The
Chinese Song Bird
by
Thor May, 1997
Once in a modest house
in the centre of China there lived a little song bird. People around about
knew the call of this song bird; it was a part of their lives, and they
cared for it well enough after their fashion. However, in her heart the
bird was restless. She had heard of a wider world, where the sky was egg-shell
blue and the fresh green grass was always dotted with flowers of many
colours. In the long damp winters she thought of this other world, with
its gentle breezes and delicious aromas. She dreamed of singing on summer
evenings as lovers sat hand in hand, and imagined that poets would catch
her beauty forever in wonderful verse.
One day an old man
came to her province. He was a traveller from distant lands, with dress
and customs that amused, even frightened the local folk a little. He
spoke a barbarous tongue, but with much effort they translated some
of his meaning. He had come, he said, to invite one of the best, the
brightest in this city to be a guest in his place, far away across the
sea. The people spoke amongst themselves and were perplexed. None wanted
to offend the stranger, for none knew what price an offence might cost,
yet none felt willing to venture into such a risky enterprise.
The song bird watched
her neighbours debate, and knew that they had no dream of a wider world
where the sky was egg-shell blue. At last, when the mayor was about
to toast the visitor with six kampais, and send him off a little
drunk into the night, she suddenly knew what she must do. With a single
graceful dive she left her perch in the corner of the Great Hall of
the People, and landed on the shoulder of the old man. Then she sang,
an ancient beautiful melody, so that all were charmed, and the visitor
in thrall to beauty declared that this Chinese song bird would certainly
span the rainbow arc between their distant cultures.
Much later, when the
moon had turned her face four times to the east and four times to the
west, the little song bird awoke under a sky that was grey, and egg-shell
blue, and black and white four times in a day. A sharp wind ranged in
from the south, ruffling feathers, while cats hurried to find comfort
in front of warm hearths. The song bird warbled her ancient melody from
the branch of a strange tree. Three lizards looked worried, a boy delivering
newspapers paused to scratch his head, and the mischievous wind brought
a sudden roar of engines from the eight lane motorway nearby. The song
bird shuddered to the core of her being, that cold lonely shudder with
which every creature leaves the promise of eternal spring, and knows
that one day it must die.
So all winter the
little song bird sat on a shelf in the corner of the old man's kitchen.
People came and went. They were strange people who spoke a barbarous
tongue, but they were kind enough after their fashion. One or two asked
about the land from whence she had come, but could scarcely understand
the answers that she fashioned in a sad song. Sometimes they asked her
to come out to new parts of their city, but she shivered and sat silent,
with no dream to fly to. Then she thought back to a modest house in
the centre of China where the people were kind enough after their fashion,
and knew her songs in their bones. And she wondered where she should
die some day, if their were no meadow where the grass was always green
and dotted with flowers of many colours.
When the days had
passed their shortest hour, and some sunny mornings hinted that better
things were coming, the little song bird seemed to lose a bit of her
sadness. There was a quieter, slightly fearful, but determined look
in her eye. So it was no surprise to the old man, who was wise in his
way, that one morning at breakfast she flew onto his shoulder. "We are
going to China", he said softly, "you are going home."
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