A Barter with the Butcher: A Tale from the Woods

‘Papa,’ began the juvenile dormouse. ‘Is it true you were friends with a butcher bird?’

‘Your mother’s been running her mouth again,’ chuckled the old dormouse before groaning in pain. At the ripe old age of eight, even laughing left his scarred front right leg aching. ‘But yes little one, it’s true. The shrike and I go way back. Oh, mind your step now.’

The young dormouse, just over 3 months old, clung tightly to the log, his heart racing as he crossed over the stream. He could see their destination now, a large gathering of wild, tall thistle. Their spiky purple flowers towering over the meadow, like a gathering of sharp sentinels bathing in golden morning sunlight. Close behind loomed an ancient sycamore tree. Rays of sunlight pierced through the narrow gaps between the blades of grass, scorching the nocturnal dormice’s eyes. ‘Must we travel in the daylight, papa?’

‘It’s tradition.’ he answered stoically.

‘My brothers and sisters didn’t come. They got to sleep in.’ pouted the young dormouse.

‘It’s a privilege you get as the largest in the litter. You will be the only one to see our world in the light of day, and get the opportunity for great honor, little one.’

***

The elder dormouse had made a similar journey in the daylight many years ago, away from the safety of the night. He remembered the sharp beak, the terror—and how he’d never spoken of it again. Despite his mother’s warnings when he was still a pup, he resolved to reject the taciturn moon and walk instead under the brilliant sun. In the glory of day, the flowers bloomed, their colors resplendent in a way his imagination could not fathom before that moment. He could see berries and fruit from great distances, so that he never again went hungry. In late spring he experienced the joy of climbing into foxgloves, warmed by the sun. At sundown he climbed onto the face of sunflowers, whose petals would close around him at night; there he slept as a swathed child in a mother’s warm embrace.

As the weeks went on, he forgot why his kin only went out at night. One morning, as he was nibbling on some bluebells, a shadow suddenly blotted the sun. He looked up and managed only a feeble squeak as a sleek gray bird with fanned black-tipped wings swooped down and grabbed the dormouse by the neck using its curved black beak. The dormouse, gaining height as the bird flew, saw his world growing both smaller and infinitely wider. He struggled for freedom, and felt the gaze of the bird fall onto him as he wriggled. The bird’s eyes set inside striking black plumage in the shape of a mask, set on him curiously as he tried to get free. It observed the mouse with amusement, as if asking: “Really? Are you sure you want me to let go now?” The dormouse stopped struggling as he imagined plummeting down the tremendous distance.

The bird shifted its flight path sharply, landing in a large tree that reached skyward. The miserable dormouse, still held in the bird’s beak, noticed the many sharp broken branches around it — a half-dozen of them tipped with the skeletons of other, similarly brave, rodents. The dormouse began to shriek, for he knew that he was caught by a shrike; a butcher bird. Despite his feeble attempts of kicking away from the shrike, the shrike raised the dormouse’s small body before slamming it down onto a sharp stick. The stick went jaggedly through his front-right leg. He passed out from the sudden pain — or perhaps, his mind was trying to shield him from what came next.

***

The dormouse awoke as night began to fall. The shrike was perched a short distance away, looking for more prey beneath his tree. He observed his captor. The shrike was imposing, almost austere, as if every part of him was designed for efficient brutality. Its body was sleek and elongated, covered with plumage in muted shades of gray, pale brown, and white. Its back, a soft ash-gray, faded into lighter tones on the belly. The wings impossibly bold with black-tips that pointed accusatorially when they spread. But by far, the most striking feature was the bird’s black mask. A dark, thick line that ran from its beak, over its eyes, and down its neck. Sitting still on its branch, it looked less like a creature of this world, and more like a pale phantom; judging the world and finding it wanting.

‘Ah, you wake.’ said the shrike.

The injured dormouse was too frightened to speak, and gravity’s pull made the impaling branch hurt all the worse. ‘Not one for conversation, are you?’ asked the bird.

‘As a rule,’ said the dormouse through gritted teeth, ‘I don’t talk with those that try to kill me.’

‘I’ve not tried to kill you. Not yet, at least. Besides, I quite think there’s a bond between predator and prey. Your mother brought you into this world; now I will drag you out of it. There’s a certain… intimacy in that.’

‘I don’t want to die.’

‘And I don’t want to starve. It may seem to you, that I have the power to decide your fate. In truth, nature has already made the choice for us.’

‘You’re only saying that,’ the dormouse winced from the effort of speaking ‘to free yourself from guilt.’

The shrike let out a dry, rattling thrill —a noise between a chuckle and a warning— as it hopped towards the dormouse which was dangling in front of it like a prize. ‘I’ve heard many arguments,’ the shrike chuckled ‘but this is the first time I hear an appeal to morality. Amusing, but ineffective. Would you care to try another route? Ah, a moment. I shall return promptly,’ said the shrike as it plunged downwards.

It returned a moment later, carrying the legs of a grasshopper in its beak. ‘Have you had time to think, my little morsel?’ it asked as it crunched down the last remaining legs.

‘Well,’ started the dormouse nervously, ‘you can eat other creatures instead. Lesser creatures. Like that grasshopper, can’t you?’

‘What makes it lesser compared to you?’

‘It’s… it doesn’t matter if it dies. No one needs it. I have pups—they need me.’

The shrike gave a dry chuckle. ‘Need is not the same as worth.’

The dormouse blinked. ‘But—’

‘That grasshopper was barely a mouthful. You, on the other hand… you’ve got meat on you. You are warm; fat from nursing.’ It tilted its head. ‘I don’t eat by what others need. I eat by what feeds me.’

The dormouse shook with the cold; the cold of the wind, the cold of its argument. This was a creature of logic, not a mammal who binds its heart with concern for others. It was self-interested, and would only let go if it got more in return.

‘I have one more argument.’ declared the dormouse. The shrike, noticing the fire in its meal’s eyes trilled in amusement.

***

‘Papa… those thistles sure are tall.’ said the young dormouse, hesitation creeping into his voice.

‘You’re a strong fellow. If I can climb it, well, so can you.’

The climb sapped the energy out of both of them, but they managed to make it in less time than the child expected. They were now at the top of the thistles. Each dormouse on a flower of their own, each swaying under the rodents’ weight. The landscape spread out before them, the last golden vestiges of the morning light crawling away towards the horizon.

‘That’s incredible…’ said the astounded child, savoring the air impregnated with sweet pollen.

‘Isn’t it just?’ said the father melancholically ‘You know, when I was your age, I—’

A cold wind, a flutter, a piercing voice: ‘Ah, old friend, how nice of you to visit.’

The young dormouse stiffened in alarm as the shrike perched on a branch above them, looking down with satisfaction. ‘My, that is a fine young morsel. Hello, child.’

Despite his youth, the young dormouse was not incapable of reason. He immediately realized that this thistle was a sacrificial altar. The questions his father had dodged about the shrike came rushing back to him. Noncommittal answers, silence, awkwardness, and a deep sadness. The secret eating away at their family unveiled itself.

‘Papa, please…’ begged the young dormouse.

‘I’m sorry, little one.’

‘No! No you’re not sorry! I wouldn’t be here if you were sorry!’

‘I am, I truly am. But there’s nothing…’ the old dormouse, looking more ancient than ever, sighed. ‘There’s nothing I can do.’

The child saw his father’s hardened resolve. There was no way through to him. He turned his attention to the butcher bird. This was not a creature to beg. It was amoral, elegant, and infinitely terrifying. It was a creature that could only be bargained with. ‘Please, look at me. I’m so young.’

‘And so soft’ responded the bird hungrily.

‘I’ll have more meat on me when I’m older.’

‘You have enough meat on you now.’

‘Papa, please!’ he yelled, panic rising. But his father had shut his eyes. He had been abandoned. Worse: he had been betrayed. It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair. The child’s anger grew, desperation turning into vindictive fury. ‘My father has far more meat than I do!’

At that, his father’s eyes shot open. The dry, rattling trill of the shrike made its reappearance, amusement playing on its voice ‘My my my, he truly is your son! What a gift with words. Fine, I’ll play. Yes, soft one, your father has more meat, but it’s stringy, leathery, and old while you look so young, so… juicy.’

‘Yes!’ agreed the father ‘I’m far too tough.’

The child’s voice cracked but he didn’t flinch ‘He’s old and weak, and won’t fight back, but I will! I’m young and strong and I may just take out your eye if you try to eat me!’

His father stuttered ‘B-but if you eat me, that’s the end of our deal! No more young, fresh morsels every spring.’

The dormouse raged ‘And how many more weak litters can you give, father? Do you have more in you?’

The shrike leaned in, glee playing in its black eyes ‘What are you trying to say, little one?’

***

‘Daddy?’ said the young, plump, daughter. ‘Are we there yet?’

‘Almost, my child.’ said the spry dormouse, only three years into his life. ‘Just by those thistles over yonder.’