Swan Feather

Ibrokhim Rakhmatov

Swan Feather

Part I

…You know what we’re missing? A feather that simply vanished. That feather. Just a shard of a swan’s wing. And when we hold it in our hands again—everything that’s lost finds its way back home…

The streets of Tashkent were dust-covered and choked with haze. Not a single café offered the peace to sit and focus. My eyes stung from exhaustion. Even in the most picturesque interior, at the coziest corner table, you couldn’t enjoy your coffee with genuine pleasure.

Still, I sat without blinking in the bar beneath the chimes on the Square, my fingers clenched around a mug, waiting for sunset. My gaze was fixed on the horizon, painted only in orange. The landscape grew darker by the day. In the face of the fickle autumn weather, I had wrapped myself in a long orange-hued coat, thick denim jeans, and a stylish Korean-style sweater. It seemed I wasn’t the only one dressed like this…

"Good afternoon, sir. May I sit here? I’d like to talk for a bit."

He sat across from me.

"I don’t know who you are," I said, "but I’ll listen. Go ahead."

In recent days, the air had grown so heavy it felt like one of the omens of the world’s end. My mood had become numb to most things. And then suddenly, out of nowhere, this man appeared before me—also in a coat, with a sharply styled haircut and an odd, piercing stare. He spoke immediately:

"Strange day, isn’t it? Feels like the earth is folding into itself. The city’s air is just the same: dense, oppressive. It won’t let you sleep or stay awake. At sunset, it’s as if everything—the earth, the sky, even me—is drained of strength. The broken rays of the sun drown in the dusty haze…"

"Your words don’t move me," I said. "Maybe because my mood is exactly like that. Today, yesterday, tomorrow—I’m sure it’ll be the same. Melancholy, alien, suffocating. Don’t take it personally, stranger."

"But tonight’s sunset… it’s different."

His tone changed abruptly. My pupils widened. Who is this man?

"A courier."

"I’m listening. What needs to be delivered?"

"Just transported. We’ve already prepared navigation and a live route for you."

"Is the item in another country?"

"No, very close. Closer than you think."

"You seem… suspicious."

"We came to you because you handle suspicious deliveries. But don’t worry. Around you are people who won’t interfere with delicate conversations."

He glanced around. The café’s visitors, as if on cue, turned toward him one by one, nodded, and returned to their business.

"Looks like I’m surrounded…" he thought. But not a flicker of fear showed on his face.

“You’re right,” I said calmly. “I won’t deny it. But you—you’re a different kind of suspicious. Usually, shady deliveries begin with encrypted messages. But you just showed up and spilled everything out. No, you’re nothing like the low-tier clients I’ve worked with before. You feel more like a political agent. I’m warning you: without trust, I don’t get tangled in these kinds of webs. And don’t bother threatening me.”

“You dig too deep,” he replied, still composed. “We’re not part of any political games. Though… we do have partners in that world. But I assure you, you won’t be dropped into the middle of a conflict. Everything will be done officially. Contract. Guarantee. And to be honest, we don’t think you’ll turn it down. It’s a simple job. With fair pay.”

“If you won’t tell me what the item is, I walk.”

“I can tell you this: it’s not contraband. Not a precious metal. Not drugs—one hundred percent. And not political documents either. Is that enough?”

As always, he made his decision swiftly and sharply—that was just his nature.

“Fine. Encrypt the address and time. Send it to me.”

“No need. It’s simple. The more you complicate the path, the more complicated the outcome becomes.”

“Here—take this navigator. You’ll be assigned a guide. He’ll explain everything.”

It was a device shaped like a wristwatch—with a touchscreen, a leather strap, and mechanical buttons for manual input.

“It only shows the route?” he asked.

“No. But for now, the navigation is all you need to worry about.”

As those words were spoken, a low rumble began rising on the young man’s side—like the approach of a subway train.

And by the time the last sentence landed, the man was already standing right above him.

“It’s time to go. Your guide will show the way.”

The one he called the guide was a tall young man with straw-colored hair styled in the same spiked fashion. But unlike the first, his face was more open—even welcoming. Perhaps that’s why the young man gave his silent agreement—with a faint nod.

He stood up.

Something stirred inside him—an unfamiliar sense of resolve… and even excitement.

Just moments ago, he’d been wrapped in thoughts about how dull and pointless everything had become. And now, suddenly, a strange surge of anticipation.

They descended the café’s steps. The young man began to think more seriously about the mission itself. Normally, all he needed was a precise instruction, and that was it. He never asked questions.

But this time—it felt different.

The stranger had said: a simple item.

Not valuable.

Not drugs.

Not documents.

“Damn… that’s actually intriguing,” he thought.

Ask the guide? That would break his own code.

Still, he felt something like… a first assignment.

Like a child.

“Why don’t we chat a bit?” the guide offered. “While we walk—just a few words?”

“I don’t mind,” he replied, “as long as it’s nothing personal.”

“Fair enough. Curious where we’re headed?”

You know what makes working with professionals so pleasant?

They don’t complain, don’t ask pointless questions, don’t make things harder than they are.

Even in silence, walking beside them feels right.

The young man tilted his head slightly to the left, glanced at the guide, and then returned to his calm, even stride.

As they passed the Square's chimes, the guide spoke again:

“The first point is nearby. Do you like pigeons?”

“Yes,” the young man answered shortly.

“See how they’re not afraid of people? Tourists feed them all day—they don’t even flinch anymore. They swarm right at your feet…”

“Amusing.”

“I’m a boring companion, huh? Or are you just a true professional?”

“Here we are—by the monument.

You know when that building to the left was built?”

“No.”

“During the reign of Alexander II. Architect: Yanchevsky.”

“I don’t care for history.”

“Ah. Apologies. They did warn me about that.”

"He seemed composed and silent a minute ago… and now, once he starts talking, he’s a completely different person," the young man thought.

They reached the monument to Amir Timur.

“Now put on the navigator, please. Like that.

Now turn the left dial—like setting a traditional watch.

One… two… three… all the way to twelve. Done. Route point should appear?”

“Yes.”

“To confirm, press here,” the guide said.

The young man did as instructed.

“Let’s check. Monument—right in front of us. Across from it—the Uzbekistan Hotel. To the right—a clock tower. Behind us—the Law University building. All marked.”

The micro-mechanical device stored each location with its name and a miniature diagram—everything saved to memory.

He hadn’t seen a function like this before.

With a surprised twist of his lips, he looked up—just as the guide pointed toward the entrance to the underground passage.

“A little interest in your city’s history wouldn’t hurt.”

“It’s not my city.”

“I see… Happens often.”

“That’s why I don’t get too attached. People lived here before me, they’ll live here after.”

“But for me—it’s home. That’s why I do care. I’m passionate about its history…”

They moved toward the underground crossing near Amir Temur Square.

“This metro station used to have a different name, you know. And do you know why the monument to Temur is shaped the way it is? Since I was a child, I always asked: Why? For whom? Why exactly like this? That’s why I carry a head full of facts most people think are useless.”

“My good man, I do appreciate that—or at least I’ll pretend I do. But I don’t need bursts of memory or excessive emotion at every step. Makes me too impulsive… Mind if I just call you pal?”

“Of course! Call me whatever you like.”

“Pal, I don’t even know the historical name of the city I was born in. I leave that to the historians. I just need practical, utilitarian skills to keep my personal life in order. No one calls that talent, but for me—it’s enough.”

They arrived at the platform, where the train was about to stop.

“To be honest—you’re right,” the guide said. “Specialists like you are exactly what’s needed. That’s why we’re here together.

Not just together—this task was entrusted to you, not to me.”

The young man tried to figure out why this person had been assigned as his escort.

“So… are you a courier too?” he asked.

“No… well, in a way—yes. I’m a lead specialist in history, specifically in numismatics and linguistics. Which, as you can imagine, doesn’t exactly sharpen one’s delivery skills.”

“And how’s that relevant to any of this?”

A rising rumble cut off the reply—the train was arriving.

The young man turned to ask another question, but his companion was already focused on the incoming train, calculating which door would be best to board.

The noise drowned out the rest of their conversation.

They stepped into the carriage. The train began to move.

After several stations had passed, the guide gave a subtle signal—it was time to get off.

They exited at Alisher Navoi station, each lost in his own thoughts.

The young man wanted to finish the question that had been growing inside him… but he held back.

The guide walked in silence, following some invisible route. Even on the escalator, the atmosphere between them didn’t shift.

A train stood waiting on the opposite track.

As if it had known—they would be coming back.

They approached like machines: one leading, the other following. Once again, they entered the carriage.

At last, it seemed they had reached the destination. The guide gestured ahead:

“We get off here. This is where it begins.”

“Gafur Gulyam Station?!” the young man exclaimed in surprise.

“Let’s head somewhere private.”

His tone had turned firm—almost commanding. He led the way to the far end of the platform, where the shadows were deeper.

The young man suddenly noticed—they were heading toward a metro exit blocked off for repairs.

“Where are you going?! That area’s completely shut off!”

“Keep moving.”

“But it’s locked!”

“It’s supposed to be.”

Without a word, the guide pulled out a key, casually unlocked the gate, then grabbed the young man’s wrist and led him through the metal bars.

The screech of the iron gate blended with the roar of the departing train—like it had all been choreographed in advance.

Inside was dim. The light from the platform barely reached the first few meters of the corridor.

From his pocket, the guide took out an antique pocket lantern—a real relic—and handed it to the young man. Then, with a simple match, he lit the wick.

Taking the flickering lamp back into his own hand, he walked ahead.

“No need to bother trying,” he said coolly.

“Over on this side of the platform, your phone won’t work.

Neither will that pocket flashlight.

Even the navigator we gave you—it’s useless here.

Shift just slightly to the left… and you’ll change entirely.”

The young man nodded silently.

Without protest, without questions, with the cold professionalism of habit, he followed.

He accepted everything unfolding around him as simply another part of the mission.

The guide handed him a bundle of worn clothing.

It carried the musty scent of age and dust.

The clothes were rough, thick, heavy—stiff, as if starched—and unmistakably old.

Garments with a history.

Piece by piece, he removed his own clothes and slipped into the unfamiliar ones.

They didn’t fit right. They didn’t feel like his.

They felt like someone else’s life.

He felt exhausted. Out of place. Like he had stepped into a stranger’s body.

Questions buzzed in his head like static:

Who wore this before me?

Where has it been?

Why me?

These questions rang in his ears, louder with every heartbeat.

“Leave your clothes here. You’ll return to this spot later.”

“I don’t get it… What is this, a changing room? Isn’t this a bit too weird?”

“Don’t worry,” the guide said calmly. “While you’re changing in this shelter, I’ll briefly explain the mission…

My name is Jahongir. As I mentioned before, I’m part of the Organization’s logistics division. And for this assignment—I’m your escort.”

Jahongir raised the lantern slightly, a faint smile on his face.

“I know. The place looks eerie. But trust me—what’s ahead is even more remarkable.

This… is a dream come true for any secret agency.”

Something inside the young man’s mind snapped like a fuse.

Only now did he truly begin to feel the atmosphere, the weight of it all.

Nothing felt like before—as if he had stepped into another world entirely.

Suddenly, he grabbed Jahongir by the collar and shoved him hard against the wall.

His voice was low, furious:

“Explain. Now. No riddles. What is this place? Give me a straight answer!”

Jahongir didn’t flinch. Still holding the lantern, his eyes remained fixed on the flame.

“Careful with the light. If it goes out… things might not go well.”

“Enough games! Talk! What do you call this place?!”

“This is the Platform of Time. The entry corridor. A neutral tunnel.”

“And where are we going from here?”

“We’re not going anywhere. The mission is here. At the very end of the corridor.”

“What am I retrieving? Where do I deliver it?”

The young man’s grip on his collar tightened. The tension was razor-sharp.

“If you let go,” Jahongir said calmly, “I’ll explain it in your terms. Breathe. I’m your living guarantee.

As long as I’m with you—you are protected.”

His gaze, lit by the flicker of the lantern, was so steady, so sure, that each word seemed to stand on solid ground.

Slowly, the young man loosened his grip, backed away, and dropped into a crouch.

It was as if his legs could no longer hold him.

“Courier. Name: Rustam. Age: 27. Education: basic. Single. Field specialist. No interest in history whatsoever… Listen carefully.

We are now standing in the sealed section of Gafur Gulyam metro station—officially closed for repairs.

In truth, this is a portal. An ancient passage, long forgotten and hidden. There’s another just like it at a different station.

Your task:

Travel into the past and retrieve the Swan Feather.

That’s all. I’ll explain the rest later.

That feather—it’s the emblem of our Organization.

It even shares its name: The Swan Feather.

Your mission is to bring it back.

Now focus.

At the end of this tunnel, you’ll enter the same location—but in a different era.

No object besides your body and the issued navigator may cross the boundary of time.

That’s why you must change completely—even your underclothes.

These old, musty garments match the fashion of that era.

This is a neutral zone. Here, you may leave your things—your tech, your clothes—untouched.

Remember:

When you return—don’t bring anything back with you.

Not a pebble. Not a scrap of cloth.

Anything else would disturb the balance between the timelines.”

Rustam stared silently at Jahongir, taking in every word.

But as the man kept speaking, it was as if a cold layer began creeping across his skin.

“Why?” the question spun endlessly in his mind.

“What if this is all just an elaborate joke?”

He had already tried using his phone—no signal, no power.

So Jahongir hadn’t lied: the tech really didn’t work here.

But this talk of portals, missions, swan feathers—it all sounded like a poorly staged play.

And yet… he was expected to walk to the end of that tunnel, as if he had already signed some invisible contract.

A hundred questions spun through his mind like a cyclone.

But then Rustam realized—he didn’t want to ask them.

Let Jahongir do the convincing.

“Come with me,” said Jahongir, lifting the lantern and pointing toward a staircase that led upward.

“We’ll go upstairs.”

Rustam rose reluctantly from the cold ground, where he had sat curled like a knot.

He stepped after Jahongir.

Part of him wanted to follow this through—to see how it all ended.

Another part rebelled, calling the whole thing absurd.

But one trait had always ruled his nature—stubbornness.

He remembered when, as a boy, he and some friends had dared to explore a cave outside their village late at night.

One of the boys had grown scared and wanted to turn back.

Their leader had snapped:

“Only cowards start something and then run away.”

Those words hadn’t even been aimed at Rustam—but they had burned into his memory.

And ever since, retreat had never been his way.

Step by step, they climbed the stairs, lit only by the faint glow of the lantern.

At the top, hidden under an arched shadow, was an old wooden door—

Most likely once used by station personnel.

Carved across it were large Latin letters, written in a strange, almost hand-drawn font—

clearly made before the age of computers and printers.

Everything here screamed of abandonment.

Above, silence reigned.

The air was cool.

The space felt like outer space—soundless, but somehow breathing.

Jahongir turned to Rustam, looking him straight in the eyes.

His voice was low, almost intimate:

“This is a restricted section of the metro.

In truth, every station has its technical sectors—places only specialists know about.

We’re about to enter one of those now. Once inside, I’ll explain the rest.”

Rustam shook the numbness out of his hands and silently followed.

Jahongir pulled a strange device from his pocket—something like a key—and inserted it into a narrow slit in the door.

When it clicked open, a staircase appeared before them.

Descending was difficult, but Jahongir’s steady, unshaken steps gave Rustam the strength to continue.

At the bottom, they entered a vast underground chamber—dark, echoing, nearly silent.

The space felt unstable, surreal.

Only a few faint symbols shimmered in the distance.

Jahongir pointed ahead.

“That tunnel over there—used to be a depot.

It was built solely for trains.”

He paused, then added:

“Now… it serves us.”

Rustam glanced at him, concern stirring in his chest.

“How does it work? What’s waiting at the end?”

Jahongir smiled slightly.

“You’ll understand once you pass through.

Just remember—this isn’t a normal tunnel.

You won’t just feel movement.

You’ll feel time, space—and even yourself—in a different way.

The changes inside are scientific in nature… but we don’t need to get into the details right now.”

“So I just walk through the tunnel?”

“Yes.”

“And then?”

“You’ll come out the other side.”

“And after that?”

“That’s when your mission begins.”

“But how—”

“Listen carefully,” Jahongir said, his tone sharpening.

“This is the last moment I can explain everything to you.”

“On the other side, you’ll emerge in a different time.

The year: 1219, Gregorian calendar.

The season: autumn.”

“Your point of arrival will most likely be a cellar, a dungeon—or some sort of underground hollow.”

“The most important thing—” Jahongir continued, “—is this:

The Swan Feather will be on a writing desk.”

“You’ll likely arrive through a back door, into a sealed room where scribes are working.

There may be many feathers on the table—but none of those are your target.

The real one is stored in a tin box or a drawer.

It’s unique.

If you dip it in water—it doesn’t get wet.

That’s how you’ll know it.”

“After that, find your way out.”

“Our communication will be through the feather itself.

There should be a sheet of paper inside the box.

Write your question on it—we’ll reply on the same paper.”

“But we can only respond with ‘YES’ or ‘NO’.

So don’t ask vague questions.”

Don’t speak to anyone.

Don’t look anyone in the eyes.

Don’t eat anything.

And don’t bring back a single object.

Not even a pebble.

Any violation—and the balance of time collapses.”

“That’s it. The rest… you’ll discover there.”

“Go.”

Rustam had never felt his neck stiffen like this before.

His nape turned to stone.

He was on the verge—of screaming, of calling it all ridiculous.