“The Little Red Hen, Who Lived Near a Spring.”

v.1. (2019). Written: 2019/6/24 to 2019/6/25.

Hear, o blessed-beloved, my last story.

It happened a few years ago, in a high mountain valley. The valley was very, very remote. The animals who lived there could still speak. (There were some people living there as farmers, but they are not a part of the story.) At the head of the valley lived a little red hen. Her name was Dról-mah. She lived in a small stone hut. Next to the hut was a barley field. The views down the valley were magnificent. At the bottom of the valley, next to a river, was a village. Once a week, a horse-caravan passed through, bringing tea, letters, and news. There was a small spring next to the little red hen’s stone hut. It provided water for a small pond, and the barley field. In the summer, she grew barley, and gathered herbs and roots from the mountain slopes. In the winter, she made hats and coats from goat-hair. She also wrote poems, chiseled onto small pieces of slate. Each spring, she sold her mohair to pay for seed-barley. Her stone-poems were sent out on the horse-caravans. People read them all over the mountain country, and as far away as Pegu, Malabar, and Trincomallee. Nobody knew the author was a little red hen.

One early spring day, the little red hen was in the village as usual, to send off some stone poems. The high mountains were still covered in snow. Chill air flowed down the valley, and into the village. The first crocus buds were emerging out of the muddy earth. The streets were deserted at this hour. She walked into the caravan office, and gave the stone-poems to the manager. Before returning up the valley to her home, she went into the noodle-shack for lunch. Inside the little red hen found the turtle, the pie-dog, the lapwing, and the rat. They had finished their noodles, and were drinking home-brew barley beer. The turtle, a road-engineer, looked up from his beer. “Why are you here?”, he asked. His breath smelled of garlic, “maca”-root, and stale beer. “I came here on business”, replied the little red hen. All the animals at the table looked at her. “This year, I am going to plant high-mountain barley in my field. I ordered it from a marmot living in the valley of peach-blossoms. Who would like to help me plough my field? There was silence at the table, as the four animals stared into their gourd-shell beer bowls. “Not I!”, said the turtle, spitting on the sawdust floor. “Not I!”, said the pie-dog, watching the floating beer-bubbles. “Not I!” said the lapwing, looking out the window at the distant, empty sky. “Not I!”, said the rat, who tipped over backwards, fell off his stool, and fell asleep on the floor. “Then I will do it myself”, said the little red hen. She bought a few things in one of the small stores, paying in pretty turquoise stones from the high mountains. Then she began the long walk up the silent valley to her home. She arrived just before dark, and went to bed. The next morning, she got up early, and began to dig up her barley-field. It was very hard work, as the soil was heavy, sticky and cold. High above her, the eagle circled, looking for marmots. In the pond, the first frog crawled out of the mud onto a rock, and warmed up in the weak sunlight.

Two weeks later, a goose told the little red hen that her barley-seed had arrived. So, she went down to the village to get it. But this time, the valley was cool, and the village was warm. Grass and flowers grew everywhere. Only a few animals walked the streets. The little red hen picked up her barley. She paid for it with a piece of native gold from the high mountains. She ate her lunch alone in the noodle-shack. Then the little red hen went into the village library to read the newspaper. There, she found the turtle, the pie-dog, the lapwing, and the rat. They were playing cards, around the biggest table in the library – and the village. They were all smoking secret mountain herbs and dried mushrooms, and had a glassy look in their eyes. The pie-dog looked up from his hand of cards. “And just what do you want?”, he quipped. His voice was sharp, but his eyes were far, far away. “I came here to pick up my barley seed”, replied the little red hen. All the animals looked at her. “As soon as I get home, I am going to plant the seed in my field. It was expensive, but it was the best seed for miles around! Would you like to help me to plant my seed?” There was silence at the table, as the four animals contemplated their cards. “Not I!”, said the turtle, spitting at the bucket, and missing it. “Not I!”, said the pie-dog, watching the smoke leave the room through a half-open window. “Not I!”, said the lapwing, while writing an errant thought on a scrap of paper. “Not I!”, said the rat, who leaped onto the table and tried to fly like the smoke, but fell down to the floor. “Then I will do it by myself”, said the little red hen. She went to the post office, and picked up a letter from her publisher in Trincomallee. Then she walked up the silent valley to her home, under a heavy load of barley-seed. The last greyness of twilight was fading, as she reached the stone hut. The next morning, she got up very early, before the heat rose up the valley, and began to work. She took all day to plant the seed, one by one. Every so often, she looked up at the mountain sheep, small white specks moving across the rocky slopes. When they ran, she knew they were being hunted by a snow-leopard. Meanwhile, in the pond, several frogs chirped to each other.

Weeks passed, and the barley grew up. It was strong, green, and moved like waves in the ocean. Now, there was no snow on the nearby mountains, and no coolness in the air. At night, when it was cooler, the little red hen opened a small sluice-gate by the pond, and irrigated the barley-field. Every morning, she looked down at the village, and the changing colors of the fields below. By day, she weeded the barley-field, and chased away the marmots. The barley turned from green, through various shades of yellow, to light brown. Then the little red hen went down again to the village, to sell some mountain berries. In the village, nothing moved. The powdery dust lay still on the main street, and the leaves hung silent on the few trees. She bought a block of pressed tea from the caravan office, paying with a piece of lapis-lazuli from one of her reviewers in Herat. Again, she ate lunch at the noodle-shack. Then she walked to the grove of poplar trees next to the river, under a silent sun. There, among the shady trees, she found the turtle, the pie-dog, the lapwing, and the rat. They had come to this last refuge of coolness, to escape the heat of summer. The lapwing, who was telling stories to a group of pot-bellied piglets (in an unfamiliar language), looked up from his book. “What brought you here?”, he hissed, “and why now, of all times?” His eyes jumped between the little red hen, and the piglets, who were already starting to wander away. “I came here, looking for all of you”, answered the little red hen. All the animals under the trees looked at her. “It is now high-summer, and my barley is ready to be harvested. Now is the time to reap it with the sickle. Who would like to help me to do it?” There was silence next to the river, under the trees, as the animals gazed at a frolicking butterfly. “Not I!”, said the turtle, spitting a sunflower shell into the passing water. He flopped back into his hammock, and told the two small woodpeckers to continue cleaning his shell. “Not I!”, said the pie-dog, drawing back his sling-shot, and aiming at the dragonfly that was cruising over the middle of the river. Thwack! The pebble flew flat over the water, and burst the dragonfly in a silent explosion. “Not I!”, said the lapwing, drawing the piglets back into a crèche-group with a frown that could kill. “See you not that I have my own harvest? Really! The things you ask…” “Not I!”, said the rat, who had smeared honey over his body and was being licked clean by dozens of white butterflies. He was chewing bright orange mushrooms, and finally collapsed in the long grass, obscured by butterflies. “Then I will do it myself”, said the little red hen. There was one orange from India which the little red hen brought home from the store. She promised the shopkeeper that she would pay him back on her next visit, but he said she could have it for free, for he had seen the tears on her face. High, high, up, up the long road she went, through the long, sun-swept valley, without a shadow to comfort her. The sun was low in the sky and full in her eyes, when she reached the door of her stone hut. It was too late to begin work, and too early to go to bed, so she rested her feet in the pond, and ate the orange, wondering what India was like. Slowly, the heat-poison left the valley, and one by one, the stars appeared in the sky. Then she went to bed, while a cricket sang somewhere in the roof, and fireflies played outside in the long high-valley grass. The next morning, she got up early, and began to harvest her barley. The job took three days, and drove her to the edge of collapse. Dry flecks of barley, and powdery dust rose off the ground, and caught in her throat. Her hands became heavy from pulling the sickle, and cutting the barley-stalks. When it was done, dozens of tied-off sheaves dotted the small field. High above her, unseen in the vastness of sky, a lark flooded the upper-valley air with her song. In the pond, the tadpoles played, just out of striking-range of a lonely bittern.

The barley-sheaves dried out in the strong summer sun for a few days. The mountains were silent and still, save for the whistle of the marmots if an eagle came too near. Then, storm-clouds gathered over the far mountains. In three or four days, there would be rain. This was no problem in the valley, for the harvest had already been gathered in, and the fields were empty.

When she saw the warning clouds, the little red hen went quickly down to the village. She left in the late afternoon, and arrived after dark. The streets were dark, the doors were locked, and most of the village was in the meeting hall, celebrating the harvest. She walked past the stores, and the noodle-shack, now closed, and entered the meeting hall. Inside, the little red hen found the turtle, the pie-dog, the lapwing, and the rat…and all the rest of the village. Everyone was watching the rat, who was on the stage, playing the “sitar”. He sat in a hot bath of rose-petals, in front of an incense-burner burning the forbidden wild mushrooms, and he breathed deeply of the rising smoke. On the “sitar”, he played such music as no one ever imagined possible. The rat, his eyes glassy with ecstasy, looked up from the rose-petals and his fingers. “What are you doing here, and now?!”, he shrieked, in a voice of constantly changing emotions. The room was deathly silent, and the only movement came from the mushroom smoke as it rose out of the brazier, and diffused into the audience. “Well?!”, shrieked the rat. “Why are you here?!” “I am here to ask for help”, said the little red hen. “My barley is harvested, but not threshed, and there is a storm coming”, she continued in an utterly silent meeting hall. “If I cannot bring in my harvest, I will be ruined. “All of the animals in the meeting hall looked at her. “My sheaves are waiting, and I need help to thresh my barley. Who will help me for a day or two?” Every animal remained silent, and did not move. “You know that in the high valleys there is no second chance from the land and the weather. You also know that the crops of the upper-lands are far better than the produce of the lowlands. So, who will help me? Who will come with me?” cried out the little red hen. There was utter silence in the meeting hall. The incense-burner fell into the bath-tub with a hiss. “Not I!”, said the turtle, spitting over a sheep’s foot, much to the displeasure of the sheep. “You should be living near the village, within reach of our services!” “Not I!”, said the pie-dog, making ready to return to his own home. “When have you ever made stone-poems after our own thinking, and for our house?” “Not I!”, said the lapwing, getting ready to leave with an unknown visitor. “Excuse me! I have things to do, and people to see.” “Not I!”, said the rat, who looked at the wreckage of his “sitar” concert, and the apprehensive animals all looking at him for what he was – the village dope-head. “Let’s have a final chorus, everyone! Not I! Not I! No, no, no, not I!” The sheep, being sheep, joined in, and soon the entire meeting hall was full of these words. But the little red hen had already left, and was running out of the village, with a threshing stick and a winnowing shovel. “I will do it by myself!”, she cried, at the top of the first rise above the village. She ran through the night, higher and higher, under the moon and the stars, feeling the first puffs of the approaching storm. It seemed as if she was running through the emptiness of space itself, without a start, without a finish. The road climbed higher and higher, through the desolate and moon-painted landscape of the narrowing valley. At the top were the stone hut, the spring, the pond, and the barley-field. As the first greyness of dawn touched the mountain above her, the little red hen reached the barley-field. She collapsed next to a barley-sheaf, and fell into the silence of sleep, pitch black, and without beginning or end. In the pond, the frogs were silent, while above, an owl hunted for mice.

A few hours later, the little red hen awoke from the darkness of sleep, and looked into the face of the snow-leopard. He sat quietly, at rest, with the eagle and the bear on either side. “I have seen your hard work, and I know of the laziness of those animals down in the village. My friends and I have decided to rescue your barley-harvest from the coming storm. Watch!” The snow-leopard cried out, with a scream that carried to every corner of the valley, summoning every wild animal to the barley-field. They came, every animal –large and small, friend or enemy– according to the command of the snow-leopard. The marmots tore apart the sheaves of barley, and spread the stalks on an area of hard ground. The mountain sheep and some yaks threshed out the barley-heads, by running around and around in circles. Many ducks and geese stood together and beat their wings. The sudden wind from their wings blew the chaff onto the barley-field. Wild donkeys trampled the chaff into the soil. The marmots carried the barley-straw to a dry place next to the stone hut. The mice and the small birds carried each barley-seed, one by one, and dropped them into a large clay jar. The work was done in one hour. The little red hen sat on a stone next to the pond, with many frogs around her. Only they saw the tears running down her face. All the animals gathered in front of the little red hen. They looked at each other in silence, then the animals went home.

For a long time, the little red hen sat on the stone by the pond, looking down the valley at the village. Slowly, an idea formed in her mind. She covered the barley-straw, shuttered the windows, brought in water, and locked the door. Then the wind blew strong, and the rain came down heavily, for three days. Safe inside, the little red hen ground some of the barley into flour. She mixed in water from the pond, and dried mountain-berries. She kneaded the dough into cakes, and baked them. At night, she slept a deep, dark and silent sleep. The storm abated, and the upper-valley was quiet and peaceful. The smell of her baking flowed out her door, and into the valley. Soon, all of the wild animals were outside her door. The little red hen gave each on some barley-cake. The frogs sang, and everyone was very happy. Just then, a crow flew up from the village carrying a letter. It was from the turtle, the pie-dog, the lapwing, and the rat. It said, “Dear Little Red Hen. We can smell your barley-cakes. Please give us some!” the little red hen took a pen, and wrote across the letter, in big words: “No, not I!” Then she went into her house. A few days later another letter came for the little red hen. It was an invitation from a temple in Trincomallee, asking her to live there, and teach the art of writing stone-poems. The little red hen took her stone-chisels, a few pieces of gold, and a barley-cake. She locked up the stone hut, walked to the village for the last time, and gave the key to the one who had given her the orange. There was a swan waiting by the river, and he flew her to the coast near Pegu, where an albatross was waiting to take her to Trincomallee. She never came back to the village again. Sometimes, however, her stone-poems arrived on one of the horse-caravans. Each night, the frogs sing happily in the small pond, under a clear, moonlit sky, singing until the coming of a new day.