The murder of the owl set the whole forest astir, and whispers ran like wind through branch and bramble. Yoshi, who had heard the wild clamor of wings, guessed well enough what doom had befallen the old night-watcher. A sharp curiosity tugged at him—an urge to creep near and witness how the owl would be punished. Yet prudence, ever his truer companion, held him fast. The tumult of so many birds gathering filled him with unease, and at length he slipped back into the deeper shadows of the wood. There he sought a thicket to hide himself, for he feared that when the owl’s fate was settled, a sharp-eyed jay might spy him lingering nearby—and then he would surely be met with mockery from every perch and branch in the forest. He walked along a path strewn with small twigs and fallen leaves, yet soon abandoned it, for a foul and creeping odor drifted from the way ahead. It clung to the air like a warning. These were the traces of Mram—the she-wolf had passed not long before. Hurrying on, he came to a fallen branch lying near the wide trunk of a hornbeam, and there he stopped, struck with astonishment and no small measure of dread. Upon the branch, crouched like a scrap of bark come strangely to life, stood a creature—if creature it was. One could not easily say whether it belonged to a tree, bird, or beast. It was no larger than a pigeon, yet it seemed greater somehow, for its gray-ash coloring melted into the wood beneath it until the two were nearly one, and the eye lost it in that soft dimness. Looking more closely at the strange creature, Yoshi saw that it was, after all, a kind of bird. A single great black eye glimmered like a bead in the dusk, and long silverish whiskers trembled at the edges of its small face. Its feathers were mottled with every shade of twilight gray, as night-birds often are, woven together like shadows stitched upon a cloak. The hedgehog inspected its beak: short, straight, and harmless—certainly not the sort carried by hunters or talon-bearing foes. While he studied it, the creature held so perfectly still that it might have passed for a fallen twig, forgotten by the tree that dropped it. “Hallo there,” Yoshi murmured. “What are you, truly? Living creature—or wandering branch?” “M-r-r-r, m-r-r-r,” crooned the bird. “You have noticed me at last? I am the Night Swallow, the Night Swallow. Have you never heard of me?” “Nightingale!—so it is true, then. Word reached me from old Uncle Fuzzball, and he nearly sent his brother running to find you… Ah! You are Nightingale!” cried Yoshi, his voice ringing out as if a long-standing riddle had just been answered. His face shone with such happiness that it seemed for a moment as though some small fire had been kindled within him.
“Uncle Fuzzball is already dead, isn’t he?” said the bird, still perched and unmoving upon his place. “Uncle Fuzzball is already dead, isn’t he?” said the bird, still perched and unmoving upon his place. “But how do you know?” wondered the hedgehog, his voice pricked with astonishment. “I know all that happens in this forest,” answered the Nightingale, in a low, sure tone. “By day I lie quiet and hidden, whether upon the earth or in the boughs; but when night comes, I wander beneath the leaves from end to end of the wood. And as I lie in silence, I hear more than I ever seek to know—for the birds talk freely, thinking no one listens.” “How glad I am to have found you,” said Yoshi, stepping nearer to him. “For I have a great request… I am searching for my friend. Have you not seen her anywhere?” The Nightingale let out a soft snoring laugh, like a tiny branch shaken by the wind. “I cannot say who your friend may be,” he replied. “The turtle, Thumbelina… Surely you must have seen her?” “I have seen a turtle,” said the Nightingale calmly. “But whether she is your friend or not—that I could not tell.” “Where is she now?” cried Yoshi, delight brightening his face. “Just before dawn, while the last tatters of night still clung to the forest,” the night-bird replied, “I left her by the stream. For two or three days she has tarried there, rolling about as if the world held no other duty. Never have I known a creature more clumsy or more content to idle. It seems her wish was to remain there forever.” “Please—take me to her!” Yoshi said warmly. “I do not fly beneath the sun,” the bird answered, ruffling its feathers. “Daylight troubles me. Wait until the shadows return, and I shall guide you.” During this time the crows were returning to their roosts, settling among the darkening boughs. Their harsh cawing rolled through the forest like scattered pebbles tossed down a well. Two jays flitted past, flying from tree to tree, chattering excitedly about the she-wolf. “If I only knew where Mram was hiding, I’d hand her over to the hunters without a second thought,” said one, his wings flicking restlessly. “And how would you manage that?” asked the other. “Oh, simple enough,” he replied. “I’d shout right beside her and draw them near.” “The hunters do not always understand our tongue,” the second jay answered with a wise tilt of the head. “If I Were you, I’d keep quiet. The she-wolf hauls all manner of beasts and fowl back to her lair. I circle round after her, and there is always a scrap or two left. When she is full, Mram grows generous.” “A crow once told me that she buries whatever she cannot finish,” whispered the first jay. “Come—let’s find it!” With a flutter of wings they passed on, hopping from branch to branch until the forest swallowed their voices. After a short while, a fox emerged from the brush, dragging its thick tail behind. The noise in the wood had roused her sooner than she wished, and now she padded forward, ears pricked, to discover what disturbance had broken the forest’s usual hush. “She is too late,” said the Nightingale, when the fox’s brush vanished between the dark tree-boles. “A moment sooner, and some crow would have paid the price.” “Why so?” asked the Yoshi. “Because they hate her more even than the she-wolf,” the Nightingale replied. “And she, knowing this well, often lies as if slain, pretending to be dead—stretched long upon the ground, stiff as frost-bitten boughs. Then the crows, foolish in their triumph, begin their revels. Down they sweep, edging nearer and nearer, until boldness carries them to her very head. And then she snaps one up. Did you see how she sniffed the path? Mram just passed by there. Only she went up, and the fox went down, on the opposite track of the she-wolf. The two don’t like each other anyway. Mram will see to it if she only catches her,” murmured the Nightingale.
“It seems that everyone hates each other,” said Yoshi. “Not everyone,” replied the Nightingale softly. “Look at the small and peaceful folk of the forest. The tits, the woodpeckers, the finches, and many others wander in merry companies beneath the boughs. They share what they find, and without even meaning to, they shield one another from the common perils of the wild.” “Think of the jays,” she went on. “Restless wanderers they are, yet when they glimpse a creeping foe, they cry out sharply. Then the magpies and the crows, hear their alarm, rise in clamorous ranks, and together they drive the intruder away. So are the gentle folk warned and kept from harm. But the hunters of the high air—those that take their prey—go alone,” the Nightingale concluded. “And why do they hate the owl so bitterly?” asked the Yoshi. “There lies an old feud,” answered the Nightingale, her voice dropping like dusk through leaves. “For the owl hunts by night, when the small ones sleep in the trees and cannot flee. In darkness they are helpless. Many crows has fallen to those silent wings, they say. Yet it is the magpies who suffer the most. In the long winter nights the owl sees them easily among the bare branches, and hunts them with a special and dreadful eagerness.” The Nightingale fell silent, and with a soft rustle of its long wings made ready to depart. The sun had slipped beyond the horizon, and shadows were gathering beneath the trees as evening started creeping through the forest. Yoshi stirred uneasily. “You fly, and I am but a slow walker on the earth,” he said to the bird. “How am I to follow you?” “Fear not,” replied the Nightingale. “Go down into the forest’s darkening ways, and I shall guide you to your friend.” Though he could not guess how a creature of the air might lead one who trod the soil, Yoshi obeyed and turned where the bird had indicated. The Nightingale lifted herself lightly and vanished into the dimming canopy. It was a master of the wind, gliding between branches as a shadow might slip between lantern beams. In an instant she rose above the treetops, and the last glimmer of her wings was lost. Yoshi walked on, slowly and with no small measure of caution. A rabbit ran across his path—startled at the mere sight of him—and vanished like a grey shadow into the undergrowth. A little farther on he came upon a mouse-hole tucked neatly between two roots, as though some tiny folk had carved out a dwelling for themselves time long ago. The forest deepened. Shade gathered beneath the boughs, thick as wool, and the wind muttered in the high branches overhead. Here and there a thin shard of moonlight slipped through the leaves, for the moon had only just lifted her pale face above the horizon. The shifting branches cast long wavering shadows, and it seemed to Yoshi that the whole forest was stirring with a life of its own. An owl, curious about the rustling below, dropped from its perch as silent as falling snow. Yoshi glimpsed its great round eyes shining like lantern-glass before it muttered some gruff complaint and drifted off into the dark. Yoshi pressed on. Suddenly, from high above the forest roof, there rang out a long, chilling cry—sharp enough to pierce bone. A black shape swept across the moonlit sky, swift and soundless. Another pursued it, clinging close upon its tail. The scream rose again, keener than before, shivering through the branches like a cold wind. Yoshi got scared and hid in a bush. “Mur, mur,” came the Nightingale’s soft voice beside him—warm with reassurance, though touched with a hint of playful mockery. “Are you scared? Have no fear. These are the night-kites quarreling above. Come now, creep out from there.” “But why are they fighting?” asked Yoshi. “Ah, you are ever curious,” the Nightingale replied, alighting upon the leaf-strewn earth. “Very well, I shall tell you.” She folded her wings neatly. “The red kite, like all hunters of the high air, keeps a realm of her own—wood, field, and wind where she seeks her prey. No rival may trespass. Should another appear, she drives him off; or, if he proves the stronger, she herself must flee. Tonight, fate set two sisters against each other. Both are young still, and neither has yet claimed the hunting-grounds around these hills. So they clash in the dusk.” Her voice lowered. “And before the moon has climbed high, only one will fly again. The other will fall, and her sister—victor and kin alike—will feed upon the body she has slain.” “How terrible this is,” murmured the hedgehog, with his small voice sounding thoughtful. “I come from the swamp, and it is much the same there—dim and troubling. Before that I lived in the open field, and things seemed kinder then.” “Who can say?” replied the Nightingale, her tone carrying a quiet wisdom. “There are bad creatures in every place. One must work hard, and sometimes even stand and fight.” She flicked her wings with an easy grace and added: “Keep on as you are going. I shall fly beside you awhile. And so that you do not lose your path, make certain the moon lies always before your face.” She rose into the air so lightly and so soundlessly that the hedgehog blinked in wonder, scarcely sensing the moment when the bird left the earth. Then he saw her gliding straight toward the great round moon—gleaming like a burnished shield—as though the Nightingale wished to warm herself in its cold fire. The hedgehog’s steps grew firmer. From time to time he heard the soft purring call of the Nightingale above him, hunting the drifting moths and quick night-flies as swallows do at dusk. At last he caught the deep-throated roar of the waterfall, and the cool splash of its waters tumbling into the still pond below. Yoshi’s heart beat fast within him, for he hoped at last to behold his long-lost companion, of whom he had known nothing for so long. A little farther on he came to the forest’s very brink. From that point downward only low thornbushes clung to the slope, and the earth grew suddenly harsh and stony beneath his feet. “Thumbelina has chosen her place well,” Yoshi thought. “Ever has she loved such sun-scoured ground where the heat lies heavy as a cloak through the long day.” Then the Nightingale’s voice came to him, clear and guiding as a silver thread. “Look among the bushes,” the bird advised. Side by side they searched the steep hillside, but not a mark nor shadow of the turtle could they find. “That she had rolled along this way! Then where has she vanished?” wondered the Nightingale. Yoshi called out again and again, but the slope gave back no answer. He thrust his nose beneath every thorn and branch, yet Thumbelina was nowhere to be seen. “She is not here. I have looked in all places,” said the Nightingale at last. Weary and stricken with despair, the hedgehog sank down beside a thorny shrub. The bird fluttered down and alighted softly by his side. “Do not despair,” she said softly, laying a gentle wing upon him. “This night I shall meet many wanderers of the dark—creatures whose eyes pierce the shadows better than mine. I will ask the owl and the tawny owl, the nightjars, even the bats that flit like whispers between the boughs. Surely one of them has crossed her path.” “As for you, return to the forest. Wait for me where you found me today. When the first pale hint of dawn steals into the sky, I will be there.” With that, the small bird lifted herself and passed into the deepening night, until her shape was swallowed by the darkness beneath the trees.
Thumbelina and Yoshi
Viciousella
The Ant's Help
Ungrateful Neighbors
Unexpected Air Journey
The Mysterious Aunt
Sly
Who Is Hiding In The Reeds
The Unpleasant Acquaintance
A Bad Tribe
The Herons
More Acquaintances
How Thumbelina Got Lost
The Little Divers
With The Squirrels
Bandits Of The Night
The Death Of Uncle Fuzzball
The Owl's Punishment
How Mram The She-Wolf Ate Him
Meeting With The Nightjar
The Masterful Surgeon
Yoshi Finds Thumbelina
The Lonely Dweller
High In The Mountain
Deers
At The Home Field