...act I
...act II
...And as he went along he tried to strike up a tune out of memory
to drown out the complaints his back put to him. But he couldn’t remember the
words to any song. He could barely remember a melody to whistle. Still, as he
passed the viper and the fox, the stag and the flying squirrel—who each stood
wide-eyed and aghast with wonder at the gray-beard with ten babies—and as he
passed through the forest down the Mountain, he came up with his own words and
his own melody:
As
I walked out on the Mountain one morning
I
came to the pool that I came to each day
I
there heard a sound that startled me strangely
A
sound out of memory, out of youth far away
I
stumbled in darkness for a day at a time
I
crossed the ol’ pit with my ol’ bamboo pole
Deep
‘neath the Mountain I found them in slumber
Ten
children sleeping in the dark and the cold
I
batted the bat
I
braved the pit
I’ll
carry them home to raise as my own
They’ll
thank me someday
I
know that they will
They
that cried out of the depths
Of
the cave cold as death
So
moan on, you winds!
Groan
on, you old Mountain!
Roll
on, you Clouds, in the deep of the night
Come
knock at my door
You
goblins and monsters
I’m
guarding these babies
And
I’ll put up a fight
By this time, the
old man arrived at his home, hardly feeling his injuries for his joy. His door
closed behind him just as the Clouds rolled up to his step. The happiest years of his life followed,
the happiest that he could remember at least. He spent his time building cribs
for each of them and finding feathers to stuff their pillows with. None came from
Peco, you can rest assured.
The Bamboo Man built them ten rocking
horses and ten hiking sticks. He made them ten fishing poles and ten butterfly
nets and ten little hats. He raised the babies as his own, feeding them,
changing them, cleaning, clothing, guarding them and teaching them his
language, his art and his grin. If he had only a little food, he fed them and
went hungry. If they got sick—and they often got sick—he nurtured them back to
health. If wolves came to his door, he went out and spent the whole night
chasing them away.
When the ten
little babies had become ten little boys, he led them through the bamboo
forest, showing them the heights of the Mountain where they could see the great
valleys far below. He showed them the lake, clear and still as a mirror. He
showed them the snow at the very peak. He showed them autumn when the leaves
turn to red, and winter when all the forest is solemn, and spring when the
sounds of life return. He even showed them the pool and the waterfall and the
cave where he rescued them. He loved to see their eyes shine with wonder at his
dear old Mountain.
When they grew
old enough, he showed them how to work his craft. To his immense happiness,
they excelled at working with bamboo. On New Year’s Day, ten years after he had
found them, when he had become a withered old man with no hair left, they made
him a crown of twisted bamboo to cover his head. It was the only thing and the
last thing they made him, and he wore it always, even when he slept. As far as
wood crafting goes, the crown was no masterpiece. But to the old man, it
couldn’t be worth more had it been made of gold.
The Bamboo Man
loved the children more than he remembered loving anyone. Even Peco was no
longer grumpy. She too became happy and the ten children of the Bamboo Man
taught her how to sing again. Her old and cracked voice echoed through the
Mountain forest with melodies half-remembered out of the distant past and
melodies invented all new.
The Bamboo Man
wished this happy life to last for eternity.
But there came a
time when the children bid him rest when he remained up to guard the house at
night. Still the Bamboo Man, though he had grown old and weak and his children
young and strong, refused.
“I shall take
care of you, my blessed ones,” the Bamboo Man told them more than once, “For it
is I who found you in darkness and brought you into the light.”
But one night the
Bamboo Man slept. The Clouds came rolling up and knocked on the door, one, two,
three times. The ten young men were awake and working at their craft. One of
them got up and moved toward the door. His fingers began to turn the handle as
he called out: “Who is it?”
The Bamboo Man
was just in time. The door was only open a crack before he slammed his body
against it and shut it at once.
“Don’t let in the
Clouds, young men,” he whispered with severity, “For many years I walked this
Mountain and have not looked into the darkness when the Clouds have come. Not
yet. They come for men who have gone on waiting as long as I. If they come for
me this night, then it should have been I that had opened the door. It must not
be this night, then. Not yet.”
And thus he bade
them sleep the night through.
In the morning,
the Bamboo Man awoke at dawn. He saw his ten children, now ten men, standing at
his bedside. He saw their faces in the blue-gray light. Their faces were those
of adults now, serious, resolved. The pouches they had used to carry bamboo for
their craft had been emptied and loaded instead with tools and clothing and
food, the supplies of a journey.
“It is time we go
away, old Bamboo Man,” they said.
The Bamboo Man wept.
“I’m going to the
valley to grow food in the fields and never lack for hunger,” said the first
man as he turned and walked out the door.
“I’m going to
find a city where I can become wealthy,” said the second man and he left.
“I’m going to a
far off country to see new things,” said the third, departing.
“I’m going to the
forest of another mountain to become a hunter,” said the fourth.
“I’m going to the
caverns to mine them for precious stones,” said the fifth.
“I’m going to the
temple to become a priest,” said the sixth.
“I’m going to the
hills to write poems for young ladies,” said the seventh.
“I’m going to the
ocean to sail away in a ship,” said the eighth.
“I’m going to
start a town and a family of my own far away,” said the ninth.
And they all left
the little hut and the little old man in his bed, one after the other. The
Bamboo Man wept silently for each of them, as if each one was his only son,
until they had all gone. Now he was lonely again, as in the beginning.
But he opened his
eyes when he heard his door creak. In came the tenth man. He came to the Bamboo
Man and knelt, told him: “I am sorry, old Bamboo Man. I am sorry I left. I
don’t know where I should go. Really, I don’t want to go. I would rather stay
and learn what you have learned in all your long and lonesome years:
contentment and happiness, selflessness and suffering. I want to work with my
own hands like you taught me.”
And the Bamboo
Man said with a voice as weak as an old spider’s web: “Did I not pull ten
babies from the dark cave? Where are the nine whose bellies I fed, whose
sickness I healed, whose lives I saved? Did I not carry ten across the chasm?
But where are the nine? Only one has returned to me, to give glory to the life
of an old man. You live well, my son.”
The Bamboo Man
grinned. He bade his son open the window beside his bed and open the cage of
his pet canary. An aged Peco spread her wings, white as a ghost, and slowly
floated on the breeze out of the window. The Bamboo Man watched her go until
she disappeared into sunlight. Her song faded. Then the Clouds crept in the
door and the window, and the Bamboo Man lay still in his bed.
His son bent down
to straighten the bamboo crown that he had made for the old man years ago. He
kissed the wrinkled forehead.
And that one
child of the Bamboo Man, of the nine that went away, lived in that little
wooden hut and buried his father beside the cave and the waterfall in the
forest. There he placed a marker which stands to this day. There he goes often
to reflect upon the long life of his father and his memory. There the son of
the Bamboo Man brings his own children and the wife he met in the forest. And
there he reads the words on the marker which says what the nine forgot to say
before they left to live lives their father had nurtured and healed and
rescued. It said, ‘Thank you’.
THE END
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