The princess Canace, in Chaucer’s “Squire’s Tale,” is one of several medieval heroines given a ring that bestows the power to communicate with birds. In Chaucer’s words, its facets let someone listening to a bird knowe his menyng openly and pleyn/And answere hym in his language ageyn. Wearing her ring, the tenderhearted Canace sees a beautiful falcon beating herself bloody in a tree, all but expired from her self-inflicted injuries. The princess begs the bird to tell her story, and the falcon reveals that a handsome tercel has betrayed her. Chaucer never finishes telling Canace’s own story. But the falcon’s grief provides the princess with what, in the context of the tale, seems to be a vital moral stricture. Though of a ripe age for romance, she is left with a deep mistrust of human men. And because she never wants to let herself be hurt as the falcon was, she shuts it in an elaborately decorated cage by her bed, after healing its wounds. Its presence serves as a physical reminder of the lesson Canace has learned. Islamic and Judaic traditions hold that Solomon the Great was not just wise because of being learned in the ways of men; he also understood the language of the birds and of the beasts. Some legends explain that Solomon obtained this power when the angels blessed him with a magic ring, like the one Canace had; others say that it came directly from God himself. There are many stories about Solomon and the birds, stories that turn, like keys, on secrets the king hears from the raven and the dove, the swallow and the nightingale. In one, an eagle gives Solomon instructions for entering a magnificent palace, full of treasures, that has no visible door. In another, the lapwing acts as his spy, bringing news of faithless, faraway Sheba, who will not bow down to Allah but exalts her own god.

Consider the warrior prince Sigurd. He is both good and fearless, and he slays the dragon Fafnir. Now, Sigurd has a brother Regin. Hearing that Sigurd has killed Fafnir, Regin selfishly asks for the dragon’s heart to eat. (As far as I can tell, this is because a dragon’s heart is like some kind of enormous, bloody portal to wisdom. To get the one, you must consume the other.) Sigurd, all trust, all love, agrees. But as he roasts the heart, he accidentally tastes a single drop of Fafnir’s blood. Immediately his ears break open to the language of the birds; at that moment, he hears a flurry of chirping from the roof of the cave where he is sitting. Some versions say the voices belong to two woodpeckers, some say six titmice; either way, they say the same thing: How terrible it is that Regin plans to murder Sigurd! What a betrayal that will be! And do you know what Sigurd the brave, Sigurd the noble, does with this secret truth? Promptly rises, decapitates Regin, eats the dragon’s heart entire, and then—some say drinks, some say bathes in—both Fafnir’s and Regin’s blood.

Anyone who understands the language of the birds, these narratives contend, has access to a powerful source of knowledge and wisdom: perhaps even a direct line of communication to the gods. The idea is seductive. The stories are satisfying. But they are also oddly trivial. This secret, numinous language is used to deliver personal warnings, instructions for achieving riches and success, moral guidance, and military intelligence; the messages it conveys always seem to relate to petty human intrigues. Birds, the myths seem to believe, are mostly preoccupied with people. In one Hindu folktale, a Brahmin who can understand the language of the birds is driven from his home by quarreling wives. He passes through a town ravaged by illness, and is sitting woefully under a tree when a vulture becomes so concerned about him that she refuses to feed on the bodies lying all around. Instead of carrying out their natural roles in the world, she and her mate busy themselves advising the Brahmin on how to find a good bride.