threemonthly edition july_august_september 2003 issue 7 ... - Teclux

Gregoir11 fairy tale by Toon StockmanOnce upon a time... there was a really old tree, with really old branches, and on the left of its trunk - at leastif you were looking at it from behind the bilberry bush - there stood a ramshackle hovel. During fierce storms,when all the other trees would bend, weave and snap, this tree didn’t twist at all, not one single bit.And during the winter, - and certainly if you were looking on from behind the bilberry bush, from where thebare surface made the hovel look even more ramshackle, the pair took on a morose aspect. Stripped of allits leaves, completely naked, that’s when you could really see the inky black of the thick branches with thesmall, ramshackle hovel beneath.Gregoir wasn’t sure if they were oak or chestnut branches above his hovel, but he didn’t think it was thatimportant anyway, because the tree protected him from everyone who lived in the village further on. Thevillagers hated Gregoir just because he had the ugliest of faces. Everybody was afraid of the tree, not justbecause of its enormous dimensions and strong branches, but also because the trunk was so misshapedthat it looked like a witch’s face.The three pitch-black birds that lived in the tree confirmed the villagers’ suspicion that the tree and alsoGregoir were haunted, and so everybody gave Gregoir’s hovel a wide berth and left him alone. Of course,Gregoir was very pleased with his tree, his guardian angel. He had an ugly face, and in those days, an uglyface was more than enough reason for giving somebody a kicking.Until one day, when Gregoir was by chance standing behind the bilberry bush looking at his tree and hovel.He had just extracted another bilberry skin from between his teeth when his tree caused him a shiver offear. The heavy branches were hanging menacingly over the hovel, ready to give it a bashing. He ignoredthat shiver for a moment, it was his tree after all, but a second shiver went down his spine when he sawthe thick branches again, laying low over his hovel. He wasn’t afraid that the tree would completely smashhis hovel to pieces, he knew that trees couldn’t do that sort of thing, but he was afraid that one of thebranches might break off and plummet heavily to the ground.These enormous branches, even the smallest, could completely demolish his poor hovel. Even during thatsame autumn, when the tree had dropped its fruit, or was it vegetables, he wasn’t quite sure, he had beentrembling with fear. The fruit slammed down onto his hovel and with each thud, he feared the fatal branchthat would destroy it. He tried not to think about what would happen to him when the fatal blow came tohis hovel, and whether he might be asleep or maybe even eating frogs’ legs for all he knew. He just triednot to think about it.But he did think about it. Every day.Since then, every morning, when he came back from his morning foraging, before entering his hovel, he wouldgive the trunk a good kick. Just to make sure that all the branches were still firmly attached, so he wouldn’tget a nasty surprise when skinning a rabbit, catching a frog or just having an afternoon nap.After a while, not even the three black pigeons that lived at the top of the tree were bothered by Gregoir’skicks any more. “Of course they are black pigeons,” said Gregoir, briefly winking at each of the three birds.“They have orange beaks, and that’s typical of pigeons.” Sometimes he quite felt like roast pigeons washeddown with beer, but he was just too sympathetic towards the three birds.But the safety he got from his daily kick became vague and doubtful. “Perhaps I just don’t kick hardenough,” he thought. He wasn’t able to kick any harder, he was already stamping with all his might.He soon found a solution: a second kick, just before going to bed. The three black birds looked at oneanother rather bemused: “hey, what? Is it morning already?” The cleverest of the three looked up to the sunvanishing into the dusk and saw that it was getting dark: “It’s just another kicking spree, it will soon pass.”The three birds adjusted quickly, the extra kick in the evening was their signal to go to sleep, just as thekick in the morning was their alarm clock.When the three of them noticed a slight shudder, bang in the middle of the day, they looked down and sawGregoir kicking the trunk. The dumbest bird asked: “Is he angry at us?” and the cleverest bird replied: “Ofcourse not, he put some bread out for us this morning,” and the middle bird said, “He’s probably afraid thata branch will come crashing on his head when having an afternoon nap.”The three saw this as a signal to grab forty winks themselves.“That’s it, I’m off, I’m not putting up with this any longer,” screeched the cleverest bird as Gregoir had justdelivered his fifty-fifth kick to the trunk, and according to his normal daily schedule, was to dish outanother fourteen.“Oh, stay a little longer, you’re such good company.”“No, I’m fed up with this everlasting kicking, that’s all he ever does, and it’s our trunk too. I just want to restnow, and not just when he’s eating, sleeping or skinning filthy rabbits. I want to rest.”The middle bird thought about it and said, “You’re right, let’s go, I know a good tree.”“This can’t go on,” thought Gregoir, looking at the roof while devouring his cold rabbit, fearing that a branchwould pulverise his hovel. He wrenched away his old stove and dragged it outside, and looked around tosee where he could place it. “Yes, perfect!” he said. “Over there, by the trunk, then I don’t have to go farwhen I’m hungry.” And so, he warmed up his cold rabbit on his old stove.“Oh yes, my table.” He rushed inside, dragged his table and chair outside and placed them neatly next tohis old stove. He slumped into his chair and enjoyed his hot rabbit and the respite from the constant threatabove his head. He postponed his midday nap so as to be in his hovel as little as possible.That night, Gregoir lay trembling and kicking in his bed. He jumped up, leapt outside and delivered a soundkick to the trunk. “Phew, everything’s OK, I thought for a second that a branch was about to fall off.” A warmwind from the wood tingled his nose. “Hmm, it’s not all that cold outside, I’d be better off dragging my bedoutside, then maybe I’ll sleep better.” Gregoir rushed inside, picked his mattress off the ground, grabbedthe sheets and put everything down next to his table, chair and old stove. He immediately found relaxationin the muggy coolness and fell asleep.“Let’s have a look at our kicker,” said the dumbest bird. “Yes, we are just getting bored today,” the othertwo screeched in harmony.It was a great relief to see that they had not left their tree without reason. “He is still kicking like a madman.”“But why is he still kicking?” asked the dumbest bird aloud. “After all, his bed, table and old stove are stilloutside. He no longer has to be afraid of the stupid branches that are not going to fall onto his roof anyway.”“Indeed,” said the cleverest, dryly.The middle bird agreed with him: “Indeed,” pointing with his feathers to the dark rain clouds above him.It was pouring down. Gregoir had kicked eighteen times in succession, so he could easily seek shelter inhis hovel. He was nervous. Maybe a branch would come loose due to the storm after all.Gregoir fled outside. He kicked his own hovel briefly, however, he was by now so good at it that it shookand the four walls fell apart and the roof thudded to the ground. A drop of mud splattered against one ofthe dumbest bird’s wings. “Hey, you messy thing,” he shouted, but the others immediately silenced him.Meanwhile the rain was pouring over Gregoir, but he was able to skilfully install two walls around his table,bed, mattress and old stove. He fixed the third and fourth walls to them in three blows. The roof was moredifficult, but he managed. By the time the roof was ready, the last drop of rain had fallen.The three birds kept looking at the doorway, but Gregoir did not come back out.“Hey, look, he’s stopped kicking,” shouted the dumbest bird.“No,” shouted the cleverest bird.“Of course not,” said the middle bird, “He’s moved his hovel, he’s got nothing more to be afraid of.”“So, can we go back to our tree?”“Yes, we can.”The three flew off to their favourite branch. This was now situated right above his hovel. “Let’s move to theother side of the tree, so we don’t have to sit and stare at his ramshackle hovel.”…Once upon a time... there was a really old tree, with really old branches, and on the right of its trunk - atleast if you were looking at it from behind the bilberry bush - there stood a ramshackle hovel. During fiercestorms, when all the other trees would bend, weave and snap, this tree didn’t twist at all, not one single bit…43