by Linda Talbot
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FOUR
“We’re going to the Land of Paradise Flowers - would you care to come with us? asks Sven as Thor thrusts his great head forward.
He rumbles, the sound rising from deep inside like the approach of a thunder storm.
“I will indeed, so long as there are no MEN to steal my feathers and fry me on an open fire.”
Onward! To the Land of Paradise Flowers
“No, no, you may live on Paradise petals in a peaceful forest,” Fifi assures him, although she can barely imagine so fierce a creature pecking at Paradise Flowers.
Thor steps with dignity towards the Swiftifoots. Squidge ducks low in the long grass, an eye on the cassawary’s enormous feet, while Crump wonders how it would feel to ride on his broad back.
“Of course, if I could fly, I could reach your Land of Paradise Flowers before morning,” says Thor sadly. “But it is many years since my ancestors spread their wings in flight. So I have to run extremely fast.” This the Swiftifoots understand, since they too rely on long legs.
“That is not so bad as being repeatedly mistaken for a LOG,” says Sshnaps, who has waddled up to take a close look at the great bird. Thor peers disdainfully down his bill at the petulant crocodile, and on seeing the great jaws packed with teeth, decides to show him respect.
He sighs, “We all have problems. This Squid for instance, can have little in common with the land.” Legs bridles.
“And WHAT may I ask, is THAT?” Thor is referring to Porlock, who gives an angry bounce and retorts, “I’ll have you know I am a SPONGE. I am extremely ancient and IMPORTANT. I may be dry but you just wait until I find water. You will always be flightless. Sshnaps will always be mistaken for a log, but I will swell again with pride. I am so simple. All I need is cold water - NOT I hope, a steaming hot bath where I am used to scrub a MAN’S back!”
“Now everybody QUIET!” cries Sven, seeing a quarrel about to break out. “If we are to reach the Land of Paradise Flowers, we must help each other. Who knows what other dangers lie in wait? Even MEN may not be far away.”
At this word everyone falls silent. It is dusk. A chill stirs the leaves. With a deep, dry sigh, Legs intertwines his tentacles and subsides. The crocodiles sink into the grass, looking as usual, like logs. Porlock closes his pores and Thor, not yet quite sure what to make of this strange collection of creatures, decides to doze on his feet.
Dawn breaks. The Swiftifoots rub sore eyes and stumble once more into line. There seems no end to the forest. They cannot see the tree tops or the earth through the thick forest floor. They sense the trees are very old. They rise, motionless, their great arms outspread and entwined, like old friends who have no need for words, except a low whisper when the wind rises or brief music made by running water when it rains.
The Swiftifoots glance warily to left and right as they march, wondering what they will meet next. Sure enough, it is barely lunchtime before Snurk, dreaming of an afternoon doze, stops and points towards a branch leaning low above their heads.
Hanging upside down, with hook-like claws at the end of long bony arms, is a furry creature who appears to be fast asleep.
“Shall we disturb it?” asks Snurk. Sven is about to shrug and march on, tired of making so many inquiries, when the creature stirs slightly and still hanging upside down, mutters, “What...what? What IS all the noise? A body can’t get a wink of sleep.” He has a pointed nose and coarse hair.
“We’re sorry to wake you,” says Sven. “Do carry on sleeping. We’re merely passing through on our way to the Land of Paradise Flowers. I don’t suppose for one moment you would care to join us?”
The creature slowly sweeps its hooked arm. That, unknown to the Swiftifoots, is the fastest movement it can make. Sven, bending his neck to one side, in order to look into the animal’s half closed eyes, says, as a matter of course, “What are YOU?”
The creature blinks, as though striving to remember. Eventually he says, “I think I may be - er ... a SLOTH.”
The Swiftifoots do not know that a sloth is the laziest creature on Earth. Because he is not attacked by other animals, he spends eighteen out of twenty four hours asleep. Because he never washes, moths live in his coat, producing caterpillars which eat from his mouldy hair. He is so slow he cannot move at more than one kilometre an hour. He is almost dumb, can barely hear or smell and he eats and sleeps alone.
“What’s your name?” asks Sven. The sloth closes his eyes in the effort to recall. Eventually he murmurs, “Some day I may - er- remember.”
“We’ll call you SOME DAY then,” says Sven, “Don’t you have a song to sing us?”
Some Day, who is usually too lazy to carry on a conversation let alone sing, looks blankly at Sven, who says, “Come down and let’s talk.” Some Day blinks as though weighing up the wisdom of such an effort.
At last he begins to move - very slowly - to the end of the branch. Snurk falls asleep. Crump and Squidge fidget, while Fifi flitting to and fro, feels sorry for someone so slow. Eventually Some Day reaches the end of the branch and with a soft thud, drops off into the grass.
“Are there many of you?” asks Sven, wondering how they ever meet while moving at such a pace.
“Well - er - it’s possible. Once I was told there were - er - quite a lot of two-toed sloths. They move faster than us. But that may just be rumour. I have never - er - met one.”
Some Day is a three-toed sloth - the slowest of all. He says, “I rarely go anywhere. It seems so - er- unnecessary. Why - er - move, when one can stay where one is?” He speaks very slowly, weighing each word.
“We had to leave our forest because it was too wet,” says Sven. “We would have been washed away.”
Some Day thinks about this. “Yes,” he concedes at last, ”I can see that would be a problem. I - er - would not like to drip all day like a wet piece of washing. On the - er- other hand - I see no point in moving when it is NOT raining.”
“Please yourself,” replies Sven, weary of such a slow-witted conversation. If Some Day joins them he doubts if they will ever reach the Land of Paradise Flowers. But now Some Day wants to talk and says, “We are what they call - er - mammals, you know. Very close to MAN.”
Everyone wakes up at this word. “But some of us are - er - also very ancient. There are legends and some - er - say it is still possible to come across a MOONRAT. He is a VERY unusual mammal. You would know him by his smell of rotten garlic. He has a long nose with whiskers, is extremely untidy and always irritable. And there is the COLUGO. You would know him by his - er - furry cloak.”
Some Day has heard that when the Colugo hangs under a branch or presses against a tree, he is almost invisible, because of his cloak. He stretches his legs and then his skin is used for gliding and his cloak flaps around him like a dressing gown.
“The TUPAIA was probably the first of us all,” continues Some Day. “He is - er - small and furry with a long tail and a pointed nose. But he has a large brain.”
At this, Legs, who believes his to be the largest, winces. “But he is an odd mixture of many parts,” concludes Some Day.
The Swiftifoots wonder at so many marvellous creatures existing beyond their forest, but they fear meeting a MAN and Sven ventures to ask Some Day, “And what of MEN? Are they mammals?” Some Day ponders and finally replies, “- er, yes. MAN is supposed to be the most advanced mammal. He walks on two legs. He hunts. He talks. He has a huge appetite.”
So the rumours the Swiftifoots have heard are true. What time are they living in now? Has it moved on to when man first appeared?
“Where does he live?” asks Sven, hoping it is nowhere near the Land of Paradise Flowers.
“Almost everywhere,” replies Some Day. “He multiplies very fast and he is always looking for new places to live. He cuts down trees to make room. He takes all the fish from the sea. He has - er - even flown to the moon, so no doubt he will soon live there too.”
Clearly Some Day comes from a time far in the f
uture and, like the other animals, has been borne back in time with the Swiftifoots. And for someone so slow, he has told the Swiftifoots a great deal. Sven says, “How did you learn so much about men?”
“I have - er - visitors,” says Some Day, “I find that if you - er - wait long enough, many anxious to talk, come to you. Having few thoughts ourselves, we sloths are very good listeners.”
The Swiftifoots are silent. Thinking of MEN, they wonder how anyone could cut down trees. But clearly, men do not feed from the forest floor.
“Well, are you coming with us?” asks Sven, impatient to be going. The sloth tries to stand upright, but it proves too great an effort.
At last he says, “I - er - don’t think so, thank you very much. I doubt if I could keep up.” Sven is relieved and helps him back to his branch where he promptly hangs upside down again; motionless, speechless, sad-eyed.
The Swiftifoots march on and gradually the trees thin. Daylight floods into the forest and beyond stretches a large field, wild with grass and flecked with flowers. There is silence, yet the Swiftifoots sense danger.
Everyone longs for water. The Swiftifoots remember the rain; the far ago sound of it washing through the leaves. Legs remembers the salt sea where his tentacles tingled as he tipped over fishermen’s boats. Porlock can barely remember the water because it is so long since he was in it, but he feels sure he will recognise it when they reach the Land of Paradise Flowers.
The crocodiles imagine a swamp thick with mud and sticky weed where no one will laugh at them for looking like logs. Even Thor’s throat is dry, but he is much too proud to admit it and as he strides through the grass, he merely gives an occasional rumble.
They set off across the field. The sun shines. There is no shade. They are sure they will shrivel up and die. At the end of the field they find a path. In single file they follow it between high hedges.
Suddenly Sven stops. Several Swiftifoots fall, with a shriek, into the hedge. Loping along the path is a creature on two legs, bent double and covered in animal skins. Hearing the shrieks, he lifts a heavy head and stops. In one hand he carries a spear with a stone blade, which he points with a loud grunt of alarm at the creatures in his path.
For the first time Sven fears to speak. He senses something different about this animal. He wears the skins of a wild beast, yet he is not one. He stares with piercing brown eyes, as though wondering which of the creatures before him to spear first.
At last Sven swallows hard and utters, “May I be so bold as to ask who you are?” The two-legged animal draws together thick brows and raises his spear as though about to strike. Peering at Sven he merely grunts. But Sven knows he is a MAN. And he cannot imagine him having a song.
Some Swiftifoots scurry into the hedge. Legs rears high, sensing a hint of fisherman on the air. The crocodiles snap their jaws in anticipation of a good meal and Porlock wishes he was still wedged in his cave.
Sven thinks the man unlikely to relish the petals of Paradise Flowers, preferring the taste of seasoned Swiftifoot. But he decides to be bold and ask. Also he fears they are lost. The man might know the way.
“We are going to the Land of Paradise Flowers and you are welcome to join us. Perhaps you could tell us if we are walking in the right direction?” says Sven.
The man stares, blinks and brandishes his spear. Then he grunts. He turns and begins to lope off along the path. Does he want them to follow? As they can see no other direction in which to travel, they do so, at a careful distance.
At last they reach a rocky clearing and watch the man move towards the entrance of a cave at the other side. Before going in he pauses and turns as though waiting for them.
“Don’t go in, it’s a trap,” urges Thor, rumbling loudly.
“He’s probably got a steaming hot bath in there!” warns Porlock.
“Or a frying pan!” puts in Crump.
“No, look, there are the remains of a fire outside where he cooks,” pipes up Fifi, fluttering to the fore, “Perhaps he is just being friendly.”
It is too late. She has flown onto his rugged shoulder, trying to tell him they want to be friends. With a huge hairy hand, he touches her very lightly, then lets her fly back to the others.
They feel bolder, having seen that he might have crushed her with one finger and, one by one, follow him into the cave. But quickly, Legs, Porlock, the crocodiles and Thor tumble out again. There is not enough room for everyone.
The man bends double beneath the roof - only Fifi and the Swiftifoots are small enough to follow. They enter a narrow passage and can hear the man shuffling ahead in the darkness. Suddenly they come to an opening, where the walls, dancing with torchlight, are covered with paintings of animals the Swiftifoots have not yet met.
The man grunts and points a spear at the pictures. Then he makes eating motions at which the Swiftifoots tremble and, believing themselves to be the next meal, turn and flee.
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