RAW KINGDOM

The Story

At The Home Field

For the first time in many weary days, they passed the night peacefully. No beast of claw or fang came prowling to trouble their rest; only a wandering flock of wild pigeons alighted in the high boughs of the ancient beech beneath which they lay. Yoshi and Thumbelina, could hear the soft murmur of the birds, as if they whispered among themselves in the tongue of the woodland folk.
The pigeons, it seemed, had come straying over the stubbled fields and were full of complaint: the wheat-grains had grown too few to find, for the cattle had trampled the harvest-lands to dust. The leaves of the wild pear trees had begun to yellow with the first tidings of autumn, and even the little streams—once merry companions of the birds—had dwindled and sunk into silence.
So the pigeons, restless upon their branches, spoke of taking wing at last: to fly far from these fading places toward lands where the sunflowers still stood unplucked in golden ranks, and where the tall cornfields rustled like green seas in the wind.
In the first pale hush of morning, while Yoshi and Thumbelina were still sleeping, the pigeons stirred with a clatter of wings and rose in a restless whirl, drifting like grey leaves upon the breeze toward the open fields.
Thus the two companions set out once more upon their wandering road. After many slow miles they came at last to the first outlying fields that lay like a golden mantle at the foot of the mountain. The stubble, sun-bleached and yellow as old parchment, delighted their weary hearts; and in their gladness they leapt and capered as children might when returning home after long absence.
Their own field spread before them—baked by many days of summer sun, broad and welcoming in its quiet solitude. Here and there stood wild pear trees, lonely sentinels shaped almost like folk keeping watch; and beyond them rose tall elms along the winding roads. Even the telegraph poles marched in a straight stern line beside the way, like silent wardens of forgotten errands. Far off, the roofs of the villages gleamed a weathered red, and the very hollow where they once battled Viciousella could be seen, no more than a pale streak upon the wide earth.
Delighted and much heartened in their wandering, Thumbelina and Yoshi pressed on, unwilling to wait for nightfall before venturing toward the little valley. There, upon its soft banks, the yellow stubble shone dimly in the slanting light, like old gold left untended. Across the open fields they went, treading lightly, avoiding the flocks and shepherds.
Before the sun sank behind the low hills, they came to the yellowed slough. Once the grass had grown thick and high as a small hedge, but now it lay bruised and trampled by the passing of cattle. Yet even so it offered cover enough, should keen-eyed birds of prey wheel above. Into this fading tangle they slipped, searching with careful eyes.
They looked for the partridges, and they looked for the hare; but the slough lay empty and still, as though holding its breath. Only at the edge of dusk—when the first cool whisper of evening stirred the dry stalks—did they come upon three partridges. Timidly the birds had crept from hiding to peck among the stubble, and in low frightened murmurs they told what tidings they bore: the hare was dead.
Hunters had come in the grey of morning, they said. Long had the hare crouched unseen in the tall slough, trusting to silence and shadow; but the dogs found him at last, crying out to their masters with baying triumph. So his hiding failed him, and his swift feet served him no more.
And when the tale was told, the gloom settled deeper over the slough, as though the land itself remembered.
The partridges—who themselves had fled before the hunters’ long shadows across the fields—heard the roll of distant thunder and beheld the hapless hare tumbling through the stubble. Then their pride, once worn like bright feathers, drooped at last. For the coming of Yoshi and Thumbelina struck them with no small wonder, as though two travelers had stepped out of some far and perilous road.

“But how came you out of the eagle’s very claws?” they cried, their voices sharp with awe, their eyes shining like beads in the dusk.

Yoshi and Thumbelina told them a part of their tale: of winds that roared like lions on the heights, of narrow escapes, and of strangeness met beneath wide skies. And when morning washed the field with a pale gold, the two returned to their humble hut. There the partridges gathered once more, but this time with bowed heads and soft steps, beseeching the pair to continue the telling of their wondrous journey.
Even the magpies and the jays, hearing whispers of the wanderers’ return, settled along the rafters of the little hut. They clicked their beaks and rustled their wings, eager as dwarves at a fireside song. Word of Yoshi and Thumbelina’s travels spread like wind through wheat; soon blackbirds, kestrels, and the quiet woodcocks drifted in from hedge and thicket to sit in watchful rows.
So they listened—aye, all of them—as Yoshi and Thumbelina spoke of marvels: of strange birds and beasts met upon forgotten paths, of dangers skirted, and small kindnesses found in unexpected places. And in that dim hut, beneath the whispering eaves, their fame grew like a fire well tended, casting long bright stories into the hearts of all who heard.

After two weeks had passed, a chill wind crept down from the far North, keen as a whisper from some hidden winter realm. It bore with it the first rains of autumn—soft at first, then pattering in silver threads upon field and hedge. Under its touch the wide meadowlands turned a somber brown, newly furrowed by the slow, patient labour of the ploughmen. The leaves upon the trees, which only days before had glimmered in green gold, now shed their bright raiment in hurried drops. Small songbirds, those merry folk of summer branches, rose in restless flocks and wheeled away toward the gentler South.
Yoshi and Thumbelina, once sprightly wanderers of the grass, grew still and sleepy. The creeping cold urged them downward, bidding them seek the sheltering hollows of root and reed. And one grey morning, as the air tasted of frost yet to come, they felt in their quiet hearts the certain promise of snow.
So they set to work with the simple wisdom of their kind. In the soft earth of their slog they delved a small burrow, warm and close, and there they nestled. The world above dimmed and drifted away as sweet, deep slumber folded them in its gentle arms.
When at last the snows arrived—falling thick as white feathers shaken from the wings of winter—the whole field lay hushed beneath a shining mantle. No traveller passing over those silent drifts could have guessed that far below, hidden in the kindly breast of the earth, two small friends slept on, dreaming untroubled dreams beyond the reach of storm or shadow.
Only with the coming of spring would they wake again, when the snows had run to rivulets, and the bright, warm sun—golden as a king’s banner—stirred the frost-chilled soil back to life.

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