poemwrig5 Shingebiss

Shingebiss

by Will Wright

(Adapted from the Ojibwa tale)

 

Short winter days on Great Lake Huron

The North Wind reigns as chief of all

Forcing Man and wolf and hare and deer on

To places sheltered from icy squall

To den and cave and warming hall

In his tent by the lakeside cozy

Lived the brown duck Shingebiss

When feathers ruffled or cheeks were rosy

He laid four logs on the fire to hiss

Four large logs for winter’s bliss

At dawn the duck would do his fishing

Braving cold and frost of hoar

And if for warmth his heart was wishing

He’d go home and set on floor

A merry fire with his large logs, four

The Wind Chief saw the one tent standing

Near where lakeside rushes grow

In appearance like a summer landing

With holes for fishing in a row

This duck, this Shingebiss must go!

He doesn’t shudder, he’s never wheezing

He refuses to the southlands fly

His fishing holes then, I’ll be freezing

So he’ll have no food nearby

Without fish, Shingebiss will die

Shingebiss told the North Wind Chief

You’re just a creature, much like me

Though you may cause much toil and grief

I will not fear you, so I’m free

Shingebiss cut new fishing holes, three

Each day the duck cut holes to fish

And dared the North Wind’s mighty howling

And caught as much as he might wish

To sustain and keep the bold young fowl

Lingering through the winter’s growling

This little duck, he does not fear me

I am the Chief, the North Wind cried

Yet he would fear if he were near me

So lifting flap, he came inside

To blow on Shingebiss till he died

The Wind Chief loosed an icy chill

That whispered thoughts both dire and dread

With malice cold enough to kill

But Shingebiss calmly turned his head

Though he could not see the wind, he said

I know who sets my tent a-blowing

You’re still a creature, much like me

With all your ice and wind and snowing

I will not fear you, so I’m free

He stirred the fire and let things be

The Chief blew harder, though not colder

Blowing feathers, fur and hair

It raised the fire from its smolder

The four logs burned with flame and flair

The duck smelled changes in the air

The Wind felt drops of water dripping

From his newly fevered brow

Silent tears from cold eyes tipping

That never felt a tear till now

How can I cry? I don’t know how

Don’t you see, you’ve stayed too long

Winter’s passing as you sit

Butterflies and birds of song

From budding branches fly and flit

With a feeble breeze, the North Wind quit

In dark December and months beyond

On Huron’s shores, brave ducks you see

With fishing holes in lakes and pond

Like their father Shingebiss they be

Never fearing, always free.

fictwrig7 Doeg's Story

Doeg’s Story

by Will Wright from his Dragon Alliance novels.

(With thanks to Walter Bego.)

My story begins on a tree branch. It was outside an upper window of a great mansion. A fat gray bird sat there awaiting the morning sun. On his leg was a thin golden tether that led into the mansion through a window.

A scarlet songbird landed farther along the branch from the gray. It looked like a fine place to spend a moment. Below the tree was an immaculate garden lined with small silver markers. The pretty markers glowed faintly in the pre-dawn.

The songbird opened her mouth and sang a song of first light. Though she was tiny, her voice filled the garden. She sang of the deep blue that covered the sky, how it quivered and waited for the first hint of light. She sang of bold beams bursting from the east and racing across the horizon waking bird and beast. Finally she sang of the infant sun raising its head, looking with newness and wonder at the earth before it.

“That was lovely,” said the gray bird. “Will you teach it to me?”

“Why do you want to learn my song,” asked the songbird. “Don’t you have a morning song of your own?”

“I have many songs,” said the gray bird. “I am a collector bird. My master feeds me well and dotes on me because I have learned songs and stories from many birds. My master will love me better if I learn your song of first light.”

“But I am hungry,” said the scarlet bird. “I have sung the song of first light, and now I must find seed to eat.”

“I have lovely seed within this window,” said the gray bird. “My master gives me all the seed that I desire. If you will teach me your song of first light, I will bring you seed such as you have never tasted before.”

“I do not trust that window,” said the songbird. “Though I don’t wish to judge you, I don’t know if it’s good that any bird have a master. Still, if you wish to learn the song, I will teach you, for the song is beautiful and should be sung.”

“I will bring out the seed,” said the gray.

The two birds ate, and true to the collector bird’s promise, it was a most excellent selection of seeds. Though the scarlet bird was sleepy from the feast, she kept her bargain and taught the gray bird the song of first light.

Though the collector bird was plain, he had a magnificent range and learned to sing the song very quickly.

“You have learned very well,” said the scarlet bird.

“Thank you,” said the gray. “Do you know any other songs?”

It was just past noon and the scarlet songbird opened her mouth and sang the song of mid day. Though she was tiny, her voice carried over the mid-day bustle. She sang of the wide vistas she could see from her branch. She sang of clouds rolling on their journeys of changing and becoming. She sang of birds and beasts busy with the toils of life, some with little ones in tow. She sang of sun in its prime ripening the grain, drying the dew, and brightening every corner of the earth.

“That was lovely,” said the gray bird. “Will you teach it to me?”

“Why do you want to learn my song,” asked the songbird. “Don’t you have a mid-day song of your own?”

“I have many songs,” said the gray bird. “I am a collector bird. My master feeds me well and dotes on me because I have learned songs and stories from many birds. My master will love me better if I learn your song of mid day.”

“But I must build a nest,” said the scarlet bird. “If I am to have young, I must gather twigs and grasses and leaves to weave.”

“I have lovely strands within this window,” said the gray bird. “My master gives me all the cotton, wool, linen, and silk that I could desire. You see how lovely this tether is that I wear. If you will teach me your song of mid day, I will bring you strands of unsurpassed beauty and comfort for your nest.”

“I still do not trust your window,” said the songbird. “Your tether is beautiful, but it fills me with dread. Still, if you wish to learn the song, I will teach you, for the song is beautiful and should be sung.”

“I will bring out the strands,” said the gray.

The two birds wove, and it was a most excellent selection of fibers. Together they built a magnificent nest. Though the scarlet bird longed to find a mate to bring to her nest, she kept her bargain and taught the gray bird the song of mid day.

Though the collector bird was plain, he had a magnificent range and learned to sing the song very quickly.

“You have learned very well,” said the scarlet bird.

“Thank you,” said the gray. “Do you know any other songs?”

It was evening now, and the sun was about to set. The scarlet songbird opened her mouth and sang the song of day’s end. Though she was tiny, her voice carried into the mansion. She sang of long shadows reaching from tree to tree. She sang of flowers closing, birds nesting, and beasts burrowing. She sang of human lights, invisible in the full day, dotting the land like raspberries on a bush. She sang of the ancient sun, tired from its labors, resting in a bed of many colors.

“That was lovely,” said the gray bird. “Will you teach it to me?”

“Why do you want to learn my song,” asked the songbird. “Don’t you have an evening song of your own?”

“I have many songs,” said the gray bird. “I am a collector bird. My master feeds me well and dotes on me because I have learned songs and stories from many birds. My master will love me better if I learn your song of day’s end.”

“But I must sleep,” said the scarlet bird. “If I am to rise and sing the song of first light, my eyes must be bright and my heart rested.”

“Within this window,” said the gray bird, “my master has taught me a great secret of rest. It is a rest so complete that you need not fear weariness in the morning. If you teach me your song of day’s end, I will teach you this secret and you will rest so fully that you will not miss the sleep you lost.”

“I do not trust your window,” said the songbird. “A peaceful rest is a joy, but my rest is usually sweet; I do not need this secret. Still, if you wish to learn, I will teach you, for the song is beautiful and should be sung.”

“Teach me, then,” said the gray, “and the secret will be yours.”

This time the gray would not tell his secret until he learned the song. Even so, the scarlet bird held back her slumber and kept the bargain. She taught the gray bird the song of day’s end.

Though the collector bird was plain, he had a magnificent range and learned to sing the song very quickly.

“You have learned very well,” said the scarlet bird.

“Thank you,” said the gray. “Do you know any other songs?”

“I know no other songs,” said the scarlet bird. “I only wish you peace with what you’ve learned. You may keep your secret of rest. I will fly now and find my rest.”

“But your nest is here,” said the gray bird. “It is comfortable and waits to hold you in your slumber.”

“You may keep the nest,” said the scarlet bird. “I only wish you peace. I will seek rest on another branch and wait for first light.”

“But there is seed inside this window,” said the gray bird. “If you will rest here, I will bring it out to you in the morning, and together we will sing the song of first light.”

“You may keep the seed,” said the scarlet bird. “I only wish you peace. In the morning I will gather under bush and tree as I have always done.”

“I am sad,” said the gray, “that you will not keep the bargain. For an agreement means to both give and receive. I cannot make you use this nest, nor can I make you eat my master’s seed, but I have not yet given you the secret of rest, and that I must do before you fly away.”

“Come closer,” said the collector bird, “for my tether keeps me close to the window. The secret must be told quietly, and you are too far away.”

The scarlet bird looked away. The sky was dark except the moon that watched her sleep each night. A cloud moved across the sky, and a cool breeze ruffled her feathers.

“A bargain is a bargain,” said the gray bird.

The songbird leaned away. She almost took flight, but stopped. Instead, she leaned in close to the gray bird to hear the secret.

An agreement means to both give and receive.

With a single peck to the head, the collector bird killed the songbird.

In the morning, the master came out into his garden. Above him the gray bird sang the song of first light. The notes were true. If the spirit was less, the master knew that he could have nothing better from a bird tethered to his house.

Carefully the master took the body of the scarlet bird. He put the bird in a mahogany box. He dug a small grave and laid the box inside. At the head of the grave he put an elegant silver marker much like the many other silver markers that lined the edge of his garden.

When the song and burial were done, the master took seed and strands and walked up to the room where the gray bird was tethered. He fed and doted on the gray collector bird.

He dearly loved the fat gray bird. No other bird would wear such a tether.

How, then, would he hear such beautiful songs?

So ends my story.