'I'm a poor tattered thing, but not unkind
To the sad dancer and the dancing dead.'
Sidney Keyes Four Postures of Death
'Well done,' said Hazel, as Dandelion ended.
'He's very good, isn't he?' said Silver. 'We're lucky to have him with us. It raises your spirits just to hear him.'
'That's put their ears flat for them,' whispered Bigwig. 'Let's just see them find a story-teller to beat him.'
They were all in no doubt that Dandelion had done them credit. Ever since their arrival most of them had felt out of their depth among these magnificent, well-fed strangers, with their detached manners, their shapes on the wall, their elegance, their adroit evasion of almost all questions - above all, their fits of un-rabbit-like melancholy. Now, their own story-teller had shown that they were no mere bunch of tramps. Certainly, no reasonable rabbit could withhold admiration. They waited to be told as much, but after a few moments realized with surprise that their hosts were evidently less enthusiastic.
'Very nice,' said Cowslip. He seemed to be searching for something more to say, but then repeated, 'Yes, very nice. An unusual tale.'
'But he must know it, surely?' muttered Blackberry to Hazel.
'I always think these traditional stories retain a lot of charm,' said another of the rabbits, 'especially when they're told in the real, old-fashioned spirit.'
'Yes,' said Strawberry. 'Conviction, that's what it needs. You really have to believe in El-ahrairah and Prince Rainbow, don't you? Then all the rest follows.'
'Don't say anything, Bigwig,' whispered Hazel: for Bigwig was scuffling his paws indignantly. 'You can't force them to like it if they don't. Let's wait and see what they can do themselves.' Aloud, he said,' Our stories haven't changed in generations, you know. After all, we haven't changed ourselves. Our lives have been the same as our fathers' and their fathers' before them. Things are different here. We realize that, and we think your new ideas and ways are very exciting. We're all wondering what kind of things you tell stories about.'
'Well, we don't tell the old stories very much,' said Cowslip. 'Our stories and poems are mostly about our own lives here. Of course, that Shape of Laburnum that you saw - that's old-fashioned now. El-ahrairah doesn't really mean much to us. Not that your friend's story wasn't very charming,' he added hastily.
'El-ahrairah is a trickster,' said Buckthorn, 'and rabbits will always need tricks.'
'No,' said a new voice from the further end of the hall, beyond Cowslip. 'Rabbits need dignity and above all, the will to accept their fate.'
'We think Silverweed is one of the best poets we've had for many months,' said Cowslip.' His ideas have a great following. Would you like to hear him now?'
'Yes, yes,'said voices from all sides.'Silverweed!'
'Hazel,' said Fiver suddenly,' I want to get a clear idea of this Silverweed, but I daren't go closer by myself. Will you come with me?'
'Why, Fiver, whatever do you mean? What is there to be afraid of?'
'Oh, Frith help me!' said Fiver, trembling, 'I can smell him from here. He terrifies me.'
'Oh, Fiver, don't be absurd! He just smells the same as the rest of them.'
'He smells like barley rained down and left to rot in the fields. He smells like a wounded mole that can't get underground.'
'He smells like a big, fat rabbit to me, with a lot of carrots inside. But I'll come with you.'
When they had edged their way through the crowd to the far end of the burrow, Hazel was surprised to realize that Silverweed was a mere youngster. In the Sandleford warren no rabbit of his age would have been asked to tell a story, except perhaps to a few friends alone. He had a wild, desperate air and his ears twitched continually. As he began to speak, he seemed to grow less and less aware of his audience and continually turned his head, as though listening to some sound, audible only to himself, from the entrance tunnel behind him. But there was an arresting fascination in his voice, like the movement of wind and light on a meadow, and as its rhythm entered into his hearers the whole burrow became silent.
The wind is blowing, blowing over the grass.
It shakes the willow catkins; the leaves shine silver.
Where are you going, wind? Far, far away
Over the hills, over the edge of the world.
Take me with you, wind, high over the sky.
I will go with you, I will be rabbit-of-the-wind,