The Twelve Brothers

Once upon a time there lived a king and a queen who had twelve sons. The king wished for a daughter so much that he made a harsh and foolish decree. “If a daughter is born,” he said, “my sons must die, so that she alone shall inherit the kingdom.” The queen’s heart broke when she heard this. She loved her boys more than all the jewels in the world.

Secretly, she sent for the youngest, whose name was Benjamin, and told him everything. “Go with your brothers into the forest,” she begged. “Climb the old oak near the edge of the wood, and look toward the palace tower. I will hang a flag there. If a son is born, I will hang a white flag, and you may all return. If a daughter is born, the flag will be red. Then run farther into the wild, my dear sons, and save yourselves.”

The twelve brothers kissed their mother, promised to be brave, and fled to the forest. Every day Benjamin climbed the tall oak and watched the far-off tower. They waited and hoped. But one morning the wind lifted a flutter of red—red as a bleeding heart—above the palace roof. Benjamin’s face went pale. “A sister is born,” he whispered, “and our father would have us slain.”

The brothers built a little house in the deep woods. They hunted, cooked, and kept each other safe. Anger burned in them, and they swore a bitter oath: “Because a maiden has cost us our home, any maiden who comes here shall lose her life.” It was a cruel vow, but sorrow had made their hearts hard.

Years passed. In the palace, the queen’s daughter grew into a bright young maiden. One day she found twelve tiny shirts with golden embroidery hidden in a chest. “Mother,” she asked softly, “whose shirts are these?” Tears filled the queen’s eyes. “They belonged to your twelve brothers,” she told her, and she told the girl the whole sad tale.

The girl tied the little shirts into a bundle and kissed her mother. “I will bring my brothers home,” she promised. She walked and walked until the forest closed around her. At last she came to a small house. Inside were twelve neat beds, twelve chairs, and a tidy hearth. She swept the floor, laid out twelve plates, and set bread and soup on the table. Then she hid behind a curtain and waited.

At dusk the brothers returned from the hunt. “Who has been here?” they cried, smelling warm bread and seeing the fire. “A maiden,” said the eldest, spotting the twelve little plates, and they reached for their knives. But Benjamin raised his hand. “Let me look first,” he said.

He pulled back the curtain and found the girl with the bundle of shirts. “Who are you?” he asked, surprised by her gentle eyes. She opened the bundle and showed the tiny shirts. “I am your sister,” she said. At that, Benjamin’s heart melted. He called the others. The hard vow fell away like a broken chain, and they rushed to her with tears and laughter. They ate together, told stories until late, and happiness warmed the little house.

The next morning the sister said, “Tell me how I can truly help you.” The brothers took her into a garden of the forest where twelve tall white lilies grew. “These are our joy,” they said. She reached out, thinking to pick a lily for each of them as a gift. But the moment she plucked the flowers, there was a wild rattle of wings. The twelve brothers vanished, and twelve black ravens rose into the sky, crying sadly as they flew away.

The girl fell to her knees, weeping. Then, from the rustling leaves, a voice like a breath of wind spoke: “You have turned your brothers into ravens. There is only one way to free them: for seven years you must not speak, and you must not laugh. If you utter a single word, all will be lost.”

The girl wiped her tears, stood up, and made the vow. She climbed into a tall tree at the forest’s edge to be far from people, and there she kept her silence.

One day a young king rode by with his hunting party. He looked up and saw the silent maiden in the tree, her face kind and brave. He asked her questions, but she did not answer. He brought her down gently and took her to his castle. Although she said nothing, the king saw her goodness and married her.

The king’s mother, however, was a hard, jealous woman. She did not like her new daughter-in-law. When the queen’s first child was born, the old woman stole the baby away at night and hid it. Then she whispered wicked lies: “Your silent queen has eaten her own child.” The king would not believe such a thing. He loved his wife and trusted her.

When the second child came, the same cruel trick was played. Again the king refused to doubt his queen. But when the third baby disappeared, the people murmured, and the old woman pressed her lies like thorns into the king’s heart. The silent queen could not defend herself with a single word.

Because the law demanded it, the court condemned her. A day was set, and a great fire was built. The queen walked to the place of judgment with her head held high. She had kept her vow for many long days and nights. Now, as the first flames flickered, the seventh year came to its very last moment.

Suddenly a rush of wings darkened the sky. Twelve ravens swooped down, circled the fire, and settled upon the ground. In the blink of an eye, the black feathers fell away, and there stood the twelve brothers, alive and whole. “Stop!” they cried. “Our sister has saved us!”

The queen opened her mouth and at last could speak. She told the king everything—from the cruel decree, to the forest hut, to the vow of silence that had freed her brothers. The brothers told their tale too. Then the truth came out: the old queen had hidden the three babies. Servants were sent and found the children safe, wrapped and sleeping in a secret chamber.

Joy burst through the palace like sunlight. The king embraced his wife and the little ones, and the twelve brothers lifted their sister high. The wicked old queen was punished as the law commanded, and no one wept for her.

From that day on, the family lived in peace. The young queen spoke when she wished, laughed when she liked, and told stories to her children and her brothers. The king ruled with justice, and the hard, foolish decree was never heard of again. And if they ever walked by a field of white lilies, they smiled, remembering how love and loyalty had carried them all safely home.