Cicara

What was, was, and what wasn’t, wasn’t.

Once upon a time, there lived a little boy. His mother passed away. His father grieved and grieved, and then brought another woman into the house, a wicked, cruel stepmother.

The stepmother took an instant dislike to her stepson. "I’ll get rid of the boy," she thought, "and then my husband will love only me." And the boy would have perished if it weren’t for his loyal friend. This was Ikara, a big, kind bull. Every morning, the boy would take Ikara to the green meadow, graze him until evening, and during the heat of the day, he would hide him in the shade or bathe him in the river. And by his friend’s side, the boy would forget his sorrow.

The stepmother saw that she couldn’t get rid of her stepson as long as he was friends with Ikara. So, she pretended to be sick. She lay in bed, moaning and groaning.

Her husband grew frightened.

"How can I help you?" he asked.

"Oh, husband," moaned the stepmother, "cook me Ikara’s heart and liver. If I eat them, I’ll recover at once."

A day passed, then another, then a third. The cunning stepmother didn’t get out of bed, crying and sighing, on the verge of death.

There was nothing else to do. The father took the biggest knife and began sharpening it against a stone, sparks flying everywhere.

The boy saw this and asked, "Father, why do you need such a big knife? What are you sharpening it for?"

"You see, my son," replied the father, "I must slaughter Ikara."

"Wait, father," the boy pleaded, "let me give him one last drink."

The boy led Ikara to the stream, gave him water, and wept.

Suddenly, he heard a human voice: "Why are you crying, my friend? What misfortune has befallen you?"

The boy looked around, but no one was there. "Well," he thought, "I must have imagined that voice." But Ikara looked at his friend with wise eyes, as if waiting for an answer.

"Oh, Ikara, Ikara, they want to slaughter you," the boy said.

"I know, my friend," the voice replied, "and I know that without me, you won’t survive."

The boy realized it was Ikara speaking to him.

"Run home," said Ikara, "grab a jug of water, a comb, and a whetstone, then climb onto my back. We’ll escape from here."

The boy did as he was told. He took the jug, the comb, and the whetstone, climbed onto Ikara’s back, and they raced away.

The father waited and waited, then went to the stream—no boy, no Ikara. When the stepmother found out, she jumped out of bed, opened the barn, led out a huge boar with terrifying tusks, and said to it:

"Chase after the boy and Ikara, catch them, and kill them!" The boar ran, its tusks gleaming like sabers, almost catching up.

Ikara heard the thundering steps, turned around, and shouted to the boy:

"Trouble, my friend! Death is behind us. Quickly, pour out the water from the jug."

The boy poured out the water, and behind them rose a raging sea. The boar swam through the waves, choking, cutting through the water with its snout.

The friends raced far ahead while the boar struggled to cross the sea. The boy calmed down, but Ikara said:

"Look back, do you see anything?" The boy turned his head and replied:

"Something like a fly is visible, either crawling or flying."

"That’s the boar!" cried Ikara.

And the boar was right there, almost catching up.

"Throw the comb!" shouted Ikara. The boy threw the comb, and a dense forest sprang up behind them.

So thick that even a mouse couldn’t turn its tail in it. But the boar kept cutting through the forest with its sharp tusks, forcing its way through the thicket.

Again, the friends raced ahead. But their joy was short-lived. The boy looked back and saw something like a fly in the distance, either crawling or flying. Before he could tell Ikara, the boar was right there again, squealing, wheezing, tusks gleaming, almost catching up.

"Throw the whetstone!" cried Ikara.

The boy threw the whetstone. And before the boar rose a steep, bare cliff reaching to the sky. The boar began cutting into the stone with its tusks, carving steps into the cliff. Step by step, it climbed until it reached the top. The boar charged, slipped, and tumbled into the abyss, taking all our sorrows and yours with it.

Now the friends could catch their breath. They came out into an open field near a tall poplar tree, so tall that its top touched the clouds.

"I’ll go," said Ikara, "and wander the field, eat some grass, and regain my strength. But you, my friend, climb the tree. On the very top branch, there are two flutes—one merry, the other sad. Sit on the branch, and don’t come down without me. If you get bored, play the merry flute. Birds will gather, bringing food and drink, and beautiful butterflies will dance to your music. But if you need me, take the sad flute. Before you can even play it, I’ll appear before you."

The boy climbed to the top of the poplar, took the merry flute from the branch, put it to his lips, and blew. Everything around him began to sing and dance.

And as luck would have it, a shepherd heard his playing.

He followed the sound of the flute, stood under the poplar, looked up, and saw the boy sitting in the tree, playing the flute. Around him, beautiful butterflies danced, birds circled, chirping and singing along.

The shepherd might have danced and rejoiced too, but he was an evil, envious man. And evil people delight in others’ misfortunes. So, the shepherd decided to take the boy’s joy away.

"Come down," he said, "and show me your flute."

But no matter how much the shepherd pleaded, the boy stayed on the branch. After all, Ikara had told him not to climb down from the poplar.
The angry shepherd went to the palace and said to the king:

"So, Your Majesty, there's a boy sitting at the top of a poplar tree, playing a flute, and his music brings joy to the whole world. I wanted to bring him here to entertain you, but he refuses."

"How can he refuse?" the king became angry. "Hey, servants! Immediately take that boy down from the tree and throw him in prison!"

The servants sent an old witch to fetch the boy. The witch came, dragging a little goat with one hand and holding an awl in the other.

She stood under the poplar tree and began to prick the goat with the awl. The goat was in pain, bleating so pitifully that the boy stopped playing and shouted from the tree:

"Granny, granny, what are you doing? Why are you tormenting the goat?"

"Oh, my dear," the witch replied, "I want to slaughter it for dinner, but I can't manage it. Be kind, help me, or I'll starve to death."

Feeling sorry for the old woman, the boy climbed down from the tree. The witch ran her hand through his hair, and the boy fell asleep. Then the king's servants rushed in, grabbed him, and carried him away. The flutes remained hanging on the branch.

The boy woke up in prison. The prison was surrounded by nine walls, each with a strong door and a sturdy lock.

The boy remembered his flutes and his friend Tsikara and began to cry. Suddenly, he saw a crow.

"Crow, crow!" the boy shouted. "Where are you flying? Where are you rushing? For the sake of your children's happiness, fly to the open field, to the tall poplar tree, take my flutes from the branch, and bring them to me!"

"And who threw stones at me?" said the crow. "No, you'd better stay here, behind nine locks, or you'll throw stones at my children too!"

The crow flew away. The boy became even more sorrowful. Suddenly, he saw a sparrow.

"Sparrow, sparrow, for the sake of your chicks' lives, fly to the open field, to the tall poplar tree, and bring me my flutes," the boy pleaded.

"And who set traps for us sparrows? Who destroyed our nests?" said the sparrow. "No, it's better for my chicks if you stay here, behind nine locks."

The sparrow flew away, and the boy became even more despondent. He saw a swallow flying by. The boy sang a song to her. As he sang, tears streamed from his eyes:

"Swallow, swallow, dear swallow!
Fly to the field, sit on the poplar branch,
Bring me my two flutes.
In them lies both sorrow and joy.
The sad flute will cry—
My faithful friend will come running,
And the merry one will sing—
The whole world will dance!"

The swallow took pity on him and brought the boy both flutes. The boy took the sad flute, put it to his lips, blew—and the flute cried. Tsikara heard it and ran to the boy. He broke through the first door, knocked down the second, toppled the third. He destroyed the fourth, shattered the fifth, broke the sixth, smashed the seventh, forced the eighth, and at the ninth door, he almost perished—his horn broke.

Tsikara became sad: he didn't care about his broken horn, but he grieved for his imprisoned friend. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a mouse appeared.

"Do you want me to fix your horn?" it said. "But you must die for it, and I'll eat your flesh!"

"Fine," Tsikara agreed, "fix it quickly!" The mouse fixed the broken horn. Tsikara charged forward, broke the last door, offered his back to the boy—and they were gone!

The boy climbed back to the top of the poplar tree. He bid farewell to Tsikara, who went back to the field as if nothing had happened.

The boy sat in the tree, playing the merry flute, but suddenly sadness overcame him, and he longed to see Tsikara again. He took the sad flute and played for an hour, then another, but Tsikara was nowhere to be found. What to do?

The boy climbed down from the poplar tree and went to search for his friend. He searched and searched until he found Tsikara lying dead in the middle of a meadow. The boy threw himself onto Tsikara's body, weeping bitterly, so much so that the grass stopped growing, the birds stopped flying, the flowers withered, and the butterflies shed tears.

"Tsikara, my Tsikara!" the boy cried. "How can I live without you?"

Suddenly, out of nowhere, the mouse appeared. It had come to feast on the bull's flesh. Seeing the boy's grief, the mouse said:

"Do you want me to bring your Tsikara back to life? But you must die for it, and I'll eat your flesh."

"Let me die," said the boy, "as long as Tsikara lives."

The mouse scurried around the meadow, found some herb, rubbed it on Tsikara, and he came back to life. The boy hugged Tsikara, stroking, petting, and kissing him, while Tsikara licked the boy with his big tongue.

"Enough!" the mouse said to the boy. "It's time for you to die, or I'll starve!"

It scurried around the meadow, found a poisonous herb, brought it in its teeth, and offered it to the boy. The boy took the herb, looked at Tsikara one last time. "It's nothing," he thought. "I'll perish, but my friend is saved."

But just as the boy was about to put the deadly herb in his mouth, the mouse stopped him.

"Wait!" it said. "In all my life, I've never seen friends like you. So be it! I grant you life. Live forever!"

With that, the mouse disappeared into the grass.

The boy mounted Tsikara, and they raced to another land, where there was no evil shepherd or cunning witch. They found another field and a poplar tree, even taller than the last. Tsikara roamed the field, nibbling grass, while the boy sat atop the poplar tree, playing the merry flute, delighting himself and bringing joy to the whole world. And whenever he played the sad flute, Tsikara would appear before him in an instant.
Fairy girl