An allegory from Patricia Johnson

I am wondering if we are seeing a resurgence of interest in fairy stories and allegories. I find something very powerful about this literary form, and would be interested in any comments around this. Pat Johnson has kindly given permission for me to publish this one of hers on the blog. It comes from "Tales from the Dark Mountain".

Enjoy!



Pat Johnson

The Coffee Bean Babies

Far away on the other side of the world a village rests on the face of a dark mountain. Early every morning when the villagers awake from their night time dreams they hurry out into the sunlight. Dressed for a day of work, they walk together to their fields.

Today they get a surprise; the mountain looks different. It is covered with crawling things that look like coffee beans. They are everywhere up and down the side of the mountain. The villagers wonder what has happened. Then they hear a baby’s  cry. They are little brown babies, cute and plump and solid, crawling on the mountain.

They are not really crying. The sound is more like babbling. The babies seem very happy but none of the villagers know where they have come from. The villagers  have their own babies; they don’t need any more although they are very fond of babies. There are no adults with the babies, not one to feed them or look after them.

Soon all the children are in the fields playing with the new babies, swinging them in the air, and cuddling them; watching and talking to and loving them. The babies do not pay much attention to the village children who are pushing and pulling them about, lugging them around to show their friends. Those coffee bean babies are just happy. But when they get the chance, they want to crawl. They are exploring everywhere.

Yes, now the villagers see that there is something familiar about them – they remember that whenever babies come, something unusual happens. They can only wait and see. As they look along the mountainside the babies are crawling through their crops and fields.

The sky turns black and the babes stop, afraid. Thunder rumbles and rain pours down. When the sky clears, the villagers notice that now the babies have wings, heavy, solid clumsy wings that will never fly.

The fields are full of crawling babies, babies crawling through the cabbages and potatoes, and the carrots and the pumpkin, and the wheat, pulling up all the roots as they drag their heavy wings. The villagers are stunned. As they slide over the wet ground they try to figure out what they should do. Everyone is worried that they will have nothing to eat if the babies ruin all their crops. But how to remove them? They cannot rake them up and push them to the side; they will not stay.

The villagers who have always loved babies are beginning to hate them. They start to run. They run away from the babies, away from their fields. They run because they are confused and afraid; afraid that they might hurt the babies and they know that they should not do that. They know they can only wait and see. But they are so angry that the babies are destroying all the food they have planted, they run down the mountainside, run away to get to a place that feels  safe.

When they are far down the mountain, they look back and see the babies in the distance. The little babies are like a colony of ants on the mountainside.  Now the villagers can think. What will happen if it rains again? Then, there is a long deep rumble, like thunder, but the sky is clear. All the men and women of the village are in the valley, but their own children are still up there playing. When they look upward, they see their own children moving around among the crawling babes.

There is another, very loud rumble. The children are startled and they start to run down the mountain to their parents. As they run they feel the ground moving underneath them.

The mountain itself is trying to shrug off the itchy, annoying little insects that are crawling around on its surface. The skin of the mountain is itching. Its rumbles are getting louder and louder. The trees are shaking loose and falling down. Rocks are tumbling. The whole mountain explodes. The babies are thrown into the air, crashing into each other.

Meanwhile, the children have made it down the mountain and are with their parents again, very glad to be there. In silence they strain their eyes to see the babies, who have stopped crashing and whose heavy wing cases are falling to the ground.

Then the villagers hear a faint buzzing. Fine gossamer wings are bursting out of the babies shoulder blades, allowing them to fly and setting them free. The excited babies buzz loudly. They group together in a ring above the mountain. They are beautiful! The sun breaks through changing them from brown to gold. The light bouncing off the golden babies gives out a glare that hurts the eyes.

All the trees and rocks, the moss and streams, everything that the mountain had thrown off, is settling back down. Everything is returning to the mountain. Even the village itself, tossed high and far into the clouds, is finding a new spot to rest. Nothing is as it was. And as things nestle into different and awkward positions, the sun continues to blaze brightly on the babies, a hovering ring of gold.

 

The villagers are beginning to recover. They think the mountain may have become quiet once more. They start to trek upward to where the village teeters back and forth. As they walk, shards of gold fall from the sky, decorating the fields. Looking up, they see the babies disintegrating, breaking apart and dropping silently, as softly as snowflakes drifting though the air. The falling gold has no weight; it floats quietly until it settles on the ground. But as soon as it settles, the gold is sucked below the surface. Rapidly down it goes, deep into the cold centre of the mountain. The ground rumbles and shifts again, shrugs and resettles.

 

The villagers trudge upward, unworried because the mountain has restored itself and the mountain is their home. It has all happened very fast. The little coffee bean babies are gone. The villagers didn’t have to do anything. They didn’t know what was happening or what to do but it didn’t matter. Everything is okay again – but different. They head toward their village which is still tottering back and forth, up and down, left and right. They watch as it tilts to one side, then topples right over! They climb upward. Tomorrow they will start fixing, repairing and rebuilding.

 

Far into the heart of the mountain, they go. When they have gone far enough they lay down and cover themselves in furs and go to sleep deep in the earth where it is dark and quiet. They are part of the mountain that does not change. And as they sleep they grow strong.