RAW KINGDOM ENTERTAINMENT

                        The Herons

 The sun had sunk low, and shadows stretched long across the worn path as they pressed onward. Sly, his skin darkened with streaks of mud, tried to staunch the bleeding of his wounds. Ever restless and belligerent, he readied himself for yet another skirmish, his gaze darting about with a mischievous glimmer, as though some secret jest or cunning trick were already forming in his mind. The forest around them whispered in the twilight, and the distant rustle of unseen creatures seemed to watch their passage with silent curiosity.
 Everyone trembled at the thought of the meeting with the herons. The rat had whispered of their lives, cunning and cruel, with beaks sharp as needles, with which they sought to blind any who dared to oppose them. Shadows seemed to linger longer around the swamp as Yoshi and Thumbelina shivered with both fear and longing for escape.
 Step by step, the murky water dragged at their feet, and the twisted roots reached up as though to hold them back. They were weary of torment and sorrow, aching to feel the firm earth beneath their paws once more. The air was thick with the musk of reeds and mud, and the distant cries of the herons made their hearts pound like the drums of some unseen host. Every bend of the swamp seemed endless, yet the thought of solid ground ahead spurred them onward, though the dread of the cunning birds never left their minds.

“Swim to the thickest reeds!” commanded Sly, his voice firm and carrying across the water.

 The turtles slipped into the swaying yellow reeds, when suddenly the water-rat’s voice came rushing through the rustling stalks.

“Are you asleep, old man? Forgive our intrusion.”

 From the reeds stirred a great bird, its feathers rusty-gray, flecked with dark brown spots, and its gaze as sharp as a winter wind.

“Address me with the respect befitting my honor!” — rumbled a thick, and resonant voice. — “What is this “old man”? A fool’s jest, perhaps?”

“Forgive me, oh mighty chief of all herons”, — Sly replied with careful courtesy. — “I thought you were deep in slumber and would not hear me. And you, as it seemed, were lost in contemplation of your magnificent beard”.

“I contemplate the stars, not my beard,” said the bass, his tone grave and resonant. “I am a stargazer.”

“But how do you see the stars in the broad daylight?”

“My sight is not as yours,” the bass replied with quiet pride. “Though the sun reigns above, I imagine the world beneath night’s cloak, and behold every glimmer in the sky. But tell me—where are you going?”

 At that moment, the two turtles, seized by curiosity yet wary of the heron leader’s deep voice, crept forward. Their shells gleamed dully in the shifting light, and they moved as if each step carried both awe and fear. The bass’s gaze lingered upon them, serene yet piercing, as though he could read the secret wishes of their hearts.
 They saw before them a terrible bird. Its long, sharp beak jutted proudly skyward, and beneath it fell a cascade of white feathers, long and unkempt, as if a beard had been steeped in dark coffee. Its yellow eyes, curled against the massive body that seemed to possess no neck, remained closed in imperious disdain. The bird stood upon a small tuft amid the thickest reeds, like a sentinel of some forgotten marsh.
 The water-rat raised a paw in caution, signaling the turtles to halt. Then, with a voice both respectful and trembling, he addressed the heron chieftain:

“Great stargazer, we humbly beg to leave us pass through your kingdom.”

“We?” the chieftain’s voice cracked like dry timber. “Why do you speak as if I were part of this ‘we’?”

“I speak ‘we’ because I am not alone,” said Sly, his gaze steady and calm. “I have companions.”

“Companions? And where, pray tell, are these companions? Are they thieves and cutthroats?” the chieftain’s eyes narrowed.

“No, they are not thieves. There are the turtles, but they are not my kin. And there is also Yoshi, a hedgehog, who travels with me.”

 The chieftain leaned forward, suspicion etched into every line of his face. “A hedgehog, you say? Speak plainly, and let this… creature make himself known.”  Yoshi shuffled forth, bristles trembling in the dim light, and bent low before the chieftain. The air fell into a tense silence, broken only by the sound of the wind.
“And where do you come from?” the chieftain asked at last, his voice rough with a mixture of curiosity and unease. His eyes lingered on the small, prickly form, as if the very texture of its body were a riddle he must unravel.

 Yoshi told him the tale of the eagle. The chieftain leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as he listened.
“I don’t believe you!” he bellowed, the sound booming across the swamp like the roar of some ancient beast. “You lie! None have ever bested the eagle. He rules the skies, as I do this marsh. His power knows no bounds!”

Yoshi shifted uneasily, unsure what to say.

“Believe him,” said the aunt, her voice firm amidst the tension.

“Is there any soul who saw them fall from the heavens?” the chieftain thundered. “Speak the truth, or be branded as thieves in my sight!”

“Hold your tongues,” whispered Sly, leaning close. “Do not contradict him.”

 He bowed his head with the utmost humility, waiting as though the very air held its breath for the stargazer’s wrath to subside, and spoke in a voice measured and cautious:

“My lord, we seek passage through your lands, humbly and without offence. And, if it pleases you, we bring you news of a fortunate sort.”

“What news?” — growled the stargazer, his eyes like coals smoldering in shadow.

“On our journey we have discovered the settlement of grebes, whose nests are filled with fish and eggs, and some have already hatched small chicks, which, as we know well, are most delectable.”

“Are you speaking the truth?” — thundered the chieftain, his voice cutting the still air like a sword through silk.

 As soon as he heard these words, he rose with a sudden swiftness, and in an instant was changed. His body immediately became long and thin, his neck, which no one suspected existed, stretched forward like a snake. The proud, imperious countenance vanished, and in its place stood an old man, his eyes glimmering with avarice, hunched over with a greedy hunger. No trace remained of the terrible chieftain who had once commanded respect.

“I speak the truth,” said Sly, with steady voice. “My companions would bear witness as well.”

 The star-counting bird scrutinized them sharply, his gaze like the sharp edge of a knife. “Where are their nests hidden?” he demanded, with voice low but stern.

 Sly answered willingly, tracing with careful words the path they had taken, describing the hidden settlement with exactitude. Yet of the skirmish he spoke not a word, and of the fish he told only lies.
The old chieftain nodded, in a slow and satisfied movement, as if the truth had been enough to appease the weight of his hunger.

“And yet,” he said, “though you have shared such weighty news, I cannot grant you passage through my realm. You may, however, take the long road around it.”

 And with that, he resumed his lofty and unyielding posture, as if the wind itself bowed before him.
Yoshi opened his mouth to protest, but the water rat raised a paw, a silent injunction to hold his tongue.
 Then the chief of the herons, great among his kind, hurried to summon the tribes together. He lifted his head and released a cry so piercing and terrible that Thumbelina and Yoshi quailed to their very bones. It was a sound they had heard before, in the dead of night, and it brought with it the echo of old, and nameless fears.
 His roar had not yet faded into the stillness, when a chorus of voices arose from every direction—some shrill and piercing, others deep and hoarse, like the wind whispering through hollow reeds. One by one, the herons lifted themselves from the tangled marshes, wings glinting in the soft sunlight, and circled their leader. Among them were the grand gray-blue herons, stately and solemn; snow-white ones, with eyes like molten gold and delicate feathers trailing gracefully down their necks; and restless, fiery-red ones, darting about with a nervous energy that made the reeds tremble. Their cries, full of joy and excitement, carried far and wide, soon spreading to the hidden settlements nestled among the willows.
 The Turtles and Yoshi looked on, puzzled, unable to fathom why Sly had forsaken the grebes’ nests. Perhaps he sought the favor of the heron-chief, or perhaps there was some wisdom in his strange betrayal that only the winds and the waters could know.
 When enough herons had gathered, their leader lifted into the sky, and with a terrible roar, the horde followed. They swept over the grebe settlement, darkening the waters with their wings. Soon, the cries of the grebes rose above the tumult, sharp and frantic, as they fought to guard their young. Yet our friends pressed onward, hearts quickened but steps steady. Only then did the cunning of Sly reveal itself: by showing the herons the hidden nests of the grebes, he had done two things at once—forced the greedy birds to abandon their haunts, and taken his quiet revenge on those who had long tormented him. The swamp seemed to hold its breath, as if the reeds themselves had paused to witness the strange justice unfolding in the marshes below.
 The travelers moved quietly among the heron settlements, following the marshy shore as the sun began to dip toward the horizon. Across the drooping willows, they saw great nests of twigs and sedge, crooked and woven with patient care. These were the abodes of a peculiar heron, known in whisper and tale as the night heron. From within, ungainly and ugly chicks stretched their long necks and opened their beaks in eager, plaintive cries, their eyes gleaming faintly in the twilight.