by James Kahn
Animals of every variety filled the stage. In the center stood a Giraffe—stately, still, its neck completely wreathed in willow boughs, its flanks draped with bark. Beside it, two Tigers quietly caterwauled to the sky. Seven huge Frogs sat one atop the other like a breathing totem pole, the topmost Frog holding a twig somberly in its toothless mouth. Three Snakes twisted braidlike up a motionless Bear’s upraised arm. Flying Monkeys, trailing spiderwebs, that sparkled in the campfire, flew unhurried circles over the assembled players. In the foreground, everyone’s attention seemed directed to three animals engaged in impassioned conversation—a four-foot Chameleon, a large old Tortoise, and a Unicorn.
“What is it, what’s going on?” Josh whispered to Beauty.
“Shoshoroo,” Beauty said solemnly, his gaze immediately fixed to center stage.
D’Ursu Magna sidled up to Josh and spoke in low tones. “It is the great animal opera. It tells the story of the greatest of all our legends—the legend of Shoshoroo, the eldest tree of the Forest.”
Jasmine nodded. “I’ve heard of it, of course—but I’ve never seen the play itself.”
“Outsiders rarely do,” D’Ursu agreed. “You are quite fortunate.”
Beauty was mesmerized by the scenario unfolding before them—he’d not seen a performance in many years, and it was clearly evoking many memories in him.
“What is the story?” Josh whispered to D’Ursu. In the clearing, the Unicorn sat with the Tortoise, facing the Chameleon who danced a slow writhing dance to the strains of the wailing Tigers.
D’Ursu spoke quietly. “It is the story of Shoshoroo, the aged tree who takes his name from the sound the wind sings in his hair. He calls all the animals in the world to him, and when they are all assembled, he speaks only his name—Shoshoroo, Shoshoroo. The language of trees has long been a mystery, but Sho-shoroo’s meaning is revealed to them: the time has come for them all to turn into trees, until the world is one great Forest without animals. There is resistance at first, many animals are reluctant and self-satisfied. They don’t wish to change. There are songs of protest, songs of question. Shoshoroo answers them all, thoueh, and gradually the lightness of his vision becomes evident. The first act ends with his famous song:
The Forest endures Uru Shoshoroo Talks to the stars
Shoshoroo
Her toots hold the world
Together in quiet arms,
The wind in her hair,
Shoshoroo.”
D’Ursu stopped speaking for a moment, obviously moved by his own rendition of the verse. In the clearing, the Chameleon was changing colors as he danced: wood-brown, flame-orange, leaf-green, night-sky-black. A Satyr played melancholy sounds on reedy pipes, while the Unicorn sang. Beauty, watching mutely, nodded; his eyes filled with tears.
D’Ursu continued his narration in a growly whisper. “In the second act, each animal speaks to the question of why it will be good to die—speaks of the final ecstasy, the fear and wonder, of changing into something greater than yourself. Of your entire species dying, to make such a change; of the entire world, extinguished but for the Forest.
“We are in the final act now. All but three animals have made the tree-change. They make their final farewells before submitting to the passion of the Oneness. Animals from the audience have been joining the players on stage all along, as they have been so moved, to become part of the Forest, and may continue to do so as you watch. The Chameleon, there, has just restated his belief that life is change, the change to death part of that; the waiting Forest will be for him endlessly changing, and endlessly the same. Here, he is changing now.”
The great Lizard leapt high on the Giraffe’s back and sat there without moving, the color of willow bark. Several animals among the spectators moved into the growing ranks of players in the clearing. Some held branches, some were costumed in leaf-robes; some merely stood, steady as oak. The Tortoise walked three times around the Unicorn, making a series of gravelly clickings with his beak, finally stopping and pulling completely into his shell.
Josh and Jasmine stared on in rapt fascination. Beauty wept openly. He thought of the last time he’d seen the opera performed—after the battle of Babar-Diin, the bloodiest battle of the Race War, the carnage of which had chilled everyone’s lust for war—all of his fallen comrades had been buried in shallow earth at the feet of the trees of that forest, their souls had gone into the trees, they had become part of the legend; and those animals left behind had performed the opera in their honor. Beauty had played the part of the Unicorn, the last animal to change.
The Unicorn on stage now walked slowly among the tree-still animals, and sang in a silvery tongue that Josh had difficulty understanding:
“Tortoise tell me life too short to learn the things that must be learn: Quick as light in water-night or the whisper of the fern: only death is long enough to teach the sky’s design, the colors of Shoshoroo, the soft perfumes of time.
“But no Shoshoroo no Shoshoroo no Shoshoroo
“Ohhhh
Too much we learn in this dark life; its knowledge keeps us reined; and but in death, Shoshoroo, is innocence regained
“Innocence regained, Shoshoroo innocence regained, I’m coming like the wind, Shoshoroo blowing through my mane Shoshoroo is my name, Shosho, Shoshoroo is my name Shoshorooooooooo Shoshorooooooooo”
At these final lines, the whole chorus of animals joined in—Cats and Birds and Gazelles and all—over and over, chanting “Shoshorooooo, Shoshoroooo,” until it really did sound even to Josh like the wailing wind blowing up the caves and forests of the depths of his soul.
The opera was over, the animals dispersed. D’Ursu put his large paw on Beauty’s back and spoke to Jasmine. “He cries, now, like a Human. It was not always so.”
“Be quiet, ugly Bear,” Beauty said with love, regaining his composure. “These friends want none of your blabber.”
“Perhaps,” D’Ursu persisted. “Even so, I would tell you all that Beaute Centauri saved my life too many times for this poor Bear to count. And the last time it was on account of this play—he dressed all up in the branches of a great bush, and so doing, edged close enough one night, without being taken for the horse’s ass he was, to snatch me from the enemy camp and blow like Shoshoroo into the forest’s night.” Whereupon he laughed with a mighty roar, embarrassing Beauty greatly.
Josh nodded, impressed anew with his old friend. “I read of such a trick once—a man named Macbeth …”
D’Ursu Magna slapped Beauty’s rump. “Next you’ll be telling me you can read,” he laughed even louder.
Beauty only smiled indulgently at the lieutenant. “Foolish Bear,” he muttered.
Joshua’s ear was suddenly attracted to a darker corner of the glen, where a joyously sad conclave of animals were singing their dead warriors into Heaven. A low, growling drone held unbroken against the melancholy counterpoint of pizzicato yelps and wails, while the simple refrain was chanted over and over, rising and falling:
“Animal change, animal fly Animal forest, animal sky.”
The four friends watched the ceremony briefly, then walked on in silence, each treading the water of his or her own thoughts.
Jasmine felt honored to have seen the performance. She hoped only to live to keep the memory. It was as D’Ursu had said, not a play for outsiders; though Jasmine preferred not to dwell upon the implications of that statement, she couldn’t stop herself. And the more she considered it, the more uneasy it made her. Josh was a bit overwhelmed—by Jarl, by the opera, by the camp itself, as they strolled through it now. Wolves rolled playfully with Rools; Elves, Satyrs, Centaurs, and Nymphs talked, ate, pondered. Firelight danced over sleeping cubs. Joshua had never seen so many different animals living together in such content. Oddly, it gave him a deep ache in his belly’s marrow. D’Ursu Magna saw Joshua’s feeling clearly, though, with the eyes of an animal at peace.
“Joshua Hunter,” said D’Ursu. “Captain of my captain,” he went on, including Beauty i
n his plea: “Your family is gone; give it up. Join ours. Your people have been reclaimed to the earth or the sky. Let them go, and your Human morals with them. Live the animal life with us, on this very spot; in this very moment.”
Josh and Beauty exchanged a long searching look. The peace of this encampment seemed somehow a long way from the perils and demands of the hunt. It was Jasmine, finally, who spoke. “I can’t help but be unsettled by Jarl’s racism.”
D’Ursu was incensed. “Racism! Animals of every race live in Jarl’s light. We brush backs like the leaves on the willow tree, and Jarl our trunk.” “But Humans—” Jasmine began. “Humans live here too—”
“But Humans are Jarl’s niggers. If they behave the way he wants them to behave, he allows them rein—‘Animals should be this way. Humans shouldn’t do that.’ Well, I won’t be a party to any causes or movements that dictate the behavior of others. I long ago gave up the word should.” Whereupon she stalked off, followed, after a moment’s hesitation, by Joshua. Beauty and D’Ursu were left, sitting, alone at the fireside, heads down.
“She has reason,” Beauty said at last.
“She is clever,” answered D’Ursu. Beauty was saddened by the distance he perceived to have grown between himself and D’Ursu. He still felt great love and affection for the old Bear; but they had taken different paths when the War ended. Beauty watched his friend now as if from afar. He wished he could make D’Ursu understand his feelings—his love for Joshua, his new appreciation of some of the Human virtues, his pride in his farm—but he didn’t know where to begin.
“I must go in the morning, D’Ursu Magna. If it were your kindred they had abducted, you would do likewise.”
The Bear Chieftain shook his head. “If creatures attacked us, I would fight for my family. Gone is gone, though. Here and now is the animal way.”
Beauty touched the longing for Rose in his chest, the memory of her smell, the anticipation of her future smiles; his hatred of the creatures who took her, his craving to hunt them, to cause them the same pains they’d caused him. He also thought of Jasmine’s story, of the beginnings of modern species: bits of animal in every Human; and Human in every animal. “It is not my way, though, D’Ursu Magna. Not my way.” With sad clarity, as he spoke, he realized who he wasn’t; then he wondered if he would ever discover who he was.
D’Ursu rocked on his haunches. “He will not let you leave on a vendetta, old friend.”
“What will he do?”
“Kill you, most likely. For food.”
Beauty nodded, paused. “You like it here?”
The old Bear smiled, a million-dollar smile with three missing teeth. “I like it fine. It is not the old days, but I like it fine.”
So they settled back and tacitly agreed to ignore the chasm of years and traded glorious tales of the last great war to end all wars, when they’d fought together for justice and each other.
Joshua and Jasmine meanwhile had joined the perimeter of the wrestling matches, becoming quickly wrapped up in a contest between a small Gorilla and a large Ursuman. Dozens of animals stood about, shouting encouragement or advice, laughing, barking. Jasmine whispered to Josh: “The Ape has it—he’s not even winded yet.”
Josh stuck out his lip. “The other one’s bigger, though. Sheer bulk.”
Jasmine yelled something at the Gorilla, turned to a Satyr standing beside her, and said, “You people ever do any betting on these bouts?”
The Satyr looked shocked, then supercilious. “That’s so Human,” he sneered. Jasmine started to turn away, but the Satyr grabbed her shoulder, and lowering his voice, said, “However. I’ll take five to three on Club-foot. That’s the Bear.”
Jasmine won on the next fall, which left Clubfoot dazed and snarling in the dirt. The Satyr, whose name was Granpan, took Jasmine back to his campsite to pay off. Josh went along for lack of anything better to do, though his dark thoughts were not on the wagers, but jumped uneasily from Jarl’s offers and demands to Dicey, Ollie, and Rose, to Venge-right, to escape, to Beauty and D’Ursu, to the dwindling of the Human race, to the new animal, to books, to Vampires; to food: ultimately he realized he was hungry.
Granpan’s friends sat around a small fire peripheral to the main body of activity in the camp. Three Nymphs, an Elf, a Rool, and a Hobbit. Introductions were made. The Nymphs were Willow, Sugarpine, and Palm; the Elf was Siskin; the Rool, Rool; and the Hob-bit, Windo. No one was over four feet tall.
When they found out Joshua was hungry, the Dryads pulled him down to the hearth, where they insisted that he share their raisin cakes, gorp, and root salad. Siskin threw some more onion-stuffed-potatoes onto the coals. Granpan paid Jasmine’s bet with a packet of gold dust, while Windo sat meditatively puffing on his long pipe, wiggling his brown furry rabbitish feet toastily near the blaze. Rool sat curled at the Hobbit’s side, rooling quietly. Jasmine accepted an of-fer of Granpan’s locally famous grog.
“Will ye be stayin with’s then?” asked Siskin, eyes a-twinkle.
“No,” smiled Jasmine, sipping. “Just tonight, I think. We don’t want to tax your hospitality.”
“It would be fairer if you stayed long enough for me to win back my gold,” joked Granpan.
“Thee are pretty,” Sugarpine told Joshua, her face glowing warmly from the fire. “Why so glum, hunter?”
“Some grog will do wonders for him,” Granpan chided.
“All who weep be not glum,” advised Willow.
“I—I’m sorry if …” Josh began. He’d been feeling increasingly edgy about the situation they were in; now he felt worse for being so unreceptive to this show of genuine hospitality.
“He’s not meaning to be rude,” Jasmine apologized for him. Then, more pointed: “He’s yet to learn to do nothing when nothing is to be done.” Josh looked at her. She indicated the wood’s edge with a tilt of her head. “With sentries every five yards, we could hardly leave tonight in any case.”
Granpan laughed. “They’re to keep invaders out, not to keep friends in.”
“Ah,” said Jasmine; but Josh nodded imperceptibly at her. The animals at large, it seemed, were not aware of the special position of the new prisoners/guests.
“Well, then,” Granpan roared, “there’s nothin’ to be done but pass the cup and tickle.” At which he fell backward joyfully, accidentally spilling his cup on Rool.
“Rool,” said Rool, and licked himself clean.
“Sorry, old boy,” Granpan excused.
Joshua did have a little drink, and it did loosen him up a little. “It’s a happy clan you live with here, Granpan. I envy you.”
“Thee make it happier still,” Sugarpine cooed, nuzzling Joshua’s shoulder. He put his arm around her, succumbing to the pull of her spirit.
“And you, Windo, so quiet,” prodded Jasmine. “Happy with your lot?” She had a great affection for these short, pointy-eared, rabbit-footed creations. They’d been genetically engineered for the children of the rich in the middle decadence of the twenty-second century—even mass-produced for a time, they were in such popular demand, such a coveted myth. But they did not do well, either in the culture that bred them, or in subsequent, harder times. They were a race that needed more nurturing than the world could supply, Jasmine suspected. In any case, they were becoming extinct.
The Hobbit’s glazed pupils scarcely moved as he took his pipe from his mouth. “I have a lot to be happy, which is more than a lot of my lot can say. But lot it is, so happy am I by a lot.”
Jasmine looked quizzically at Windo, then over at Granpan. The Satyr just laughed uproariously. “It’s that stuff he smokes,” he dipped his head at the Hob-bit, and winked at Jasmine.
“Did you ever think of setting out on your own?” Jasmine asked the strange little creature.
Granpan wagged his head knowingly. “They don’t do well out there,” indicating the lands beyond.
“No,” agreed Jasmine, “they’re too gentle by half.” She turned her head to Josh before continuing. �
��By the early 2100s Hobbits were running around everywhere. Every children’s zoo had a village of them, every connoisseur of myth had one. Then the Germ Wars of 2116 erupted, killed most Humans and related species that weren’t resistant. Thinned out the Hobbits considerably. Then the Nuclear War on July 4th and 5th, 2117. Razed most of the big cities that were still standing after all the looting and burning that had gone on during the Germ Wars. It was like the final suicidal spasm of that whole decaying culture. Lot of things died then, and Hobbits were just one more expression of that dying dream. They’ve sort of perked along ever since then, losing a few more each year. Competition was just too fierce, I guess. It’s hard to keep a gentle dream alive, with so many nightmares crowding around.” Jasmine realized she’d been rambling on more to herself than anyone else. She stopped and looked up.
To her surprise, she found everyone listening to her. The animals loved mysterious tales from passing strangers, she recalled, though—they gave her neither more nor less credence than they gave any wandering minstrel: to the animals, all the stories were true, and all the stories wonderful. She smiled wryly at the audience: only Windo ignored her narrative, lost deep in his own reverie. “He must miss his kin,” Jasmine looked softly at the distant little creature.
“His soul be sad,” nodded Willow, “for his people are fading like the leaves in winter.”
“We’re his people, now, ye know,” protested Siskin. He drew on Windo’s pipe, then passed it back.
“We’re all each other’s people,” proclaimed Palm, suddenly standing and dancing a Belonging dance. Granpan picked up his flute and accompanied the Nymph’s entrancing jig. Neither Sugarpine nor Willow could stay down long once the music started; soon all three Dryads were pirouetting gaily with their shadows in the magic light of the blossoming night-fire.
Siskin got up to dance next, and even Windo tapped his foot in time to Granpan’s pipes. Others gathered round, and leapt about like the very flames; and lutes were strummed and songs were sung, and even Jasmine, tone-deaf-and-dumb, clapped a bonnie beat.