certainly will!’
THE UNUSUAL ADVENTURE OF THE WILD CHICKEN
PPart IV
When the three days had passed, the wild chicken was back pecking away at the eagle’s tree again. For hours she pecked but nothing happened. So she pecked way into the night and only when she was so tired that she could hardly move her head, she went home to sleep. But the next morning there she was again, chipping the bark with her pointy beak. Again, though, nothing happened. And this went on for a week or so, every day Christy pecked at the tree relentlessly. Until, one night...
‘Who, in the name of all that is green, dares to wake me?’
‘Sir… Sir, it is me. The wild chicken. You have a message for me sir?’
‘Oh, it’s the crazy hen is it? Shoo, you goofy, obnoxious animal! You pest you! Leave me be!’
‘Sir, you have a message for me. Until you tell me what it is, I will not let you be.’
Infuriated, the eagle shot down towards Christy, all menacing, with his night cap still on and slippers on his feet. He pinned her to the tree with his mighty wings and as she struggled to free herself, he hissed:
‘When I say leave me be you…’
He stopped in mid-sentence as the wind blew away his pink night hat.
‘Oh, no!’ And away he turned and made for the pink garment that was swooped right beneath the root of a tree. He clawed and pecked and flapped his wings as hard as he could but he could not get it to move. So, alas, he had to admit defeat and finally say:
‘Wild chicken… would you please retrieve my headdress for me? I am in dire need of it.’
‘Certainly sir. My message, please?’ Christy said, without pride or contempt.
‘He said you can build anything you want. He found a new summer home in the north. He has already undone the charm.’
‘Splendid! Here you go, then!’
‘The eagle gently hugged the pink piece of fabric, smelled it and flew back atop his tree without another word.
‘How strange the world is,’ Christy thought. ‘And they call me crazy for wanting to build a bridge. What about the animals that don’t build anything?’ She slowly made her way home, pondering the eagle’s affection for his hat. ‘Such a strong creature… such a weak heart!’ She fell asleep remembering her own parents. Two moderately average hens of no particular qualities or means that had raised her in no specific way. The next day she was banging on the witch’s door again.
‘Come in, dear! I want you to meet my pet snake! This is Helena! Once upon a time she ate your grandmother. Bony chicken she was, apparently. Now, listen here!’
‘Excuse me? Which one of my grandmothers?!’
‘The old one.’
‘Which one of the old ones?’
‘The one with the red nail polish on her beak.’
‘Oh, her. Oh, that’s alright, I never really liked her much.’
‘Very well, then. Now, this grandmother of yours carried around the magical key to a magical chest.’
‘So?’
‘So in the chest there is a small plank of wood. A magical plank of wood that floats!’
‘Most wood floats.’
‘Fine, miss smarty pants. I see you don’t need my advice, then. Go undo the third charm yourself.’
‘I’m sorry! Do carry on!’
‘So this magical plank of wood can talk, you see. And it is the only remaining plank from the castle that used to be on top of the hill. It was destroyed ages ago by a giant rabbit. If you want to build anything on top of that hill, you will have to start with that plank. It has to become part of your bridge.’
‘So where do I find the key that your snake ate and the chest?’
‘I have the chest. And I know where Helena has been going about her business for years. Here’s a small shovel. I will show you the way.’
THE UNUSUAL ADVENTURE OF THE WILD CHICKEN
PPart V
Yet again, without pride or remorse, Christy was working towards building her bridge. For two whole days she dug around the snake compost heap that the witch had indicated. Suddenly, out of nowhere on the third day...
‘It’s alright, dear, you can stop now’ the witch said.
‘Why? I haven’t found the key yet. If it’s here I’ll find it.’
‘But it’s not there.’
‘Well how do you know that? You’re the one that told me where to look, in the first place.’
‘Precisely. I only wanted you to dig up the heap so I wouldn’t have to do it. I need that compost for my fig trees, you see. I grow them behind the house next to my cactuses.’
‘So all my work for the past two days is absolutely pointless?’
‘But of course not! It made me merry as can be. So now I can tell you where the key really is. You proved you deserve it.’
‘Because I dug up this heap?’
‘Honey, anyone willing to scoop snake poop just to fulfill a dream is sure going to fulfill it eventually. By now, you shouldn’t even need my help. You just don’t know that. You’d find a way no matter what.’
‘I suppose I would. That would be such a lovely place for a bridge.’
‘Now think about it. Where is this key?’
‘Did your snake actually eat my grandmother?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, then, if it’s not here, it should be around your house somewhere. Except you knew you were coming to see me. So you probably have it with you right now.’
‘You’re pretty smart for a hen, you are. Here it is. This is the key’ the witch said and handed over something like a rusty screw.
‘What about the chest, then?’
‘Come inside. Let’s open it up.’
Right under Albus’ fish tank, there was a bulky, dusty old box, shaped like a pear. The witch moved the fish and Christy looked for a keyhole. Sure enough, she found something resembling one and inserted the key. The screw started to move by itself, twitching and squirming like a worm. It then opened a pair of small beady eyes and said:
‘Oh, bother! How I missed my home! Who has brought me back?! Is it you?’
‘It’s me. Can you look around your house for something like a stick or a plank, please?’
‘Certainly. I know what you mean. I met a hen once and she left me with a small piece of wood. But it’s not a plank, really, it’s very small. She said you should bury it.’
‘That will do. Thank you.’
The screw-worm brought out a tiny piece of wood out of his pear and Christy happily went along and dug a hole in the ground on the side of the hill. That’s where she started building a majestically simple wooden bridge. The wind blew things away no more and she was almost done in a fortnight. Afterwards, she went to see the world from her bridge almost every single morning. Usually by herself, until one happy day, a badger was also out and about, staring into the distance. The next day, so was a small penguin. The third day, a giraffe stretched to see the horizon. And by the end of the summer just about every species of animal you can imagine took its turn at looking at the world in a new way.
‘I am happy,’ Christy thought. ‘This is a lovely place for a bridge.’
THE MAGICAL MELODY FROM THE VILLAGE OF TREES
PPart I
Once upon a time there was a village of trees, at the foothills of a tall, grey mountain. It never rained on the mountain and nothing ever grew upon it. But it was said that beneath it ran a stream of the world’s purest water. That this stream kept the entire world at its foothills alive, made from rain and snow and rivers and oceans and even the icebergs of Antarctica. But there was no proof or recollection or any knowledge, in any form, to prove that such a thing were possible.
The trees had settled in the village many generations before with the great forest migration that ended the dark ages. Their forefathers had lived on the mountain when it was green and life burst from every crease and crevasse. But one day, the sky darkened above it and the crest of the mountain remained dark for the days to come. And all the stirrin
g and sounding on it slowly died away as the ground became as barren as the sky and the animals started to move away.
One day, at the council of the forest elders, it was decided that each and every tree would uproot itself, and together they would search for a new land to call home. They dragged their roots across the stony paths so slowly that nothing was ever visible to mortal eyes. But yet they walked ceaselessly, for eras and eras, until the gentle, thin, mossy bark of their feet first touched upon green grass again. They finally settled at the foothills of the mountain, and the procession of putting the forest in order again lasted for many human years, more than anyone would care to count.
Then, one evening as the sun was setting by the mountain, behind a hapless storm cloud that lay too far away to seem threatening to anyone in the wood, a single leaf fell from the tallest branch of the oldest beech tree. On its way down, it gently nudged the driest of the twigs, which snapped out of place and fell to the floor of the wood. Down it went, sliding along roots and wet leaves, all the way to the ground that welcomed it as the last piece in dire need of coming into place. The great migration was complete and the long life of the village started.
It is after this moment that the trees started knitting their branches into rooftops. With each passing year they pressed them closer and closer together, until, from above, the forest looked like a forgotten medieval castle, with high, pointed arches and ribbed vaults.
When the work was almost complete a faint and strange sound started to make its way through the heavy, time worn trunks. It was as if the wind was blowing through the leaves, or, perhaps, as if someone was playing an