MORGAN'S CICONIA
by Terry H Jones
suggested by a Japanese fable

Morgan Chassator was a woodsman, a hunter, a trapper, a fisherman, and he was the best. He caught what he wanted, when he wanted, as much as he wanted. He knew an animal's mood by it's tracks, knew what a fish prefered for breakfast. He read the weather by watching the clouds, found overlooked berries under the snow. Morgan was a woodsman, and he was the best.

Morgan Chassator was poor. He lived in a shack he'd built, owned little more than he could carry on his back, and each day went to the forest, fields, streams and lakes for his food. He never had more than enough, and people thought Morgan was poor.

Morgan Chassator was content. He knew what he liked and how to get it, and he was good at what he did. He lived his own way, thought his own thoughts. He went everyday into the woods, but he always came back with what he needed. He didn't have much, but there was nothing Morgan wanted that he didn't have or know how to get. Not everyone understood it, but Morgan was content.

One morning Morgan woke with a taste for fish, so off he went at dawn to the lake near his shack. There on the shore he found a bird tangled in an abandoned fishing net. Morgan had never seen such a bird. Tall, slim, and it had a long beak and was covered with feathers that changed from beetle-green to burnished red-gold as it moved. The beautiful thing struggled against the clinging net, but with each move it become more hopelessly entangled.

Morgan knew that if the bird didn't escape the net, the foxes would get it. He didn't begrudge the foxes their supper, but such an end seemed a pity when the world held so few things of such grace and magic. Slowly, so he didn't frighten it too much, Morgan stepped through the shore mud and cut the strands around the bird's feet. The bird trembled as the man approached, but never attacked him. When its feet were free, it spread long, graceful wings, it's feathers became silver and white in the rising sun, and with a single, musical call, it took flight. The glorious creature sailed away over the lake, and Morgan watched as it turned every color he knew and some he did not. It disappeared into the sunrise, and the fisherman was alone. And for the first time in his life, being alone made Morgan lonely.

That evening at dusk, as Morgan grilled fish in the clearing before his shack, a woman stepped out of the trees. She was tall and slim, with long arms, long legs, a long neck - and a long nose, if the truth be told. Morgan thought her hair might be red, but it was hard to tell in the dying light of the day. She was wearing a simple white dress, long and loose. Morgan saw she was barefooted.

She walked to the light of the fire and asked if she might sit. She'd travelled far, she said, and was tired. As she sat and warmed herself by the fire, they talked. She'd not eaten all day, so Morgan gave her some fish. He learned she'd no place to stay, so he offered his shack. And he learned that her name was Ciconia. Ciconia Pavon.

She spent the night in the shack, and he by the fire. They spent the next day together. And the next, and the next. And before anyone would have thought it, they stood before a priest to be married.

Morgan had been quietly content before Ciconia had stepped out of the forest; now he was busily happy. He soon forgot what it was like to live alone, and couldn't imagine why he had. He saw things in the forests and waters that he'd never seen before. Oh, he saw all the plants and critters and tracks as before, and he knew what they all meant. But now he saw more life, more beauty, more poignancy than before. It was frustrating that he couldn't bring this to Ciconia, so sometimes he brought her to the newly-magic places to see what he saw.

And she saw it. Her way was quiet and gentle and graceful, and she saw the beauty in the world that Morgan found. She said little in these special places, but became lost in the place and the moment. And when she did, Morgan got lost in being with her.

Trap and hunt and fish as he might, Morgan couldn't always catch, find or make everything he needed. Sometimes he went to town to trade, and when next he went, he took Ciconia along. The town seemed another wonder to her as she strode through it's streets in her long, quiet, regal way.

The people in the market all knew Morgan. He was the best, and they knew it; his wares were the best, his trading open and honest. But Morgan with a wife - this they didn't know, and there was no other gossip to be heard that day. Who was she? they asked each other. Where did she come from? How had Morgan met her? They asked each other these questions. But they never asked Morgan or Ciconia. Answers put an end to guesses, and the guessing was more fun than the knowing.

Morgan heard them gossip, chittering like starlings on a fence. The woodsy couple thought it impolite to eavesdrop, so minded their own business and left others to do the same. But when neither Morgan nor Ciconia stopped to tell them their tale, they gossipers began to invent more. Instead of 'Where is she from?', they moved into 'What is she like? And the guesses were not charitable.

Ciconia was calm. 'Look at her! She acts like she owns the town!'

Ciconia did not butt into conversations. 'Look at her! Thinks she's too good to speak to us!'

Ciconia wore her simple white robe and walked barefoot through the street. 'Look at that! Morgan Chassator married, and still living like an animal! Why, he hasn't even bought her a pair of shoes!'

Just as meeting Ciconia had given him a happiness he'd never known before, the overheard gossip gave Morgan a hurt he'd never known before. He was quieter than usual on the trip back to his shack, a simple man, making some simple plans.

Each day he spent a little more time in the woods, stayed a little longer by the water, set an extra trap, dug roots to cure diseases he didn't have. His shack grew crowded with the stored furs, the drying plants; he had to take a few days off from the traps to build another shack just to store things. A month before he might have spent an hour sitting on a rock, watching water striders make patterns on the lake; now he used that hour to collect bags of fallen nuts to sell in town. He was less by the fire, less with Ciconia, and when she asked about the burst of activity, he said he was just 'taking care of some things.'

There came a day when he was ready for town again. Sacking up the goods, Morgan and Ciconia loaded themselves down and trudged into town. The merchants were surprised, but happy, to see Morgan again. Never had he come back so soon, and never had he brought so much to trade. Trade he did, and when he was done, instead of a pack full of supplies, he had a handful of coins, another first. Then he took the exhausted Ciconia by the hand and headed for the cobbler's shop.

Ciconia was hot and tired and dusty after the long trip into town. And she was surprised, and a little confused, when Morgan shyly gave her the finely made sandals he'd just bought. Is this why you are always in the woods? she asked. He nodded. She stared blankly at him. She tried to put on the shoes, but seemed to not understand them. Confused himself, Morgan helped her, and she walked around the street, wearing the shoes shyly, proudly, and as though she could never forget they were there.

With more of his new coins, Morgan bought her a new dress. Ciconia seemed not to understand it either, but realized it was important to Morgan, so put it on. She gave up trying to understand when he used the last of the coins to buy jewelry. Then, rustling, clinking and stepping lightly in her newfound finery, she and Morgan hiked out of town and back to their woodland home.

The next evening when he came home at sundown, a sack of tradable this and that on his shoulder, Morgan found Ciconia sitting by the fire. Well, she sat where they usually kept a fire, but there was no fire lit. She'd not cooked, which he didn't mind, but she looked worn, and that he did mind.

"I moved everything from the little house," Ciconia told him. "I need the little house. I'm going to do some things while you are gone each day. But don't ask what."

Morgan nodded his agreement. What else could be do? Then the two of them tiredly put together a supper of last night's scraps.

For days this scene was repeated - Morgan home late, Ciconia sitting tired, both supping on whatever was at hand, and then off to sleep. Neither said much. The shack was full of roots and hides, with barely room to sleep, and it was becoming harder and harder to find trade goods in the forest. It might be time to move to new lands, Morgan thought one evening, his saick light on his back. But that night things were different.

The clearing was dark, and until she moved, he diddn't see Ciconia. Even in the wan light of a clouded full moon he saw she was tired, thin, drawn, so worn out it made her neck and face seem even longer. When he sat down beside her she jumped up, surprised to see him.

"You're back," she said. "I didn't know. There's nothing to eat. I'm sorry." Her voice was high and thin, her words clipped and chirpy. She sounded tired and nervous. She seemed to hop from place to place in the clearing, and she fiddled with something in her hands. "I have something," she said. "I made something. I couldn't catch things, so I made something." She tossed him the thing in her hands.

It was a spindle of thread. But such thread! Finer than hair, softer than breath, it caught the feeble rays of moonlight and reflected more colors than Morgan had ever seen before. Actually, he thought, he had seen then once before. He'd seen them on that magnificent crane, the one he'd found by the lake on the day Ciconia had arrived.

"I wanted to do that," she said, her voice getting higher, her breath a little more laboured. "I wanted to spin that. For you. I wanted to make you happy. You can sell it in town. It is worth many, many coins. If you sell it, you will not have to go into the woods so much. You will not have to catch so many things." She coughed. It sounded like a squawk.

"Why?" he asked, understanding slowly dawning.

"Because you were so nice to me," she said. "I wanted to make you happy. I know how you enjoyed our days and nights together. I know how you enjoyed living as you did. And I saw how you gave it up. You gave it up to get those things for me." Morgan stood up, and Ciconia jumped to the other side of the clearing. "I spun that for you. I wanted to do that. It used me up." She stretched out her arms. With a flap and a jump, she flew into the air and began circling the clearing. The clouds slid away from the face of the moon, and Morgan saw that the change was complete. "You were so nice to me," squawked the magnificent crane, and away into the night sky she flew, plumes shining with more shades of silver and white than Morgan knew could exist.

"Come back," Morgan whispered into the night, long after it could do any good. "I only wanted to make you happy."

Fin