RAW KINGDOM ENTERTAINMENT

                      The Lonely Dweller

 It was clean and warm inside. Not a hair, leaf, nor cobweb clung to the fine, soft soil that lined the entrance, as though some careful hand had swept it only a few moments ago. No trace remained of whatever creature had once called this place home. Clearly, its former master had been a great cleaner and, it seemed, a gracious host as well.
 Outside, the rain came down in cold, slanting sheets, drumming upon the forest roof. The wind shook the branches and flung droplets to the earth; yet within the little den it was sheltered, still, and warmly snug.

“Doesn’t the fox dwell here?” whispered Thumbelina, uneasy.

“I know her scent,” replied Yoshi. “And she is a messy, and neglectful creature. Such a tidy hollow could never be hers.”

 He raised his muzzle, seeking whatever faint smell lingered within, but it was thin and strange to him, as if the air remembered a guest long gone.

“Come,” he said softly. “Let us keep quiet. We’ll remain here until the rain passes, and then move on at once. And mind you—two whole days we’ve lost already through your heedlessness and foolish wandering.”

 But Thumbelina would not be stilled. Softly yet swiftly she began to weave her tales, and Yoshi found himself drawn along by her words as though by a warm current in the dark.
 Then, without warning, they both heard the sound of slow, and ponderous steps—thump… thump…—as if something heavy shouldered its way through the earth itself. A pale shape loomed in the gloom beyond, and two small, burning eyes glimmered like coals smothered in ash. A low, and grunting voice rolled after them.
 Out from the hollow lumbered a creature large and powerfully built. It had something of a dog and something of a boar in its bearing, though it walked with the lurching certainty of a short-legged bear. Long black claws clicked against the ground with each step. Its body was thick and heavy, cloaked in coarse grey bristles stiff as old brushwood. Across each cheek ran two white bars, making its squat head look strangely striped and wild.
Yoshi’s took out his thorns, and Thumbelina vanished into her trough with a rustle. “Out!” the beast grunted, his voice was like stones grinding together. “Get out, you scoundrels!”

 And before they could muster a protest or prayer, the creature gave a rough shove and sent them tumbling out. Down the steep embankment they rolled, until they landed in an undignified heap at its base.
 Sodden, sore, and sorely offended, they scrambled toward the sheltering roots of an old linden tree. There they crouched, saying nothing, each too embarrassed to meet the other’s eyes.
From above, among the boughs, came a thin and chiming giggle—mischief carried on the air.

“Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!” the laughter rang, bright as a small bell.

“Hey! Who mocks us from up there?” cried Yoshi, with his temper rising.

“Koo, koo, koo, koo! The old hermit tossed you out well enough! Ha, ha, ha, ha!”

At that, Thumbelina and Yoshi exchanged a glance—they knew that voice. The Cuckoo.  They had listened to her waking up early in the morning in the field and giggling at her dreams. She had made fun of them more than once before.

“Listen,” the hedgehog called up, striving for patience. “Who is this rude fellow you speak of? What is his name?”

“And that pretty one! Do you not know the badger? Why, he is the strangest creature I have met in all my wanderings. An old bachelor, dour as winter stone. He keeps no company, nor seeks any. A somber spirit. Yes, I know his tale from end to end. Ten years have I roamed these woods, and some say I spent my best years beneath that old linden-tree. And well I remember his kin—indeed, the whole line of them. Stout, rough-mannered folk, who would never stoop to jest or idle chatter—self-contained, chill of heart. Let them lie in their burrows and cherish their solitude. I know their ways too well!”

“Then why did he drive us out?” asked Thumbelina. “We stood only at the threshold; we would not have muddied his dwelling.”

“You are foolish, my dear,” interrupted the Cuckoo. “Or perhaps you simply cannot grasp what I tell you. It is a creature of habit, a creature of order. His life runs like a measured rhythm: in at a certain hour, out at another, never a step astray. He spends his days at home, and when the sun is high and fierce, he slips quietly into the bushes by the embankment. There lies a great flat stone, under which he rests, letting the heat of the day pass over him. He remains thus, still as the forest, until the dusk tiptoes upon the earth. Then he rises, cleans his fur, puffs up as if the very bristles were of consequence, and moves along the path with solemn dignity, as though he feared to fracture his own legs. By dawn he returns, sated and content, a soft grunt escaping his throat, and sinks immediately into sleep. God forbid that anyone should trespass upon the threshold of his dwelling.”

“Long ago, his family had lived here, though a cruel illness had thinned their numbers until only he remained. In the twisting labyrinths beneath the dam, he had laid them to rest, sealing many of the entrances with heavy stones. The subterranean passages were vast and winding, a hidden kingdom of darkness and silence, where any stranger who dared enter would soon lose their way. Caverns led to the surface, letting in stray breaths of air; hidden dens waited for the winter, and many more secret chambers were scattered like whispers in the dark.”

“The Fox told me all this,” said the Cuckoo, her voice quick and teasing, “She knows how to play tricks on him and make him furious with rage. In summer and autumn, when he grows fat as a pig, he seldom ventures out. But when winter comes…” Her eyes gleamed. “I go to Egypt in the winter. How warm and bright it is there—a veritable haven! And he? He lies down, deep as the dead, and sleeps.”

“We fall asleep too,” murmured Yoshi, but the Cuckoo barely noticed. She was caught in her own chatter, as heedless as a leaf on the wind, listening only to herself.

“He slumbered so long and so deeply that the first green shoots of spring startled him awake. But there was Slytail, the fox who favored the warmth of summer, slipping quietly into the badger’s burrow as if it were her own.” “When I bring a hen, a rabbit, or whatever fortune allows,” she would say, “I consume it within these walls. I roam the labyrinthine tunnels, silent and watchful, while he lies buried in the earth like a pig. One might think he is dead, stiff as timber. Only when the sun begins to melt the frost does he stir, and then—beware!—he rages, hungry and lean, keeping all intruders at bay. And when he sees his home, he is seized with a real rage.”

“Slytail, whom I respect because she is a cheerful soul and a wanderer like me, doesn't give a damn about such gloomy creatures as the badger… She, after all, brought all sorts of dirt inside during the winter, looks on from somewhere and chuckle at his wrath. And the badger, grumbling and fussing, would throw out the garbage, sorting, tidying, and scowling—ha!—as if the whole world were a riddle meant to vex him alone.”

 The Cuckoo laughed, giving her wings a brisk shake so the droplets flew off like silver beads. Then she went on: “Sometimes,” said Slytail, “he wakes even in winter, if the air turns strangely warm. Then I must tread lightly, little sister, for if he so much as brushes against me inside, I’m bound for a miracle of the worst sort. His teeth are sharp as awls, and his claws might shame a bear. And how could one hope to bite such a creature back? His hide is tough—hard as old oak—only a bullet could pierce it. A cursed beast he is! Yet once he steps beyond his den he’s quite helpless, poor lump, for he cannot run with all that fat weighing him down, and his legs are so short…”

“Much like yours, Yoshi,” the Cuckoo chirped, unable to restrain herself. “Truly, the two of you are cut from the same cloth,” she added with a bubbling giggle. “Your fur’s no prettier than his bristles, your legs are just as stumpy, and your temper—well, that’s the very closest match of all…”

 And the Cuckoo, true to her cheerful and careless nature, set about teasing our travelers once more, much as she had done out in the open fields. Yoshi and Thumbelina held their tongues; for they knew well that no one ever won a quarrel with a Cuckoo. She wandered the wide summer woods, going lightly from branch to branch, laying her eggs in the nests of smaller folk, leaving the little songbirds to mind her young. A wild, untroubled life she lived—riotous, swift, and bound for warmer lands once the leaves began to fall. She seemed to know every secret worth knowing, felt shame for nothing at all, and no power in earth or sky could make her hush.
 When at last the rain ceased its drumming, Yoshi and Thumbelina crept out from the sheltering roots of the old tree. Then they set their feet upon the mountain path, climbing toward the high ridges where a pale, smoky mist drifted across the peaks like wandering ghosts of cloud.