The Legend of the Swallow

Once upon a time, there was a shepherd who had three obedient and hardworking daughters. He tended the sheep, while his daughters managed the household, and everything went as it should. But over time, the shepherd began to feel the weight of old age pressing him down, and one fine day he said to his daughters:

"My dears, I have grown old and no longer have the strength to tend the flock."

"Ah, father, do not grieve. Stay at home, rest, and regain your strength. We will take turns tending the flock," said the eldest daughter.

"I would agree, my dear, if you were boys. But you are homebound girls. I fear that as soon as you step into the field, you will be frightened by something."

"Oh, father," the eldest daughter replied, "you will see how well we tend the flock. You will rejoice and be overjoyed."

"Be quiet, daughter, for since I began tending sheep, I have never seen a shepherd with a headscarf and a skirt."

"We will dress in men's clothing: a zipun, a kushma, and postoly. No one will recognize us."

"Perhaps so."

Without much thought, the eldest daughter put on a zipun, slipped on postoly, pulled a kushma over her head—why not a lad!—then tied a red sash around her waist, as fiery as flame, and tilted the kushma in a dashing manner. She then let the sheep out of the pen, led the flock out of the village, and, playing a tune on her flute, headed toward a small hill. The old father did not pay much attention to his daughter's words and bravery; he simply wanted to test whether he could rely on her in case of trouble. Hiding so the other daughters wouldn’t see, he pulled out a bear skin from behind a ravine, sneaked into the bushes, put on the skin, and appeared before the flock—grr... grr!—charging straight at the sheep. The sheep, as soon as they saw the beast approaching, scattered in an instant, so fast that you couldn’t catch them with your eyes. The shepherd froze in place from fear. His legs trembled, he dropped his stick, and, screaming in terror, he turned and ran home as fast as his legs could carry him.

The old man felt sorrowful and frustrated like never before. When he returned home, he saw his daughter, frightened to death and pale as wax.

"Oh, my troubles, I knew there was little hope in you. You are only good for bustling around the stove."

"Do not grieve, father," said the second daughter. "I will take the sheep to pasture now."

"My dear daughter, you should stay at home. I do not want you to be frightened by beasts like your sister was."

But he could not dissuade her. The girl dressed in men's clothing and drove the sheep to where the grass was thicker.

The father, however, could not sit still. He wanted to make sure he could rely on the wit and courage of his middle daughter if (God forbid!) any trouble befell her. And so, hiding once more, he quietly took the bear skin, and on a forest clearing where his daughter was approaching with the flock, he put on the skin and—grr! grr!—stepped out toward them. The girl, seeing such a massive beast coming at her, growling and gnashing its teeth, turned the sheep around and ran as fast as she could.

The old man hid the skin and ran after his daughter. They entered the yard almost at the same time. At home, there was crying and lamenting; the poor man was beside himself with distress. Gathering all three daughters, he began to comfort them and lament his fate:

"Oh, my troubles, it seems there is no happiness for me in this world. If I had a son, there would be help today, but as it is, what can I do? The sheep I have cared for will be lost, and after so many years of hard work, I will be left with nothing."

The youngest daughter took her father's lamentations so much to heart that she decided to help him at any cost.

"Father," she said, "I will take the sheep to pasture."

"Leave it, my daughter. I received no help from your older sisters, and from you—even less. I fear you will be so frightened that you will not recover."

"I will not be frightened by anything in the world."

"That is what you all say at home, under the parental roof, but out in the field, you tremble with fear."

But he could not dissuade her. No matter how much he tried to reason with her, she did as she said. She put on a zipun, slipped on postoly, pulled a kushma over her head, and set off with the sheep into the forest.

When she led the flock out into the wide field, one sheep began to bleat and fuss, unable to find its place, as if it had caught the staggers.

"What is the matter, my dear mioara? Do you not like your master or the field grass?"

"I like the grass, and I like the master, but I cannot find my place because I am afraid: what if we meet the bear again? You will be frightened to death, just like your older sisters."

The girl, like all girls, though brave, was still afraid to be alone in the field with no support.

"You have grazed many times in these dangerous places, my dear mioara. Would it not be better to avoid them?"

"Avoid them or not, danger lies ahead, but do not be afraid. When you see..."

When the bear heads toward the flock, rush at it with a stick and strike its face. The girl was determined to keep the promise she had made to her father, so she gathered her courage and moved forward—toward the place where the beast usually appeared. Soon, the bear emerged, growling, gnashing its teeth, and lunged at the sheep and the girl. The sheep panicked, huddled together, and tried to flee. But the girl swung her stick above her head, whistled, and—whack!—struck the bear across the face—bang!—then across its ribs so hard that her father felt the bear’s hide tearing from the blows. The bear recoiled to the side and shouted:

"Stop, my daughter, don’t hit me!"

The girl, hearing this, couldn’t believe her ears or eyes. She trembled all over, but her father approached her, embraced her, and said:

"My daughter, you kept your word. You didn’t get scared like your sisters. From now on, you will tend the sheep, and I will be at peace—knowing there is someone to care for them. No one will dare say you’re not a true shepherd."

And so, she began tending the sheep, leading them through every corner of the land. Everything went smoothly, and her father’s heart was light, and people were pleased to see such a shepherd.

One day, she led the flock to more remote pastures, where she encountered another shepherd with his flock. As is customary when two shepherds meet, they combined their flocks, exchanged words, and began chatting. The girl learned that this shepherd was the son of Baba Kotorantsa.

They grazed their sheep together for some time. But one day, the son of Baba Kotorantsa looked at the girl with a lingering gaze, and his heart skipped a beat. He realized that this shepherd was a maiden, not a lad, as one might assume from her clothing. This suspicion took root in his heart, gnawing at him day and night, making him wrestle with his thoughts like the sea battling the winds.

Stealthily, he glanced at the blush on her cheeks, her graceful gait, and her sweet lips. In the evenings, when he brought his flock home, Baba Kotorantsa noticed her son sighing heavily and wasting away before her eyes.

"What’s wrong, my dear son?" she asked him one day. "Has something happened? Is it some misfortune?"

"No," he replied. "I met a shepherd today, and from the way he walks and behaves, it seems to me that he’s a girl. But I couldn’t uncover the secret, neither by words nor by looks."

"Don’t fret. Test him as I advise you, and you’ll surely find out. Tomorrow, when you meet him, lead the sheep under the forest canopy, where there are birds and flowers. If it’s a young man, he’ll reach for the trees to choose a stick for his staff or a branch for his flute. But if it’s a girl, she’ll reach for the flowers."

The son of Baba Kotorantsa perked up instantly and decided to follow his mother’s advice. The next day, singing and enamored with the fields and forests, he approached the girl’s flock.

But just as the earth’s riches are reflected in calm and still waters, the thoughts and feelings of one subtly pass into the hearts of others who are more perceptive and cautious. The magical mioara sensed the thoughts of the son of Baba Kotorantsa and tried to unravel all the schemes Baba Kotorantsa might have devised for the girl.

When it was time to head into the forest, the mioara whispered her suspicions to the girl, and—brace yourself!—they decided to outsmart the lad. Whistling and playing the flute, they reached the forest, where the pasture began, dotted with flowers so beautiful they tugged at the heart and beckoned to be smelled or touched. But the girl stepped on them as if she didn’t see them, moving deeper into the thicket, leading the shepherd with her—to choose a stick for her staff and a branch for her flute.

The son of Baba Kotorantsa was stunned and bewildered. That evening, he returned home sad and pensive. Baba Kotorantsa comforted him as best she could, consoled him, and advised him to invite the shepherd to their home. Then, she assured him, they would surely discover whether it was a girl or a young man.

No sooner said than done. The son of Baba Kotorantsa led his flock and tried to appear as a loyal companion to the shepherd. By evening, he began, starting subtly, to invite the young shepherd to his home as a guest. At first, the girl resisted—making excuses—but eventually agreed. Baba Kotorantsa was already waiting for them. She had heated water in advance—ostensibly to wash her son’s hair—but she had another plan: if she could get the young shepherd to wash, she would see if they had braids, and everything would become clear. The mioara, whether she had sensed something or caught wind of it, approached the girl and whispered about the trap being set. The girl was horrified and asked the sheep for advice. The mioara said:

"When they prepare the basin for you to wash, I’ll pass by and accidentally knock it over. Then you say you won’t wash in another water. No matter how much Baba Kotorantsa insists, refuse."

And so they did. The old woman prepared everything as needed and called the young shepherd to wash their hair. The clumsy mioara hobbled around the basin and—oops!—knocked it over.

"That pesky sheep has made a mess," said Baba Kotorantsa. "Wait, I’ll heat more water."

"Don’t bother. I won’t wash in another water," said the young shepherd.

Seeing that her plan had failed, Baba Kotorantsa decided to uncover the secret another way. When she laid the shepherds down to sleep, she placed a sprig of basil under each of their pillows and whispered to her son:

"Sleep, my dear. By morning, I’ll find out everything. I’ve placed sprigs of basil under your pillows. If it doesn’t wilt by morning, the shepherd is a young man. If it wilts, it’s a girl."

The shepherds lay down, one on one side of the pillow, the other on the opposite side, as Baba Kotorantsa had arranged. But at dawn, when sleep is sweetest, the mioara switched the sprigs of basil.

In the morning, Baba Kotorantsa checked the sprigs, and they were identical. Her magic and cunning had failed.

"It must have been your imagination, my son," she said. "This shepherd is a young man."

Since it turned out this way, the son of Baba Kotorantsa abandoned his suspicions, parted ways with the shepherd, and focused on his own affairs. Some time later, he married, and his life flowed peacefully.

One day, by chance, the girl-shepherd found herself near the house of the son of Baba Kotorantsa. She approached and saw a fire burning in front of the house, with something boiling in a pot on a tripod. A little further, by a tree, the son of Baba Kotorantsa was skinning a lamb, and inside the house, a young housewife was bustling about. The girl moved closer. At that moment, the fire flared up so brightly that the contents of the pot began to spill over. The housewife ran over, wrapped the pot in her apron, and tried to lift it off the fire.

"My God!" the girl-shepherd couldn’t hold back. "In all my travels, I’ve never seen a housewife lift a pot with her apron." And in frustration, she threw her hat to the ground. Her hair tumbled down her shoulders, framing her face with golden curls. The son of Baba Kotorantsa turned and saw her. He rushed toward her with open arms to embrace her (his hands still stained with the lamb’s blood). But the girl spun around and transformed into a swallow. Only on her neck, where the son of Baba Kotorantsa’s hands had touched, remained a streak of blood-red color, which has persisted to this day.

The swallow fluttered and—frr! frr! frr!—began to rise into the sky. The son of Baba Kotorantsa grabbed her by the tail, but she pulled away with all her might, leaving only a tuft of feathers in his hands. He watched as the swallow flew away, her tail now shaped like scissors. The swallow grew smaller and smaller, disappearing into the sky.

Since then, swallows have had red throats and scissor-shaped tails, and they build their nests under the eaves of houses—a sign that they are descended from humankind.

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This is a richly detailed folk tale with elements of magic, transformation, and human-animal connections. Let me know if you'd like further clarification or adjustments!

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The Legend of the Swallow

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