Ancient Church

The fairy tale writing style is not easy at first because we modern Americans don’t think or converse in this style. When my daughters were very young I gave them their bath in the evening. To keep their attention, I pulled a Shaharazad on them and spun a continuous story that made bath-time for them a thrilling adventure. They loved it so much my wife insisted I write my stories down for posterity. Unfortunately, I didn’t start right away. So some of those tales are faded memories of story lines but forgotten details. It’s just as well, I started my story telling by ripping off Homer, McCloskey, C.S. Lewis, Tolkein, Anderson and others as well as American folklore. Of course my daughters were so young they didn’t know the difference until one day my older one came to me with that accusing look, “Dad, here all this time I thought you made up the story of the Sirens. I found it in “The Odyssey” today.” “Guilty”, I said, “But you loved it.”

Anyway, here is one of mine I wrote several years ago. I need to get it onto several media so I won’t lose it!

The Fowler’s Net

A bird of paradise flew into the fowler’s net while admiring her feathers.

“How beautiful are the plumes of my tail!” She exclaimed.

Suddenly the snare closed around her. Stopping so quickly shocked her and it took several moments for her to realize she could not escape.

“Oh, help! Help!” she wailed. “Someone please help me!”

Another bird of paradise heard her cries, flew over to see what was the matter and landed on a branch nearby.

“Please help me, my sister,” begged the trapped bird.

“I cannot get you out. The net is too strong for my claws to break,” said the other bird.

“Then go for help. Find the huntsman. Send him to free me,” cried the first bird.

“ I will find him and tell him of your sad plight. But you must be careful for the fowler is near. Cease not from calling out to the huntsman for help.” Then the second bird left her perch and flew swiftly away.

Softly the bird of paradise began to cry. “The huntsman will not get here on time. The fowler will sell me to the hat store for my feathers or to the zoo to put me on display. How foolish of me to be admiring myself and not watch where I was going. I am doomed.”

“Aha! This is truly a fine catch. One of the huntsman’s precious birds is now mine!” the fowler exulted. His sudden appearance startled the bird and she cried out again for help.

“Please save me, mighty huntsman!”

“Pooh! The huntsman is not near and he could not help you anyway. You now belong to me.” Said the fowler as he began to carefully untangle the bird from the net.

“What will you do with me? Are you going to sell my feathers to the hatter?” she asked.

“Stop resisting and I will let you live. Your feathers will not be plucked. I will make you the most spectacular of my caged birds. You will be placed in the finest gilded cage with a golden cup to drink fine nectars. You will be served exotic fruits, nuts and seeds to your heart’s content.” The fowler carefully attached a leash to one of the legs of the bird of paradise.

While the fowler made these promises, the bird dreamed of the rich life it would have, but was rudely awakened to reality when the leash was attached. “But will I be allowed to fly?” she asked.

“No, for you will fly away.” Answered the fowler.

“But I have to fly or I will die.” Pleaded the bird.

The huntsman’s dog suddenly appeared. “Release the master’s bird of paradise. This is one of his favored.”

“Off with you, foolish dog, or I will send an arrow through your heart.” Warned the fowler.

“Do with me what you will but remember the huntsman. He rules the forest and all that is in it.” The dog spoke with calm authority.

“The huntsman will never know or catch me. Be off I say or you will be sorry.” The fowler reached back to his quiver and pulled out an arrow.

A loud and long trumpet sounded some distance away. The dog began to back away.

“My master is close by and calls me. Release the bird for he will be here soon.” The dog turned to go.

Furiously the fowler notched the arrow in his bow, drew back and released the shaft. It flew after the dog but he was already on his way through the brush, zigzagging to avoid being shot.

The bird strained to see if the dog escaped the fowler’s deadly aim, but the fowler roughly grabbed her by the throat. From his belt he pulled out a bag to put over her.
“If you struggle I will break your neck.” Hissed the fowler. Hurriedly he pulled the bag around her and tied it off with a leather thong.

The fowler gathered his weapons and began to run in the opposite direction of the trumpet call, the sack with the bird of paradise flopping on his back. Inside the bag, the helpless bird cried for aid. While the fowler was looking back to see if he was being pursued, he ran into something, knocking him to the ground and scattering his possessions all around, including the captured bird. Looking up after his head cleared, he saw a huge man mounted on a magnificent horse. To the side of the horse was the dog. Above him, perched on a branch in a spreading oak, was another bird of paradise.

“What is in the sack, fowler?” asked the rider.

“None of your business, stranger. Move aside and let me pass. The bag and all that is in it is mine.” The fowler attempted to get to his feet. Immediately the rider dismounted and put his foot on the fowler’s chest.

“Unhand me, sir! You have no right to hold me. Are you a highwayman that robs innocent people of their goods and then slits their throats so they won’t tell?” demanded the fowler, feigning indignation.

“I am the huntsman. These forests are mine, given to me by my father, the king. All the creatures are mine. Why are you here in my woods?” the huntsman asked, ignoring the fowler’s ranting.

“I was just passing through when suddenly you knocked me down. Is this the way you treat your guests?” asked the fowler.

“You were running without watching where you were going. You did not answer my first question. What is in the sack, fowler?” the huntsman calmly waited for his answer.

“I do not know what is in the sack. I was running because your dog attacked me. I was just passing through these woods to get home when I came upon your dog and this bag. I tried to stop him from killing whatever is in the sack. I took it from him and he attacked me.” The fowler pointed his finger accusingly at the dog.

“Are these your arrows?” the huntsman nodded at the quiver nearby.

“Yes.” Admitted the fowler.

The huntsman called the dog over. An arrow was stuck in his hindquarters.

“I had to defend myself.” Objected the fowler.

This time the huntsman had the horse put its hoof on the fowler’s chest while he retrieved the sack. He untied the mouth of the sack and gently pulled out the bird of paradise.

“Your dog would have killed that magnificent bird if it had not been for my rescue.” The fowler was confident his lies had thrown doubt on the dog.

“My dog is not capable of tying things onto my other creatures, fowler. This leash is yours for it is exactly like the ones on your belt. Begone, liar! Out of my forests with your traps and snares! If I catch you here again, you will be thrown into the bramble pit without question. See! Upon your chest is my brand for liars. You will be known as a liar and a thief.”

The horse lifted his hoof and the fowler scrambled away, relieved that he was free. He ran as fast as he could, and did not stop until he came to the edge of the forest.

Carefully, the huntsman untied the leash from the bird’s leg. Gratefully the bird nuzzled into the huntsman’s breast, glad to be free and yet glad to belong to the huntsman.

“You are a beautiful creature. You do not have to admire yourself. When you take your eyes from your journey to flatter yourself, then you are not watching where you are going. You will fall. But I will come and rescue you. Now fly lovely one. Fly freely and watch your way. Be careful of the fowler’s net.” The huntsman released her and tossed her into the air. With a cry of gratitude, the bird of paradise winged upward, joined by her friend to soar in the sky. The huntsman then tended to the wound of his faithful dog.

What of the fowler? In his haste to get far away from the huntsman, he had no time to look at his chest. Tearing open his shirt he cried out in fear and anger at what he saw. For there on his chest was the permanent brand of the huntsman’s foot.

The End

copyright 1998 Steve Price, all rights reserved.