The Voices at the Window

The Voices at the Window

One autumn day, a lord rode into the forest with a company of hunters. From early morning they followed narrow paths, crossed open glades, and pushed through dripping bushes, but the day wore on and they found no game.

Toward evening the sky darkened. A cold wind rose, and then rain came down in sheets. Within minutes they were soaked to the skin.

The lord reined in his horse, rubbed his chilled hands, and said, “What I would give for a warm cottage, a dry bed, fresh bread, and a jug of cool kvass. We would have supper, warm ourselves, and tell stories until dawn.”

He had scarcely finished speaking when a yellow light flickered among the trees ahead.

“Look!” cried one of the hunters.

On a small clearing stood a cottage. A thin thread of smoke rose from its chimney, its windows glowed, and it was so warm inside that it seemed the the owners had been expecting guests all day.

A fragrant loaf of bread lay on the table, and beside it stood a jug of cool kvass. Clean beds waited by the wall.

“This is a wonder,” said the lord with a smile. “Everything is exactly as I wished for.”

The travellers ate supper. Weariness soon overcame them. One after another they lay down to sleep, and before long the cottage held only the sound of peaceful breathing.

Only one young hunter could not sleep. Something kept troubling him. A branch brushed the windowpane, the wind rustled beneath the thatch, and now and then it seemed that someone sighed softly in the darkness.

Near midnight, footsteps sounded outside the window.

The hunter held his breath.

A quiet voice spoke from beyond the glass.

“The master of this house promised tonight that he would tell stories until dawn, but he has forgotten his promise. On the road home he will see an apple tree with fruit so beautiful that he will surely want to taste an apple. But that tree is enchanted. If he touches its fruit, the spell will bind him and he will not be able to move. And whoever warns him will begin to turn to stone, from the feet to the knees.”

The voice fell silent.

The hunter lay without moving and thought, “What am I to do? If I say nothing, the lord will come to harm. If I speak, the harm will come to me.”

Time passed. Far away, a rooster crowed.

Then another voice came to the window.

“Farther down the road there will be a clear spring. Its water will shine like silver, and the traveller will dearly want to drink. But the spring too is enchanted. If he drinks from it, the spell will bind him even more tightly. And whoever reveals this warning will turn to stone up to the waist.”

The hunter swallowed and stared at the dark ceiling for a long while.

Before dawn, a third voice drew near the window.

“Later, a soft white feather bed will lie in the road. The weary traveller will think that no better place for rest could be found. But if he lies down on it, he will fall under the strongest enchantment of all. Whoever tells of this will turn to stone almost up to the neck.”

As soon as the voice was gone, the hunter rose.

“It is time to be on our way,” he told his companions. “The sky is growing light.”

They gathered quickly and set off for home.

They had not ridden an hour before an apple tree appeared ahead. Great red-cheeked apples hung from its branches, shining with drops of morning dew.

“Never in my life have I seen such apples!” cried the lord, stretching his hand toward the nearest fruit.

In an instant the young hunter sprang forward and struck a dry branch in front of the lord with his stick. At once the apple tree flared with golden light and crumbled into a pale grey dust.

“What have you done?” the lord demanded angrily.

But the hunter explained nothing. He only bowed his head and rode on.

Soon they heard the sound of water. Right beside the road a spring bubbled from the ground. Its water was so clear that every pebble on the bottom could be seen.

“At last,” said the lord. “I am terribly thirsty.”

He had already bent toward the water when the hunter tossed a dry twig into the spring. The water darkened at once, whirled around, and vanished beneath the stones.

The lord grew still angrier.

“You again! When we return, you will explain every one of these strange deeds.”

The hunter rode on in silence.

A few miles farther on, a great white feather bed lay right in the middle of the road. It looked so clean, so soft, and so inviting that everyone stopped in astonishment.

“This is a gift for a tired traveller,” said the lord. “I shall rest for only a moment.”

But the hunter was quicker. He touched the feather bed with the tip of his stick. The down flew up in a white cloud, and the bed itself turned into a small heap of black coal.

“Enough!” cried the lord. “At home you will tell me everything.”

When they returned, the lord summoned the young hunter to the great hall.

“Three times I wished to do a simple thing, and three times you stopped me,” he said. “Why?”

The hunter was quiet for a moment.

“Because I did not sleep last night, my lord,” he said. “I heard three voices at the window.”

“What voices?”

“I will tell you. But remember: for every word I speak, I may have to pay with a spell.”

The lord’s face grew grave, but he nodded.

The hunter told them of the first voice and the enchanted apple tree.

At once his boots became heavy. Grey stone closed around his legs up to the knees.

Everyone in the hall stood still.

“Do not go on!” cried the lord.

“I must,” the hunter replied. “Otherwise you will not understand.”

He told them of the second voice and the spring.

The stone rose to his waist.

Then he told them of the third voice and the white feather bed.

The stone climbed almost to his neck.

The lord turned pale.

“So all day you were saving me, while I was angry with you.”

He stepped closer, then suddenly remembered his own words at the cottage.

“Wait. It all began because I did not keep my promise. I said that I would tell stories until dawn, and then I fell asleep.”

The lord ordered candles to be lit. He seated everyone in a circle and said, “If a promise can be repaired, then let us repair it now. Tonight no one will go to bed until we have told as many stories as we failed to tell that night.”

And he began with the first tale.

After him one hunter told a story, then a second, then a third. One remembered a merry tale about a clever fox. Another told an old story about a traveller. A third made up a story on the spot.

And the longer they spoke, the warmer the stone around the young hunter became.

At midnight he could move his fingers.

Before morning, the stone cracked at his waist.

And when the sun rose beyond the windows and the lord finished the last story, the stony shell broke apart into grains of sand.

The hunter stepped forward, alive, well, and a little amazed.

The lord clasped his hand firmly.

“From this day on, I will think twice before I promise anything. And once I have promised, I will keep my word.”

They say that after that, the people in that house dearly loved evenings of storytelling. But before the first tale began, the lord always asked, “Are we truly ready to listen all the way to the end?”

Only after he heard a cheerful chorus of “Yes” would he begin the first story.

May this story leave a little light in your heart ✨