This is a story told to children, part of the long cycle of beast fables and so-called "table tales" that common minstrels, verhals, and chanters are allowed to tell. Pardians of Nuroshka disdain such raffish yarns and claim the right to tell the true histories of the Uzmani, which are rich and complex. Table tales are the more popular for these and other reasons.

In the days when the ground was new and Ulundre had not yet found out all the paths of the world, but after Hechramon had given the beasts their voices, there flapped among the branches of the great forest an old raven, most ancient of birds. His beak was gray and his feathers silvered, and his old eyes pearled with near-blindness. He had lived long before Irich brought forth the light or the forest was raised, and his feet had never touched the ground. And now he sought a place for his final perch, where he would nest and die.

“The long years have crushed me,” lamented the raven, “and the winds have buffeted me for my last season. Before the next spring I will be dead, and I wish my bones to lie in honor in the crook of the greatest of trees. I have flown over this world for many a year and have seen tiny saplings sprawl upward into mighty trees, yet I do not know how to choose that with the most glory among them, for my old eyes are so clouded that I might not see.

Now near at hand the bat had crawled up under the shadows of the high branches to find moths to eat and to avoid his enemies on the ground, for he was hated by many. In those days the bat had not learned to fly and had to skitter along the ground, and his musty smell was abhorrent to the world, for he lived among cellars and tombs and only climbed to find his food. In all the forest it was only he who heard the old raven’s whispery croak, for even then his great ears were the keenest in all the world. These and his crafty mind were his only gifts.

“Grandsire,” he said, “you have indeed flown many years, but your old ears are too dull to hear the voices of the crackling pine or rustling oak. Let me ask of the trees which of them shall be your perch, and I will listen for you, for I have been cursed with the greatest ears in the wood and can hear the water as it makes its secret way below the stones of the world and the scraping of the earthworm in his burrow. I shall listen and decide for you, if it is your will, and in payment I will only ask a small thing for which you will have no use.”

“What is this thing you ask?” replied the raven. “Speak swiftly, for my pinions ache and I long to rest.”

“I ask only for your flight,” said the bat humbly, “that I might the more easily catch my food, and as you will no longer need it, it should be a boon to me.”

“So shall it be,” said the raven, who could neither see the bat’s ungainly form or smell his dark must. “You shall have my flight should you help me choose well. Tell me the testimony of the trees that I might decide rightly. Tell the maple to speak.”

The bat crawled to the highest pinion of the cedar that he might see the other trees about him. He said first, “Speak, you maple tree, and tell your tale.”

In a rustling of broad leaves the maple said, “I am beautiful beyond all trees. I burn with fiery color in the fall and spread my bare limbs in the winter, to be recloaked each spring in the greenest leaves of the forest. My sap is delicious to eat and none may match my sweet scent.”

“What of the maple?” asked the raven.

“He is more a meal than a tree,” said the bat, “and would only bring other wild beasts to trouble your rest. He is no fit perch.”

The raven said, “Then tell the pine to speak.”

Then the bat turned again and said, “Speak, you pine tree, and tell your tale.”

In the whisper of needles the pine said, “I am steadfast beyond all trees. My spines never fall and they are armor against all creatures. I am not changing like the fickle maple, but as stalwart as stone.”

“What of the pine?” asked the raven.

“He is as hard as a stone, and as sharp as swords,” said the bat, “and there is no soft place in him for a nest. He is no fit perch.”

The raven said, “Then tell the oak to speak.”

Then the bat turned again and said, “Speak, you oak tree, and tell your tale.”

In the creak of bending boughs the oak said, “I am powerful beyond all trees. None may stand the wind and rain as I, nor resist the beating sun and the devouring flames. I am not weak like the maple, nor am I cruel like the pine, but am a tree of honor, and men prize my strength.”

“What of the oak?” asked the raven.

“He should be a fine perch, until men come to break his limbs with strong axes,” said the bat, “and his trunk should be made into a boat. He is no fit perch.”

The raven said, “These are the most honored trees of the forest. Who else should speak to be my final perch?”

Then the bat spoke secretly to the cedar, and said, “If you will be my lodging, and shelter me in your boughs when I have flight, and mask my odor with your strong scent, I shall win you the honor of the old raven and teach you what to say.” And the cedar, whose wood is knotted and whose bark crumbles, agreed, and the bat whispered words of wisdom to him.

Then the bat said aloud, “Grandsire, you have forgotten in your age that the cedar, too, is a tree of honor, and he would speak and tell his tale.” He turned and said, “Speak, you cedar tree, and tell your tale.”

In the hush of soft fronds the cedar said, “I am secret beyond all trees. I am left alone by men, who find me too fine for their coarse carvings and too rich for their daily table. When the oak has been hollowed out to make a ship and the pine is only a box for the bodies of men and the maple is a footman’s chair, I shall still be standing. My bark is soft and good for nesting, and my fronds are as welcoming as a warm hearth away from the storm.”

“What of the cedar?” asked the raven.

“He is the best of trees,” said the bat, “as strong as oak, as steadfast as pine, and as fragrant as maple, but warm and comforting, too. He is the only perch that should do for you, grandsire. Come and sit among his branches, that he may do you honor before your final time.”

“It is well, then,” croaked the old raven, and he flapped down heavily into the branches, and there he lived his last days.

And the bat took his flight and soared through the skies, but still all the beasts of the earth and birds of the sky hated him, and all the more for stealing their sires’ dominion, so the bat might only go about in the darkness, listening for his enemies and his prey both.

And to the old raven the fronds of the cedar seemed scratchy and the bark seemed rough, but he thought this was his old body turned soft by years. And when he wondered at it, the bat was there to lay his concerns to rest and speak wisely until the raven slept.

And so it was the bat learned to fly, and the cedar has ever been the home to him and to the raven both.

Next Chapter: New Chapter