The Cage
A long time ago, in a country where the pink scent of cherry blossoms filled the air in spring, and gingko leaves turned the ground gold in autumn, a rich man asked his daughter: “if you could ask for anything in the world, what would it be?”
Like a tree, desire is a deep-rooted, many-branched thing; complex, not always easy to articulate and frequently changing. But to the rich man’s surprise – for the question was meant partially in jest – his daughter was able to provide him with an answer straight away.
“A nightingale, father.”
A strange thing for a young girl to ask for? But ever since she’d heard a nightingale singing from a bower outside her window one night, her heart had been captured.
Her father just smiled indulgently.
The days passed into weeks, the weeks into months. Just as the rich man’s daughter had all but forgotten about her father’s question, he returned from a trip one day with a present for her: a nightingale in a golden cage. She was delighted and, for a while, the house was filled with happiness, merry laughter and the sound of birdsong. She treated the little bird like royalty, even letting it out of its cage to fly about her bedroom and the cherry tree outside.
It was her mother who, inadvertently, sowed the first seed of doubt. “You know there’s a chance it could fly away from you one day,” she remarked, “sooner rather than later with the way you keep letting it out.”
Those words chilled the girl to the bone. She loved the nightingale and couldn’t bear the thought of it one day not being there anymore; so she stopped letting it out of its cage. For a while, nothing changed. But the nightingale, by now used to the freedom to come and go as it pleased, gradually began to grow listless and ceased to sing. The girl continued to shower it with love and affection, but its condition only seemed to worsen, until the day came where it looked as though it wouldn’t last much longer. In desperation, she opened the cage door.
When she woke the next morning, she saw that, save for a few soft brown feathers, the cage was empty.
(originally published: https://awrjournal.wixsite.com/anotherwayround)
