow from the next table scratched himself behind his ear. ‘Sorry, but I don’t understand,’ he said.
Just then, the head of the snakelet appeared under the front door. Warmth filled his heart. ‘There he is!’ he whispered, ‘He’s coming.’
But the very next instant, as if in slow motion, the curiosity on his neighbour’s face changed to revulsion and his hand grasped murderously for the crutch.
This fairy tale is to be told during coffee breaks from Monday to Wednesday
The Man with One Wing
Once there was a man who had one wing. Unlike an angel’s wings, which grow out of its back, this man’s wing was in the place of his right arm, and unlike a bird’s it had a flexible elbow, which he rested on as he sat on a large rock and stared away into the distance as if looking out to sea: but there was no sea, only a hillside clearing with a few scattered trees.
For the man with one wing, that summer was one of the most depressing of his life. He was haunted by a sense of emptiness and futility, a feeling heightened on those July afternoons by the stale, sour smell rising from the hot city, that sticky mass of cars and people constantly creeping like a foul treacle and defiling even the narrowest alleyways. The man with one wing sat on that rock halfway up Mount Vodno and looked into the sky, following a cloud that was forever changing shape, like every restless puff of vapour, and he thought: Just look at that cloud. It can do whatever it wants, while I...
At that very moment, a bird came flying up. It was an eagle, as large as in fairy tales, and it obscured the sun and the restless cloud. The huge bird descended to within a yard of the man with one wing, hovering in the air, and looked straight at him.
‘What do you want of me?’ asked the man with one wing in the shadow of the eagle.
It replied with a question: ‘Why are you still on the ground?’
‘Can’t you see I only have one wing? What can I do if I’m crippled like this? Without a right hand, I can’t even wank. But why have you come? Did I call you?’
‘I’ve come to tell you something very important. You may not want to hear it, but that can’t be helped: I am your cousin.’
‘What?!’
‘All right, not a first cousin. Perhaps four or five times removed. But we are related. Our common relation, the Grey Eagle – that is your father, and a distant uncle of mine – once accidentally brushed your mother with his wing and she fell pregnant.’
‘Even if that’s true, what does it have to do with me now?’
‘You are the one in whom bird and man are united. Moreover, you are the only son of the Grey Eagle, and he is the king of the eagles. He is dying and asks me to bring you to him. He wants to see you.’
And so the man with one wing climbed onto the eagle’s back and the huge bird bore him away. As fast as the wind it flew, swiftly passing mountains, lakes and rivers, and soon they reached a lofty mountain peak covered in snow. Here there was a large eyrie, with a throne in the middle and a white fireplace, whose flames burned with a strange light, white and pure. Despite the snow and ice all around, it was pleasantly warm inside the eyrie. This was the home of the Grey Eagle.
The great bird sat, or rather lay slumped, atop the throne. Not even the fire could allay the fever that raged in his once mighty, kingly frame.
‘My son,’ he spoke to the man with one wing, ‘tonight I leave for the land of our ancestors. I do not wish to go, but I have no choice – my time has come. I have never troubled you before, but since my last hour is drawing near I have resolved to share the secret that I am your father.’
‘I know that already. It seems rather obvious, doesn’t it?’
‘But there’s something more. With my death, the throne of the eagles will become vacant. It awaits you, and it is for you to choose if you will ascend it. May the birds in your right half and the men in your left decide your course.’
‘I don’t know what to say. You’ve really caught me unprepared.’
‘You must decide. I am growing weaker, ever weaker, and I must know your answer. Will you stay here or go back to live among men? And one other thing: how is your mother?’
‘She is well, for her age.’
‘How old is she exactly?’
‘Seventy-five.’
‘That old already? It seems like just yesterday that I brushed her with my wing. You should have seen me in my prime.’
The man with one wing failed to notice that his father had tried to soften the situation with humour. He still didn’t understand what was going on and stood there gawping, his mind a muddle. The Grey Eagle lifted his heavy head with visible effort and spoke to him for the last time:
‘Tell me, my son, will you be my heir? Will you become the king of all birds? I’m glad I sent for you, my son...’
‘I... I...,’ the man with one wing stuttered, but the Grey Eagle could no longer hear him. He had passed out into the narrow way separating the two worlds, where the sounds of this world become ever fainter and are soon gone.
And so, without really wanting to, the man with one wing became king of the eagles, to the acclaim of the entire aquiline assembly.
‘How can I possibly rule when I can’t even fly, let alone soar up to the heights?’ the man wondered, sitting on the throne of stone that now struck him as being very similar to the rock halfway up Mount Vodno, which he had climbed to escape the city before this remarkable episode with his father, the Grey Eagle. But since he was now king, which meant that all the eagles were now at his service, he ordered for a large, light and powerful wing to be made for him as soon as possible and that it be affixed, gently but firmly, to the left side of his back. He noticed that giving the order came easily to him, and no sooner had he spoken than his wish was fulfilled!
He was no longer a man with one wing but a king with two wings. Or rather, two wings and one arm. His left arm, now solitary, white and oddly beautiful in its helplessness, could be used for noble deeds such as bearing the sceptre or leafing through a travel book illustrated with etchings. The places on the man’s back where his wings were, the natural one and the new artificial one, pulsated and tingled most pleasantly.
‘Now I can take to the sky!’ he cried and launched into flight.
Yes, it was as if all the energy had returned to his body, and as he breathed in the air of the heights – so intoxicating, so liberating – he felt he was bending the skies to his will and seizing life in a completely different way to before. The waters of the mountain rivers rushed, babbling through forested dells far below him; houses, even large buildings looked like little models from a children’s game. He, the eagle king, felt proud and majestic, and he laughed loud and long above the clouds: ‘Ha, ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha!’
He flew to see his mother, who was not astonished to see him as an eagle. In fact, she seemed to be relieved.
