The Fable of the Spider by Barry J. Northern Why not listen along to the Fable of the Spider as you read? Just click the play button below or download the MP3 Two orb-spiders burst from their silky cocoon. They beheld a riot of shapes and colours. Earthy browns led up bowed plant-spires to a blue expanse where the great webs sparkled. One spider turned to his brother and said. "Look at those webs. How fat the spiders who live in those towers are. How good it is for them to live such a life." His brother replied. "Oh, to build a web like that." A great shadow passed over the two spiders, blocking out the sky. A feathered monster shrieked upon them, and it was then each learnt there were also horrors in the world. Many of their brothers and sisters were taken, but the brothers survived, though one with only seven legs. A great shadow passed over the two spidersAfter weaving many webs, Eight spoke to Seven. "It is time for us to part, for it is the way of our kind to live alone in our webs. It is time to build your own. Now take my advice. Seek out a dark corner as I have done, away from the monsters in the sky. Also, don't exert yourself, and you won't need to feed so often." But Seven had only one thought. He said farewell to his brother, and set off for the webs in the sky. He climbed towards the fat spiders to see their beautiful homes, aching to be among their splendour, the brightest object in his world. Though he struggled without his right-back leg, each time he slid down, he climbed up again. Though he had to hide from feathered monsters, he did not shrink back to the shadows. And so, by evening, he was among the webs in the sky. He stared about as if in a dream, uncaring of his footing, and trod upon a thick, non-sticky prey-line. The fattest spider of them all belied its slothful aspect and was upon him in an instant, fangs raised. Seven shrank back, and called out to it. "Sir! Forgive me. I only wished to see your beautiful web!" The fat spider settled down. "A youngling. It has been so long since I last saw one." It was then Seven saw all the fat spider's eyes save one were cloudy with age, though the one that remained shone with vitality. "You are lucky you trod upon my prey-line, for a youngling like you would make a fine meal for most of my fellows. You admire my web then, youngling?" "Yes, sir. My brother told me to build my own web. I so wish I could build one as magnificent as this." "It is good for you to dream, youngling. What else did your brother tell you?" "Not to exert myself, sir." "Did he?" "Yes, sir. And to build a small web in a dark corner on account of my missing leg, sir." "Ah. Now there we have it you see. Tell me. Do you know of any other creature in our world that has eight legs?" Seven thought for a moment, and then replied that he did not. Every web is a gift to Our Lord El'Araned"Well, youngling, that is because Our Lord El'Araned made only one creature in his own image – us. So you see, even though you have lost one leg, you still have one more than the juicy-ones, three more than the furry beasts in the canopies, and five more than the feathered monsters. So my advice to you is this. Follow your dreams. Build a web as big and as high as you can, for then you will catch many juicy-ones and grow quickly. Also, as you get bigger, always build as big and as high as you can. Never say to yourself 'this web will do', for every web is a gift to Our Lord El'Araned." The fat spider let Seven spin his first line there, it caught the breeze and soon found purchase. This is how Seven took his first step towards his dreams. Two summers passed, and Eight crawled from his hole to watch his sons and daughters burst out into the world. He chuckled at their delighted amazement, knowing it would not last, for the world was a cold, hard place. He looked up into the sky for the first time in years, and beheld the great webs there, turned to his wife, and said. "Look at those fat spiders, showing off their wealth. I wager they laugh to see us down here, crawling about in the mud. Oh to be high-born. Life isn't fair." Then he shouted after his sons and daughters. "Don't climb up there! Quick! Get inside before the feathered monsters come to gobble you up!" Many came back, but one youngling's heart soared when he beheld the webs in the sky. It took the youngling two full days to climb up, and once there he called out to the fattest spider. "Hey, mister! My dad says you're rich because you are high born, and that life isn't fair. How come your web is so big?" The fat spider crawled over, and spoke to the youngling. "Look at me well. I achieved all this with only seven legs, how much easier will it be for you? You can stare up at us in jealousy , or you can work hard and build webs in the sky. The choice is yours." Friday Fables is now distributed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-Share Alike 2.0 UK: England & Wales license, which means you can share it, but not sell it, and while you are free to modify it, you must share it on the same license, just as we have with the music kindly provided by magnatune.com. Artist: David Modica Album: Timeless

The Fable of the Spider by Barry J. Northern Why not listen along to the Fable of the Spider as you read? Just click the play button below or download the MP3 Two orb-spiders burst from their silky cocoon. They beheld a riot of shapes and colours. Earthy browns led up bowed plant-spires to a blue expanse where the great webs sparkled. One spider turned to his brother and said. "Look at those webs. How fat the spiders who live in those towers are. How good it is for them to live such a life." His brother replied. "Oh, to build a web like that." A great shadow passed over the two spiders, blocking out the sky. A feathered monster shrieked upon them, and it was then each learnt there were also horrors in the world. Many of their brothers and sisters were taken, but the brothers survived, though one with only seven legs. A great shadow passed over the two spidersAfter weaving many webs, Eight spoke to Seven. "It is time for us to part, for it is the way of our kind to live alone in our webs. It is time to build your own. Now take my advice. Seek out a dark corner as I have done, away from the monsters in the sky. Also, don't exert yourself, and you won't need to feed so often." But Seven had only one thought. He said farewell to his brother, and set off for the webs in the sky. He climbed towards the fat spiders to see their beautiful homes, aching to be among their splendour, the brightest object in his world. Though he struggled without his right-back leg, each time he slid down, he climbed up again. Though he had to hide from feathered monsters, he did not shrink back to the shadows. And so, by evening, he was among the webs in the sky. He stared about as if in a dream, uncaring of his footing, and trod upon a thick, non-sticky prey-line. The fattest spider of them all belied its slothful aspect and was upon him in an instant, fangs raised. Seven shrank back, and called out to it. "Sir! Forgive me. I only wished to see your beautiful web!" The fat spider settled down. "A youngling. It has been so long since I last saw one." It was then Seven saw all the fat spider's eyes save one were cloudy with age, though the one that remained shone with vitality. "You are lucky you trod upon my prey-line, for a youngling like you would make a fine meal for most of my fellows. You admire my web then, youngling?" "Yes, sir. My brother told me to build my own web. I so wish I could build one as magnificent as this." "It is good for you to dream, youngling. What else did your brother tell you?" "Not to exert myself, sir." "Did he?" "Yes, sir. And to build a small web in a dark corner on account of my missing leg, sir." "Ah. Now there we have it you see. Tell me. Do you know of any other creature in our world that has eight legs?" Seven thought for a moment, and then replied that he did not. Every web is a gift to Our Lord El'Araned"Well, youngling, that is because Our Lord El'Araned made only one creature in his own image – us. So you see, even though you have lost one leg, you still have one more than the juicy-ones, three more than the furry beasts in the canopies, and five more than the feathered monsters. So my advice to you is this. Follow your dreams. Build a web as big and as high as you can, for then you will catch many juicy-ones and grow quickly. Also, as you get bigger, always build as big and as high as you can. Never say to yourself 'this web will do', for every web is a gift to Our Lord El'Araned." The fat spider let Seven spin his first line there, it caught the breeze and soon found purchase. This is how Seven took his first step towards his dreams. Two summers passed, and Eight crawled from his hole to watch his sons and daughters burst out into the world. He chuckled at their delighted amazement, knowing it would not last, for the world was a cold, hard place. He looked up into the sky for the first time in years, and beheld the great webs there, turned to his wife, and said. "Look at those fat spiders, showing off their wealth. I wager they laugh to see us down here, crawling about in the mud. Oh to be high-born. Life isn't fair." Then he shouted after his sons and daughters. "Don't climb up there! Quick! Get inside before the feathered monsters come to gobble you up!" Many came back, but one youngling's heart soared when he beheld the webs in the sky. It took the youngling two full days to climb up, and once there he called out to the fattest spider. "Hey, mister! My dad says you're rich because you are high born, and that life isn't fair. How come your web is so big?" The fat spider crawled over, and spoke to the youngling. "Look at me well. I achieved all this with only seven legs, how much easier will it be for you? You can stare up at us in jealousy , or you can work hard and build webs in the sky. The choice is yours." Friday Fables is now distributed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-Share Alike 2.0 UK: England & Wales license, which means you can share it, but not sell it, and while you are free to modify it, you must share it on the same license, just as we have with the music kindly provided by magnatune.com. Artist: David Modica Album: Timeless

Friday Fables Metacast OneA brief audio update on what's happening with Friday Fables. ... look out for the Spider and the Peacock coming down your feed

The Fable of the Slow-worm by Barry J. Northern Why not listen along to the Fable of the Slow-worm as you read? Just click the play button below or download the MP3 A slow-worm had searched in vain all night for slugs, but come morning he was forced to settle under rocky shadows by the threat of the rising sun. As the morning waxed and warmed the rocks above his head, he felt less cold, but the sun's comfort could not sooth his stomach's hollow ache. Then he saw a slug. A long, old slug with a ridged back and orange side-stripes. The best kind. It was moving slowly, no doubt caught out by the day's sudden heat. Did he dare risk it? His belly answered yes. After feasting, the slow-worm felt fat and happy. Not since the days of his youth had he been out in the light like this. He'd forgotten the beautiful blue of the starless sky. He'd also forgotten to be wary of the flying shriekers. A sudden downthrust of air was his only warning before a shadow descended upon him, followed by a taloned foot. He looked up at twin towers of red wrinkled skin and beheld the curve of a grey-feathered belly. He called out. “Hey there! You're a pigeon!” "Yeah, so what if I am, hey, hang on a minute, since when could worms talk?" "Sir, I am not a worm. I eat worms like you do." "You look like a worm to me." "Pigeons don't eat my kind." The pigeon brought his beady eye to face his prey. “Well, I'm one very hungry pigeon, mate. I reckon you might be worth a try.” The bird's weight had shifted forward and compressed the slow-worm's neck, squeezing out all protest. “You see, my dear old Pa, he said to me, 'Fletch me boy, you gotta learn to take what you can get'.” Fletch straightened up, puffing out his chest. The weight shifted off Fletch's toes, relieving the poor slow-worm somewhat. He took a desperate gasp. "Urgh."”There ahead: a hole in the grass, a good burrowing hole. Safety was but a few inches away. "Urgh."” What was that?” Fletch bent down to quiz the slow-worm again, but his shifting weight once again precluded a reply. “Sorry, mate, I thought you said something. As I was saying. When I was a young squab, it took me a while to learn that there were pickings to be had around these parts. Oh the things I could tell you about the tasty morsels I've had since I found these little parks among the boxy cliffs. I ain't seen a worm quite like you before though, son. I reckon you might be worth a nibble. Question is, how fast will you slither away if I let you go? Now Fletch made the mistake of moving his foot down to the slow-worm's tail in order that he might peck at him without fully letting go. The slow-worm felt a twinge at his tail's base. It was that muscle; the muscle his mother had always told him to ignore. It clenched and he felt a back-bone shatter. Sharp pain become numb fear as his grey-scaled skin sphinctered blood's flow to a trickle from a wound where his beautiful tail had been. Instinct drove him down into the hole, where he hid until long after Fletch's protests had died on the wind. The tail grew back, of course, although it was never quite as fine as it once had been. While it rained, slugs were easily found, but a dry spell soon begat a hungry night, and once again the hollow-bellied slow-worm spied a daytime meal crawling across the lawn. But he did not venture out to fetch it. Nor did he venture out upon seeing another following its slimy wake an hour later. Once bitten, twice shy. The Fable of the Slow-worm by Barry J. Northern is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.0 UK: England & Wales License. Hosted by The Internet Archive Music by Jeff Wahl from the album, Guitarscapes, and provided by magnatune.com

The Fable of the Slow-worm by Barry J. Northern Why not listen along to the Fable of the Slow-worm as you read? Just click the play button below or download the MP3 A slow-worm had searched in vain all night for slugs, but come morning he was forced to settle under rocky shadows by the threat of the rising sun. As the morning waxed and warmed the rocks above his head, he felt less cold, but the sun's comfort could not sooth his stomach's hollow ache. Then he saw a slug. A long, old slug with a ridged back and orange side-stripes. The best kind. It was moving slowly, no doubt caught out by the day's sudden heat. Did he dare risk it? His belly answered yes. After feasting, the slow-worm felt fat and happy. Not since the days of his youth had he been out in the light like this. He'd forgotten the beautiful blue of the starless sky. He'd also forgotten to be wary of the flying shriekers. A sudden downthrust of air was his only warning before a shadow descended upon him, followed by a taloned foot. He looked up at twin towers of red wrinkled skin and beheld the curve of a grey-feathered belly. He called out. “Hey there! You're a pigeon!” "Yeah, so what if I am, hey, hang on a minute, since when could worms talk?" "Sir, I am not a worm. I eat worms like you do." "You look like a worm to me." "Pigeons don't eat my kind." The pigeon brought his beady eye to face his prey. “Well, I'm one very hungry pigeon, mate. I reckon you might be worth a try.” The bird's weight had shifted forward and compressed the slow-worm's neck, squeezing out all protest. “You see, my dear old Pa, he said to me, 'Fletch me boy, you gotta learn to take what you can get'.” Fletch straightened up, puffing out his chest. The weight shifted off Fletch's toes, relieving the poor slow-worm somewhat. He took a desperate gasp. "Urgh."”There ahead: a hole in the grass, a good burrowing hole. Safety was but a few inches away. "Urgh."” What was that?” Fletch bent down to quiz the slow-worm again, but his shifting weight once again precluded a reply. “Sorry, mate, I thought you said something. As I was saying. When I was a young squab, it took me a while to learn that there were pickings to be had around these parts. Oh the things I could tell you about the tasty morsels I've had since I found these little parks among the boxy cliffs. I ain't seen a worm quite like you before though, son. I reckon you might be worth a nibble. Question is, how fast will you slither away if I let you go? Now Fletch made the mistake of moving his foot down to the slow-worm's tail in order that he might peck at him without fully letting go. The slow-worm felt a twinge at his tail's base. It was that muscle; the muscle his mother had always told him to ignore. It clenched and he felt a back-bone shatter. Sharp pain become numb fear as his grey-scaled skin sphinctered blood's flow to a trickle from a wound where his beautiful tail had been. Instinct drove him down into the hole, where he hid until long after Fletch's protests had died on the wind. The tail grew back, of course, although it was never quite as fine as it once had been. While it rained, slugs were easily found, but a dry spell soon begat a hungry night, and once again the hollow-bellied slow-worm spied a daytime meal crawling across the lawn. But he did not venture out to fetch it. Nor did he venture out upon seeing another following its slimy wake an hour later. Once bitten, twice shy. The Fable of the Slow-worm by Barry J. Northern is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.0 UK: England & Wales License. Hosted by The Internet Archive Music by Jeff Wahl from the album, Guitarscapes, and provided by magnatune.com

The Fable of the Tarsier by Barry J. Northern Why not listen along to the Fable of the Tarsier as you read? Just click the play button below or download the MP3. A tarsier sat upon his branch, chewing on a large cricket he had just caught. A warm jungle breeze rustled the leaves about him, and above, stars twinkled through the forest canopy. He heard approaching footsteps on the branch and swivelled his head, fixing his large eyes upon a brother hurrying towards him. The younger tarsier waved his arms and chirruped. So hurried was Chirrup that Cricket-Catcher did not at first understand his words. “... coming … quick … coming … this big.” Cricket-Catcher smiled around a mouthful of food as he watched Chirrup extend his little arms as wide as his slight frame would allow. “Big, eh?” Chirrup jumped up and down and nodded. “Yes, yes. Big it is. Quick.” “Quick too?” “No, no quick, we must go.” “Where? I've just caught this cricket. I'm not moving.” This sent Chirrup into another frenzy of arm-waving and high-pitching singing. “... coming … big … snake.” This caught Cricket-Catcher's attention. “A snake? A big snake is coming?” Chirrup sighed and deflated. “Yes.” “Relax. Snakes are slow.” Cricket-Catcher spotted a Striped Tree Frog sneaking up the tree's wide bole below him. Finishing off his cricket, his mind already on his next meal, he spoke idly to Chirrup whilst eyeing the frog. “You know, those are clever little things. Tasty though. Worth catching. Can't leap as well as us. I saw one in the morning once, just before going to bed.” “Go! We go now!” “Yeah, yeah. Just a minute. It was pale coloured. You never see them pale like that at night. It's like they change colour to fool us. Argh! A snake!” Cricket-Catcher had never before seen a snake as large as the one that loomed up from the shadows beyond the small frog. “I told you!” cried Chirrup as the pair leapt upwards into the canopy where the branches were thin and the snake could not follow. “I know. But did you see the size of that thing?” A picture is worth a thousand words. The Fable of the Tarsier by Barry J. Northern is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.0 UK: England & Wales License. Hosted by The Internet Archive. Music by Jeff Wahl from the album, Guitarscapes, and provided by magnatune.com

The Fable of the Pigeon by Barry J. Northern A young pigeon, not long out of the nest, squabbled among his fellows around the legs of one of the wingless giants who sat upon the strange wooden bush at this time every day. His father stayed close to him. “Look Fletch, this here giant is dropping bits of giant food already, good as grain that stuff. Oh, he'll fling us his scraps at the end, but you wanna watch out for anything you can get.” His father laughed at the older pigeons at the front of the crowd, fighting for scraps. “Look at em go. That's the way!” “But, Dad?” “Yes, my son?” “Can't I just have grain mash? You've still got crop milk. I like it with a bit of crop milk.” “Look son, I told you already, you're off the milk now. It'll dry up soon anyhow.” “What about Mum?” “She's got your brother to worry about. Look, you're not a squab any more.” His beady red eye darted ahead of a sharp-turned neck. “Look out! He's dropping scraps! Go on, get in there my son.” Fletch, wanting to impress his father, pushed his way in. Everyone said Fletch was big for his age, and he was pleased that he had weight enough to force through the crowd of adults and defend his own patch. There were grains among the fluffy giant-food. He picked at them, they were delicious but few. He tried one of the giant's fluffy grains. “Ergh!” He spat it out. In his moment of disgust he lost his place and was forced to the back of the crowd. “What happened, boy?” “Those fluffy grains are horrible, Dad. There were hardly any proper grains, you know, like the ones you and Mum give me.” “Son, if you live long enough to have squabs of your own, you'll wanna rear em on the best pickings. But you gotta learn to take what you can get now, lad. You're on your own.” And with that he flew into the mêlée and pecked at the floor with gusto. Fletch flew around the green square of woodland for a while, not daring to venture into the giant's cliffs that surrounded it. He searched for good grain, but found little, and after several days he was so hungry that the next time the giant sat upon his wooden bush, Fletch was the first at his feet. “Beggars can't be choosers.” The Fable of the Pigeon by Barry J. Northern is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.0 UK: England & Wales License. Hosted by The Internet Archive, download MP3here. Music by Jeff Wahl from the album, Guitarscapes, track 5 Reality Check, and provided by magnatune.com

The Fable of the Elephant by Barry J. Northern A young elephant trailed behind the herd, trying not to be noticed. She wanted to play with the young ones, as she always had done, but Mother had told her that this year she was old enough to help with mothering duties. The first of the new calves had been born the previous night. It had been a wonderful time, all the women of the herd celebrated, but Kijana now feared she would soon be set to some task or other. The fear of impending duty grew within her until she could no longer bear it. "Mother!" she called out. "I'm just off to the water-hole. I won't be long." Mother turned around, her trunk swaying, ears flapping. "All right, dear." Kijana had expected an argument. It seemed there were some advantages to being a little older, she thought, and stomped off to the water-hole alone. She was still young enough to feel nervous about leaving the herd behind, but felt emboldened when a pair of impala skittered away from her shadow. Now it was Kijana's plan to escape the herd to avoid mothering duties, so she had decided to take the longest route to the furthest water-hole. She would make some excuse about needing a wash, for the water at the local hole was hardly deep enough for that. She chuckled at her own cleverness. At the water-hole, however, she found she really was in need of a bath, for the it was further away than she had realised, and the day was hot. After she had spent a long time washing, which was not one of her favourite duties, the sun had already begun to set, and she could barely see her herd's distant dust-cloud. She knew it was time to return, though she would gladly have rested longer. On the way back she saw a she-lion stalking a herd of zebra. The herd was large, and Kijana feared that the she-lion might decide that a young, lone elephant was easier prey, so Kijana gave the lion, and the herd, a wide berth. The journey back took over half as long again as the journey out, so that when she eventually returned to the herd she was quite out of breath and ready to sleep. "And where have you been all afternoon, young lady?" said Mother, "I wanted you to help with Abla's calf. She needs time to forage you know, she's eating for two now. I explained this to you yesterday, Kijana. That calf of hers is a thirsty one." "I know, Mum," said Kijana. "I just wanted to have a bath." Mother's great grey brow wrinkled. "Well, it's too late to help with anything now. You can help tomorrow." Kijana knew the same trick would not work again, and sighed. "What exactly will I be doing, Mum?" "Don't look so distressed, Kijana," said Mother. "I only want you to play with the pup while Abla's off foraging." She who avoids labour works twice as hard. Elephants are highly social creatures, though it is females who stay together in herds, while the mature bull elephants are mostly solitary. Like human children, elephant calves require constant care for many years as they grow and develop. Unlike most animals, but again like humans and primates, elephant calves are born with few natural instincts, and so need to be taught about the world around them. The whole herd -- often closely related; mothers, daughters, sisters, and aunts -- is responsible for looking after the young calves. Such non-maternal care is known as allomothering, during which young females will also learn parenting skills before becoming mothers themselves. http://www.psychology.stir.ac.uk/staff/plee/documents/AllomotheringAnimBehav.pdf The Fable of the Elephant by Barry J. Northern is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.0 UK: England & Wales License. Hosted by The Internet Archive, download MP3here. Music by Daniel Berkman from the album, Calabashmoon, track 4 Two Rings, and provided by magnatune.com

The Fable of the Swallow by Barry J. Northern A large roost of swallows settled about a tree, whose thinning branches fractured the sunset. One swallow among them stood on a high branch before her brood and proclaimed the end of Summer. "My children. It is time for us to journey towards the Sun, to our wintering grounds." The children became excited, especially one young lad from the first brood who had been dreaming of the wintering grounds ever since an old swallow told him of the burnt fields, teaming with fat flies. More than the promise of a great feast under a strong sun, however, Firstborn desired to make nest and find a wife. He saw a younger brother on a lower branch, and hopped down to say farewell. "I'm going now, brother, for I cannot wait. Will you fly with me?" Secondborn laughed. "No-one may fly as fast as you, brother. But what is the hurry? Will you not roost here tonight and wait for the flock to leave?" "No, I want to be there as soon as possible. I'll make the finest nest you ever saw!" And with a flicker of feathers Firstborn was gone. Secondborn rose with the flock the next morning. He enjoyed the leisurely pace and the nightly roosts. Though he caught his food on the wing and kissed his wavering reflection as he passed over lakes to slake his thirst, he still took the time to look about him at the changing landscape. He had never imagined the world so large, nor so varied. The trees and mountains, sprawling man-nests and glittering seas, all of it swelled his heart through his glistening eyes. Another young bird took to flying with Secondborn, for she too admired the lands over which they travelled. They began to sit together when roosting more and more, and the old ones smiled and sang. Meanwhile, Firstborn flew with relentless speed towards the wintering grounds. He fancied he could see lines in the sky drawing him forwards, and he never doubted his path. He had passed other flocks, and roosted with them on occasion, but so eager was he to reach his destination, he always set off before the rest of the roost were roused by the rising sun. If it were a choice between taking a diversion for more plentiful fields and clearer waters, or a less desirable but shorter path, Firstborn always chose the latter. He reached the wintering grounds days before the rest of his brood. He stopped and looked around him for the first time since beginning his long flight. He felt drained of purpose. The fields were lonely, not at all as he had imagined, and though the food was plentiful, he almost felt too weak to feed. But feed he did, and his strength soon returned, though he had not the energy nor the inclination to build a nest for several days. He had still not begun to built when Secondborn arrived with the flock. The younger brother had already married his sweetheart on the journey, and as the happy pair settled down to make nest, they congratulated Firstborn on his speed, and spoke of all the wonderful sights they had seen on the way, but Firstborn just smiled, for he had seen nothing of which they spoke. "Success is a journey not a destination." The Fable of the Swallow by Barry J. Northern is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.0 UK: England & Wales License. Hosted by The Internet Archive, download MP3here. Music by David Modica from the album, Stillness and Movement, track 2 Fresh Breath, and provided by magnatune.com

The Fable of the Rhino and the Oxpecker by Barry J. Northern One morning, a black rhino looked up from the thorny bush he was stripping with his hooked lips, for he heard the distant rumble of hoofbeats. He squinted against the savannah sun and could see only a cloud of dust with a vaguely darker kernel, for his eyesite was poor. He set his feet to the ground and charged off to meet this new threat, for the bush was good, and the females were nearby. An oxpecker, who had been working at a tick near Rhino's ear, flew up above his head. "Charge, my tick-infested friend, charge well. Don't worry about your wounds, for I will keep them clean for you." Rhino called back. "Thank you little friend. I will be back as soon as I have dealt with my enemy." Rhino charged, and soon shortened the distance between himself and the approaching blur. The hoofbeats grew louder, until soon they were as loud as his own, and the distance closed so that even Rhino could clearly see his enemy -- another male, like himself. He called out to him. "Begone, my enemy. There is no room for you here." Then horns collided, and huge pointed heads glanced across each other forcing the pair eye-to-eye for an instant. Then the energy of their momentum was spent, and then their heavy bodies pounded the hard dirt beneath them in a slow cycle of stand-off and head-butting. The pair fought for several minutes, but Rhino was the largest, and so, before long, his rival backed away. "You are the better beast. Perhaps one day I will match your skill." Then Rhino's enemy turned and fled. Rhino chuckled, but it was only as he ambled back to his bush that he began to feel his injuries. When Rhino returned, Oxpecker was waiting, perched on the thorny bush. "Are you hurt my friend?" he said, and if Rhino's ears hadn't been ringing, he might have heard the hint of hopefulness in Oxpecker's voice. "A little. Nothing really, just a few scratches along my neck." "Oh dear, oh dear," said the bird, fussing over him. "You feast on your bush while I fe-- er, clean your wounds." Rhino bent his head down. "Thank you my friend." As he ate, Rhino insensibly ignored the sharp pains caused by the duplicitous bird's eager 'ministrations' as the Redbilled Oxpecker set about earning his name. "A good enemy is a better person than a false friend." It is commonly held that the symbiotic relationship between the Redbilled Oxpecker and the large mammals of the African plains, such as the Black Rhino, Impala, and Wildebeest, is mutualistic, that is beneficial to both parties. Recent research has shown that the tickbird's behaviour might not reduce the tickload of such animals, and even that it only feeds on engorged ticks to get the food it really wants -- the animal's blood. This is corroborated by observations of the birds drinking and eating from small wounds on the animals, and evidence of them keeping wounds from healing and enlarging them. Such evidence suggests the relationship actuallymay be parasitic, or that perhaps the relationship itself changes to suit environmental factors. Red-billed Oxpeckers : Vampires or Tickbirds? http://beheco.oxfordjournals.org/cgi/reprint/11/2/154 The Fable of the Rhino and the Oxpecker by Barry J. Northern is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.0 UK: England & Wales License.Hosted by The Internet Archive, download MP3here. Music by Jeff Wahl from the album, Guitarscapes, track 5 "Reality Check", and track 11 "Waterfall", and provided by magnatune.com