According to our legends, the world was knitted into creation. Divine knitting needles patiently created all these mountains with their holy tarns and lakes and snow-capped peaks, all these dark-green forests, as well as all the cabbages, blueberries and potatoes, the cows, wolves and eagles.’
‘Eagles?’
‘Yes, all the beasts and birds are made of divine yarn.’
‘And people too?’
‘All of us are connected by the threads of the divine knitting-women. The whole universe is made of those strong, invisible threads whose task is to preserve its equilibrium: the balance between the external and the internal, between the skies and the deep, between male and female. The women of our people therefore keep our clothes white by washing them in the clean, cold mountain lakes and streams. But –,’ Eliza sighed, ‘there are also witches, like my stepmother, who attack and unpick the fabric of the universe. That’s why she tangled the threads of the divine yarn and turned us into swans.’
‘Then it looks as if some wicked witch has been at work on me, too.’
Eliza’s cheeks, already aglow from the excitement of storytelling, now turned crimson: ‘But your appearance... how can I put it...the way you look really suits you. It makes you strong and manly. Oh, my dear, will you be able to make this sacrifice for my sake? For our future happiness and all the pleasures that await us? From the moment you say “yes” you’ll have to hold your silence for a whole year, you won’t be allowed to smile, and you’ll have to knit those nettle shirts.’ She straightened her grapefruit-shaped breasts, which seemed to burgeon even more under her wet dress. ‘I so much want to believe you’ll succeed. After all... sorry for having to mention it... but you do only have one arm.’
At that, his weak left arm clasped her to him: ‘At the risk of sounding blunt, Liza, why can’t we... while we’re mulling over all this... why can’t you and I get to know each other a bit better now, you know.
‘There will be time for everything, my love. If our plan works, there will be joys you have never dreamed of. But now you must say “yes” and refrain from words and smiles for a whole year – a year of knitting, knitting and more knitting until you see us flying back to you and the finished shirts.’
A ‘yes’ slipped from his mouth, and then there was no going back.
And so the eagle king, with a heavy heart, parted with Eliza and flew to see his mother in silence. She noticed straight away that something was wrong.
‘You’ve gone very quiet, my son. Much has happened to you of late. Here, show me what troubles you – draw it in the air with your wings, or with your hand, or with your eyes. I’m your mother, I’ll understand.’
So he started to wave, wheel around, hop up and down, and open his eyes wide and squeeze them shut again. It would have seemed most peculiar to anyone else, but not to his mother, who gradually, by a logic known only to her, began to understand what he was trying to say.
‘It won’t be easy at all. I remember being told something like that in a dream, but you were impatient and didn’t listen to me. Still, I’ll do all I can to help. It will be hard going until you learn to knit properly, especially at the beginning, but as soon as you’ve knitted your first stitches it will become easier and you’ll be surprised how quickly it goes. For you, my son, things are a bit more complicated with just your one arm, and even your father, for all his experience, was not particularly good at using his wings. But let’s not complain. Sit down now and listen. In one of your hands – the left one in your case – you take an old-fashioned knitting needle with a hook at the end. Nod to me if you understand. Good. And then you’ll use your right wing like this to hold the thread and wrap it around. Yes, just like that. First make one loop, slowly, and now pull the thread with the hand holding the needle and make a braid, a plait. I know it’s hard, my son, but if you can make that braid you know all there is to know. Come on, one more time. Don’t get frustrated. In time, you’ll find it so easy you’ll be able to do it with a nail. You pick up the thread and pass it through. Pick up and pass through. Take a little break now, and I’ll teach you the two kinds of stitches, the knit stitch and the purl stitch. Nod to me if you understand.’
And so began the eagle king’s long year of knitting, and the toil was made even more onerous by using nettles for yarn and having to abstain from speaking and smiling. But, as he expected, it was his subjects who posed the biggest problem. And they had reason enough to be resentful. Him not smiling worried them the least; eagles, as we know, are not famous for their sense of humour. But him not speaking made for a serious problem. If only his reason had been pride and loftiness they would have forgiven him – he was the king of the eagles, after all. But hour after hour, day after day and month after month he just sat on his throne of stone, flightless, wordless, and knitted! He flew only after midnight, and then it was to cemeteries to pick nettles for knitting those shirts. The fingers on his left hand were covered with blisters, but he kept on knitting in silence with a dull look in his eyes. The eagles saw this as complete and utter decadence.
They began to whisper about him, and soon they were gossiping openly. Still he held his tongue and knitted. Now the eagles called an urgent assembly. Angry voices went up: ‘We are sick of this ruler! Oust him!’ He was calmly knitting the third shirt, with the other two lying finished beside him. ‘This is an insult!’ ‘He’s mocking us!’ ‘What a disgrace!’ ‘Depose him!’ ‘Lynch him!’ The threats became more severe by the minute as a circle of eagles drew tighter around him.
All of a sudden, the sky darkened and three white swans came down to land in the small space that remained around him and meekly bowed their long necks. He quickly cast the shirts over their heads and, to the wonder of all those present, except himself, the swans turned into Eliza and her two sisters. What a beautiful sight! The girls were gorgeous, and their shirts were like tunics that showed off their svelte yet curvaceous bodies. Tears of joy rolled down Eliza’s cheeks as she told the curious listeners of the sisters’ rousing odyssey, caused by their stepmother-witch and her bad magic, and the ordeal the eagle king had gone through for her sake.
‘Move back, all of you. Give her room to breathe!’ the eagles now heard their ruler’s voice for the first time in a year, and it was as resolute and confident as before. They made way for him, and he went up to Eliza and hugged her tight. He began to caress her and soon noticed that, instead of a left arm, she still had a wing: ‘your poor arm! I’ve failed you. I didn’t finish the last sleeve.’
‘Don’t be sad. I’ll wear this swan’s wing with pride, as a symbol of your selfless love. And we’ll complement each other when we do what lovers do.’
They finished the court and family formalities with the king’s ministers as quickly as they could. Then his mother (who reminded all who couldn’t escape her company of her vital role in the knitting saga) and the sisters all undressed and went to bed.
‘What’s so funny?’ he asked, a little snubbed, when he saw Eliza grinning.
‘The birthmark, my dear – the birthmark on your penis. Now, just before we get intimate, I was checking that it’s on the right-hand side.’
‘What the...’
‘You see, there’s a belief among our people that those with a birthmark on the left lean one way, so to speak, and those with it on the right lean another... so I just wanted to check. But now we can make love. My kisses will put a smile back on your face.’
Her voice went husky, as if there was a fluttering bird in her throat that wanted to escape. ‘Oh my God,’ the man with one wing muttered before getting down
