Balimber the Fox

The Storyteller and the Librarian

Among the animals, the best teller of stories was Balimber the fox. He and his ancestors had been in the land for long ages. Crafty, sly, and cunning, the foxes weren’t the biggest, the fastest, or the most numerous. But they were the cleverest.

And as each kit was raised his mother would sing the stories of the ancestors. Tales of bravery, clever escapes, and travels through the woods and fields. One kit was a chubby, happy little fox named Balimber. He was early to talk and a precocious babbler. But what set him apart most from his litter mates were his large ears. They were huge and stuck out from his head. He had to fold them back to enter and exit the den. His brother and sisters laughed in delight when he unfolded his ears. And Balimber smiled good-naturedly.

With his ears, Balimber could hear the other animals when they talked - even when far away in the woods and fields. Soon he was telling his family the stories of the wolves, the moles, the birds, and the mice. He could hear the high-pitched talk of the crows, and the buzzing movements of the bees and when he put his head underwater in the pond, he could hear the carping of the catfish, the boasting of the trout, and the cautionary tales of the minnows.

Balimber learned the stories of all the animals in his isolated forest. He could repeat the stories and he learned their meanings. Year after year Balimber listened, mesmerized, and grew wise from all the lessons from the various stories.

Soon the other animals came to him to hear the stories and his recitation of their lessons. The big-eared fox would perch on a stump at night and sing the songs, recite the poems, and intone the aphorisms. Tales of love, tales of great triumphs and escapes, the stories of the year of the fire, and the year when the fish through the land. Because he charmed the animal, none sought to hinder or hurt Balimber. But his red fur began to turn grey and his memory wouldn’t respond as it had. To lose the stories- this terrified him most of all.

What to do?

Balimber's mate and kits had been lost when the fish swam through the trees - swept away on the strong currents of the flash flood. And his brothers and sisters had long ago left the woods for new hunting grounds when the fire had blackened the trees and consumed the grasses.

What to do?

Balimber was on his lonely hilltop barking his remorse under the canopy of the cold night stars. The stories would no longer be sung when he gave out his last breath and the hilltop would be silent but for the shrill cries of the howling winds. Balimber closed his eyes and sighed.

His words tormented the heart of the Skri the horned owl. He was always awake at night to hunt. He was clever and observant and had plenty of time to ponder and cogitate on the content of his experiences. Now he turned his intellect to the problem of how to keep the stories from going away. From the silence reigning over the forest and the desolate blacked hilltop.

On the old dead trees of the blackened hill, Skri often sharpened his talons and beak on the wood. He could see the marks left behind, the knurled grooves of sharp talons and he would remember when he made them and his mood on that past occasion. The marks told a story. They were like a memory, deliberate changes that scarred the surface of the wood. Skri marked experimented by deliberately using his talons to dig furrows into the branch he had alighted upon. He grouped them into thick and thin strokes and in a happy accident a diagonal slash of his beak allowed him to add more patterns to the the marks.

Over and over he practiced. His skill increased through practice and repetition and happy accidents. He even scratched out a little circle with big ears to represent Balimber. Crude but it immediately recalled the story telling old fox. He expanded the number of pictures to represent other things in the forest. Dead trees, water, mice, and even a self-portrait of Skri himself.

Skri had found a way to save the stories. Marks and pictures in the wood could preserve and mimic the stories. Skri could barely contain himself after this realization. But he was too shy to approach Balimber. So he resolved to listen to Balimber in secret and write down the stories.

Night after night, the old fox would painfully ascend the stump on the hilltop and sing the words of the collective experience and memory of the forest. For a hundred nights, Skri would listen and scratch out the story into the dead trees on the hilltop. He grew thinner month by month as he neglected his hunting.

But he faithfully recorded the stories of the forest. The season when the bird blocked the sun from shining, the deer who climbed a tree, and the rabbit who learned to swim. Skri would carve and claw a new limb with the markings until the dead trees were covered with the symbols. Instead of green leaves, the trees were now decorated with furrows and scratches and little pictures.

Of course, it didn’t escape Balimber’s keen though fading hearing that someone was scratching and clawing the wood at night. He was too tired to investigate the source but as it caused him no trouble he learned to expect and even enjoy the noise as an accompaniment to his nightly songs.

One evening. Balimber didn’t come to the hilltop. And the night was silent for the first time in ages. Only the chirrups of the crickets and bats kept it from complete silence.

Skri took his customary perch upon a branch and waited. And waited. But the song never started. For a week, Skri repeated this same routine. But Balimber never came.

On the seventh night, Skri searched for his den and manifested the courage to go to the entrance and timidly call out, “Balimber, are you here?”

“I am. But I shall cross over to the hidden forest soon. I will sing no more of the past and the stories of the forest disappear like the morning mist.”

“It’s too sad to contemplate that kind of ending. Oh Balimber, I must share a secret that may give you comfort in your final days. I have found a way to make the dead trees speak the stories. If you have enough strength, come again to the hilltop and I will show you.”

Skri flew to the tree closest to the favorite stump of Balimber and waited. For many long hours, he perched and scanned the forest for a sign of Balimber. But in vain it seemed.

After Skri had flown off, Balimber was confused and excited by his words. He fell into a restless slumber and his dreams were filled with jumbled mosaic of images from the stories he’d collected. They came into focus and then suddenly morphed into a different story altogether. For hours and hours, his brain was on fire with fever dreams in a kaleidoscopic chaos of jagged memories and the sounds of the original animals he’d learned the stories from.

Balimber awoke with a start. Without thinking, the old grey fox made his way up the den and out in the forest floor. With labored steps, he climbed the hill slowly and methodically, relying more on years of habit rather than muscle to make his way up the slopes of the hilltop. Skri was there to watch as Balimber struggled up the trunk of his habitual podium.

He closed his eyes and breathed heavily. Long labored breaths were the only sound for what seemed an eternity to Skri. Then the old fox raised his head and bellowed out in a surprising sonorous tone, “Show me.”

Skri was momentarily struck into stillness. The words came as an unexpected blast.

He shook his head from side to side and seemed to regain his momentum. He dropped to the hillside and firmly grasped a small branch in his talons and shrugged with ferocious wingbeats to lift himself and the branch. He shot up into the sky, with what seemed like a frantic hop and landed at the foot of Balimber’s stump.

There on the branch were the marks Skri had made. Placing the branch on the stump, Skri began to recite. It was the story of the beaver who dammed the forest. It was a story Balimber knew almost better than any other. For it was the source of his tragedy. The beaver’s dam had grown so monstrous that it soon created a fantastically large pond behind it. It truly was a wonder to behold.

But now the words were coming from the beak of Skri. Word for word. It was like hearing a distorted echo of his own voice. Skri’s voice had a different timbre, but the meaning was clear and the pictures of the story flooded involuntarily into Balimber’s heart.

And that same heart began to beat faster and his blood was soon racing around his feeble limbs and he could feel the heat of excitement warming his wrinkled flesh. He scrambled down the tree stump and eyed the branch. He delicately ran his nose against the markings. It smelled exactly like every over dead tree branch and yet this branch contained life in its scratches and grooves.

Balimber’s eyes were filled with tears. And he closed his eyes and bowed his head until his nose was resting upon the ground. “So happy.“ His breath grew silent and then he slumped over. Balimber had passed over into the hidden forest.

Skri wept.

He stood looking at the old grey fox and had no words to say. A silent vigil on the dead hill under the inky purple sky with a sliver of moon offering faint illumination on the proceeding events.

The next morning, Skri flew far and wide to gather the choicest flowers and fruits to place around the body of Balimber. A tribute to the old storyteller and a memorial to the moment of his final happiness on this side.

Skri lived for a long time after Balimber passed away and in imitation and memory of his teacher, Skri would recite the stories of each dead tree, moving branch by branch. The forest recovered over time and the new animals would find themselves captivated by the stories of the wise owl who made dead trees sprout new life. And in this way, the old forest never completely passed away.

Never the end.