The Boy and the Bunnies  (an excerpt)      by Clay Remington

 

A long way from town, down a long road that shimmers in the summer sun and winds through the parched expanse of the desert, through the rocky canyons and sandy washes, past clumps of thorn-thick cactus and horny toads as still as stones, past the cave where the coyote slumbers in the afternoon heat, on beyond the twisted, old, dead tree where the square-shouldered hawk perches, its talons clenched on a soon to be devoured and wriggling snake, over the burning rocks and then beyond the desert, way out across the plains, where tall grain stalks roll in the breezes like great waves in an immense and grassy ocean, up into the mountains, way up high where the trees grow so tall they touch the sky, there’s a Secret Forest.

 

And in the middle of the Secret Forest is a beautiful, bright green meadow. On sunny days, if you look closely, you will see little pairs of bunny ears moving through the grasses, hopping here, jumping there, and dashing all the way to the edge of the meadow where stand the dark green berry bushes with their shiny leaves and clumps of plump, red and purple berries as big as your fist. Bunny families are somewhat different than families of the sons and daughters of earth or even other animals, as you may know. There are probably more bunnies in the Secret Forest than you would have patience to count, perhaps hundreds all living in the meadow, many mommies and daddies and giddy, tumbling congregations of baby bunnies, but they are really all just one family. And they roll and they frolic and they race in the sun when their coats are brown and spotty and they dig and slide in the snow when their coats are white and silky. The young bunnies sing and the old bunnies tell tales by Bend Rocks near the Great Tree and never was there a happier, hoppier band, particularly young Ashleene, the tiniest of the baby girl bunnies. She lived in a warm, snugly burrow at the far end of the meadow, in the bushes behind Tumbledown.

 

By the standards of most beautiful green meadows, hundreds of bunnies would be more than enough but in this family, and for little Ashleene, the arrival of one bunny more, or any creature for that matter, was always a cause for celebration, in a bunny sort of way. As it turned out one day, it was also another chance for the Secret Forest to once again prove its magic.

 

Of course, outside the Secret Forest, there are places that are not so sunny and gay. Indeed far and away from the Secret Forest, lived a boy named Tommy Tinselton who passed restless nights in a greying, old, brick blockhouse down an oily, pockmarked street where the city men did not clean up as often as folks would have liked. For Tommy, at least in those days, there did not seem to be much of his family about. Oh, there was an aunt here or a cousin there from time to time, but they were usually nice for a while and then, he guessed, sort of got busy with something else. Tommy knew he was what the neighborhood whisperers called an “only” kid, meaning he had parents once, but didn’t anymore. No brothers or sisters, either. And there were other “only” kids like him in the blockhouse and although they tried to play, it was sort of like they were all caught up somewhere in their minds, like they were waiting to see a familiar face. Sometimes “only” kids were abruptly taken off somewhere by men in ill-fitting, pea-green coats who drove sputtering, old vans with the name of some saint or nature place on the side, and so it was usually hard to think you would have a friend for long.                                                

Tommy had a roof over his head to be sure and food to eat (or so they called the luke-warm, greyish cereal and gravy) and he’d long ago quit worrying about birthdays and Christmas and such. But Tommy did long for one thing above all else. More than even chocolate or cookies, Tommy longed for a family and joyful friends, kind of like the two little girls he saw every Sunday, all red-ribboned and petticoated, back from church, and flying bright green and yellow striped kites with their moms and dads in the tree-lined park across the river. One day, Tommy Tinselton found he could bear the shouts and the sobs from behind the damp, grey walls no more and he pried open the bars on a window in the boiler room and set out, unsure and once again, or should I say still, alone.

 

He traveled on foot, lacking any other means of conveyance, feeling the stones pushing harder against his feet as the days and miles passed. He stopped for little and drew scant notice other than disapproving looks and muffled whispers of pity from the townsfolk, lumbering on through the heat and the rain, first uphill and then down through the draws. He spoke to no one and would not have known what to say to folks anyway. Tommy just wanted to move on from where he was and wherever he found himself, he still felt that way.

 

Eventually, he pulled free of the city and crossed out of the county to the West, into an open, lightly forested region passers by called the Outlands.  There, Tommy rested by the foot of an enormous tree many times wider than his arms could stretch out. Before he realized he was asleep, Tommy was awakened by a heavy, fluttering sound. When he cleared his eyes, he beheld a great grey bird, an eagle perhaps, but two heads taller than Tommy even after he scrambled to his feet. The huge raptor stared at him with cool, blue eyes and stretched forth its mighty wings, which cast a shadow taller than Tommy.

 

“What do you seek, son of earth?” the great bird said with a level gaze. “I am uh...alone,” Tommy said, halting to look from side to side. “How is it that you...” Tommy stammered.  “Silence, son of earth!” the great bird huffed. “I am called Hopi and alone you are. So have we all been, and so we are now, until we are united far beyond and years hence from this place.”  Tommy only managed to blink in astonishment and could bring no useful words to his lips. Hopi said, “The rivers that flow here are formed of  the tales and tears of many and the river spirits have made known your sorrows and journey to me. But there is another land, beyond the Outlands to the West from which I am come, a secret land that welcomes few but is sought by many.” Tommy was sure he was dreaming and pinched himself. “Ouch!” Tommy rubbed his arm and shook his head but the great bird was still there. Hopi crouched and leapt up into the air and over a mighty beat of his wings called back, “Follow me to The Downs, son of earth, for the worthy may be welcomed and it is not yet my time!”  “Huh?  w...wait!” Tommy called to the bird.

 

Tommy did not know why, but he scrambled to his feet and tiredly at first, but then with increasing energy, pursued Hopi, catching glimpses of his flight through the winking light and shadow of the treetops. And so they continued by day, with Hopi perched nearby in silence by night. Tommy had so many questions but Hopi never spoke again. “Did he ever really speak or did I imagine it?” Tommy grumbled to himself.  

 

Soon the ground began to rise toward distant mountains, way up high, where the trees grew so tall they seemed to touch the sky. Still on Tommy went, one foot and then another, struggling to match Hopi’s progress. As one day and its distance wore on, a cooling breeze surrounded Tommy with a damp mist that thickened, hiding first the hills and then the sun, finally blotting out the very outlines of his feet before him. His strength almost gone, he bent down, unsure if he was walking on cloud or earth, expecting any moment to feel the very stones rising abruptly to meet him as he fell. Perhaps sleep was coming but it did not matter. He could no longer resist.  In the fading light, he saw Hopi flying away to the East, far to the horizon and listened to Hopi’s piercing call echoing and fading, until only the sound of the wind remained. “He was right,” Tommy breathed. “We are...each of us alone.” As the cool mist coiled around Tommy’s feet, the very breath of the wind beckoned him to rest, rest. Were those trees ahead? he wondered. His eyelids pressed down with the weight of stones until the mist faded to darkness.  

 

And by and by, Tommy stirred and awakened to the joyful, mellifluous melodies of a mockingbird and brilliant sunbeams angling through morning air littered with drifting, snowflake-like particles that cascaded across a beautiful, bright green meadow. The meadow in turn was coursed with bubbling streams that tumbled down to a sprightly waterfall and into a crystal clear blue lake that reflected the sky like a beautiful blue mirror. He dug his fists into his eyes and twisted them to clear his vision and came to notice any number of pairs of ears moving...halting...moving through the blades of grass...