The Green Hero Read Free Page B

out a knife no longer than a thorn and notched the reed, then gave it to Finn.
    “What’s this?”
    “A reed, doctored according to me lights.”
    “What’s it for?”
    “Well, reeds have a hard life. You must understand that in the vegetable kingdom they’re nowhere. Very bottom of the list. No leaves, no scent, not even any nuisance value like weeds. They are frail stalks, bowing before every wind. And yet, this is their magic. Their courtesy to the wind is a very special quality. For they are the first to recognize this cruel laughter of the gods, and so are attuned to human misery. Their weakness gives strength its meaning; their lowliness makes fame shine; their pity is the best description in all the world of cruelty. The owl hitting the mouse, a wasp stinging a beetle to death, the young boy drowned in the pride of swimming, the bride realizing that she has married wrong and that her mistake has become her life—all these things that make the gods laugh and the winds howl, the reeds know first. They bow to it. And as the wind seethes through them, they rustle in a kind of music. It all becomes music in them. Music, which is the essence of all man cannot say in words. And, if you take a reed and notch it in a certain way—like this—and give it to one who will whisper his own story to it, why then a most exquisite music is made. And now happens the greatest joke of all, a joke on the gods themselves, those jesters. For hearing this music out of the reed, why Evil itself, the simplified shape of evil, the snake, becomes enraptured and dances in slow loops of ecstasy. And a slight pause comes to evil arrangements. Strength is diverted from cruelty. The blackness of death is split for a moment, and a crystal light streams, making pictures in the head, and it seems to those listening that things might be different, might be better. But only for a split second. Then the music stops and all goes back to the way it was before. But in that moment the snakes have danced and the victim forgotten fear. D’you follow me, boy?”
    “Will you teach me to play this thing?”
    “Let me hear you whistle a tune. I can do nothing if you have no ear.”
    Finn whistled. He could do that. He had amused himself in his cradle, imitating birds. The Thrig nodded.
    “Not entirely tone-deaf, I’m glad to hear. Perhaps I can … maybe so. Very well, let us begin.”
    “Now?”
    “Always now when it comes to learning, especially something difficult.”
    “But I’m hungry, I’m cold, I’m sleepy.”
    “Tell it to the reed.”
    Now it is said that the Thrig of Tone and young Finn stayed under that oak tree a week of days and a week of nights piping duets. It rained sometimes, and the nights were cold. Nor did they stop for food. Nixies don’t eat the stuff, and the Thrig had forgotten that humans do. All Finn had during this time was three mushrooms that happened to grow near where he was sitting. For his thirst he drank the rain. Oh, it was a difficult time he had, but it wasn’t allowed to matter. The Thrig was a strict teacher, and kept Finn at it. What happened then was that the lad’s hunger and thirst and sleepiness and loneliness wove themselves into the music, and the reeds added their own notes of pity and joy. And at the end of their time together under the oak tree you could not tell who was teacher and who was pupil; they played equally well.
    They played so beautifully that the birds stopped their own singing to listen. Even the owl left off hunting, forgot her bloody hunger for a bit, and stood on a limb listening, hooting the tune softly to herself. The deer came, and wolves. Weasels, foxes, stoats, rabbits, bears, badgers, chipmunks, wild pigs. They came and stood in silent ranks at night, forgetting their enmity and fear as the moonlight sifted through the leaves and touched different fur with silver. Finally, two huge snakes came slithering out of their fearful nest and sat among their coils, weaving a slow