beyond the forest the two friends
came upon a field of yellow spear grass.
let us go back - said pu, because her heart
was heavy from the song in her head. but motley refused.
then they saw coming towards them a huge
golden shape, all claws and fur and a face that was so hideous that they
had to turn away.
the ungainly bulk of the hairy monster glided
across the grasses -- and the two friends saw how the grass leaves could
not sting nor cut through to the monster's skin because of the long thick
hairs. looking about them, they exclaimed at how far they could see and
how safely they perched on the monster's broad back.
then the monster spoke to them in liquid
melodies of its homeland of grasses and soft paths, of the colours of the
wildflowers and his people -- others like him yet unlike for his fellows,
he sang, grew hair of deepest emerald,, or the blue of a cloudless sky,
hair of crimson or deepest black, of purple or white or the russet of leaves
in fall.
their voices are stilled, gone forever. i
alone am left.
pu and motley hung their heads.
in silence they reached the further edge
of the sea of grass. in silence, they climbed down from the monster's back.
in silence they turned to face it -- and found that the monstrous face,
while hideous still, no longer mattered because its' voice that had sung
to them of pain , its' eyes glowed with an inner fire and its fur flowed
like soft strands of feathered sun.
they hugged the monster and wept.
i cannot leave here -- ever.
the hairy monster had set them down on the
outskirts of a wood so once more they found themselves beneath a canopy
of leaves. the quiet of another forest wrapped itself about them. yet the
song of the kabukicuckoo echoed in pu's head like laughter -- laughter
that mocked and jeered and scorned. and there was something familiar in
the mockery that would tolerate no imperfections. pu wept, recognising
the ghost of her own voice joining in the laughter.
motley waited in the silence.
then:
no, said pu, i must find the singer of dreams,
the maker of songs and ask it to dream for me questions for which i have
no words but one -- why?
the grass leaves stung and burned them and
they searched for another way, but there was none within sight but to return
the way they came.
to go back now would mean a wasted journey,
she said.
we have left hearth and caern and foresthome,
she said. we have found a smiling spinner of webs of light whose real face
was coldest pain, but the singer we have not found. i will not go back.
an answer waits to be discovered and set
beneath the tallest tree in foresthome so that it may catch the rays of
sun and moon and set shadows to dancing. i will not go back.
so, despite the pain of cuts that left the
leaves of the yellow grass edged with red, they both went on.
they would have run but it called to them
in a sweet sad voice, soft and gentle as the music of the wind in the pines
of foresthome.
you will never cross the grasses on your
own, it said. i can bear you both. will you ride on me ?
po and motley turned to face the hairy monster
and they looked straight into its' sad glowing eyes. they nodded.
they clambered onto the monster's back,
grabbing handfuls of the thick yellow hair as they mounted, and were surprised
to find it as soft as thistledown.
they were always singing, he hummed softly,
they sang to the stars and to baby birds and with choruses of crickets
after rain.
oh, we should love to hear such singing,
see such sights - the two friends exclaimed. take us with you and we will
set aside our quest for a time.
but the soft, sad voice now sang to them
of hunters -- slayers who came with their sticks of fire and a bite more
venomous than a snake. for while snakes could not pierce the thickness
of their hair, these sticks did.
the hunters -- coveting our fur but hating
our faces -- came to claim what they wanted and slay what they feared.
their disgust and their greed condemned us to death.
my people did not know how to fight, they
had never learned. they only knew how to sing. but on the day the hunters
came, they learned a new thing -- they learned how to scream.
so his fellows had died: their mates and
their offspring and their songs. one by one, their colours ran with the
stain of their blood.
the hairy monster wept as he sang his dirge.
the day of the slaughter, i fell asleep
in a field of yellow speargrass. the dreamer of songs awakened me before
the bursts began from the hunters. I should have stood up, died with the
others - instead i cowered in fear and begged the grass hide me.
my people were shot in the head -- to destroy
their faces and preserve the hides.
they never even heard us sing.
for a while, as they listened to the monster's
song and watched the sunlight dance in his hair, they had forgotten how
they had acted when they first met him. Now they were ashamed.
come with us, they said, and we shall be
your people.
it looked down at them, its eyes burning
-- and said, i am grateful for your offer -- but these grasses hide me
from the slayers, and the pain of my solitude reminds me that my fear of
death was greater than my love for my people, is stronger than my need
for friendship.
then he turned away from them and vanished
into the field of grass. pu and motley stood for a while, silent in the
sunlight.
shall we go back? she asked.
