It was a football stadium. He sought out a convenient perch, the crossbar of the goalpost, settled and fluttered the wet from his wings. Here he would rest.
The goalkeeper looked up at him and laughed. “Hello, friend,” he said. “Stay as long as you like. I’ll be doing my best to see you’re not disturbed, but I can’t guarantee anything.”
Hero knew that he could not rest for long, that all the while the flock would be moving further away, would be more difficult to find. He had to go, and go now. He fluffed up his feathers and shook himself ready. At that moment, the television cameras found him and focused on him. There he was – a giant swallow – up on the big screen. Twenty thousand voices cheered him as he took off and flew, up out of the light into the darkness beyond.
Even in the black of night, even without the others to guide him, Hero sensed in which direction he must go, where south must be. But he could not know where his friends were, how far away, nor how high they would be flying. Hero heard the storm still rumbling overhead. He would fly low, low and fast, and just hope to find them at first light. It was the dread of losing them, of being left behind altogether that gave new power to his wings.
All night long Hero flew, but as the sun came up and warmed his back he saw he was still quite alone. He fed constantly on the wing, and the feeding was good, the flies fat and plentiful. There was water whenever he needed it, which was often. It was as he was drinking, as he was skimming the blue stillness of a mountain lake, that he felt a sudden cold shadow pass over him. He saw the reflection in the water below. The hobby falcon! He shrieked in his terror and tried frantically to gain height and speed, twisting and turning to avoid the talons outstretched just above him, ready to snatch him from the air. One claw ripped a feather from his back, but did not touch the flesh. Then Hero was up and away, climbing towards the sun. But the hobby falcon came after him, his wing beats stiff and strong.
Now, Hero’s only chance lay in his agility, and in his ability to deceive his enemy in flight. For sheer speed the hobby falcon would have the better of him. He feinted, he weaved, he dodged – but the hobby was always still there, right behind him, and waiting for just the right moment. For hour upon hour the chase went on over the parched high sierras, along lush river valleys, in amongst the roofs and chimneys and aerials of hilltop villages and towns.
Hero was tiring, and tiring fast now. There was a forest below filling the valley. He saw his one last chance. With the hobby still on his tail, he dived suddenly down in amongst the shadows of the cork trees. He flitted through the branches, flashed through the dappled light, seeking the darkest depths of the forest. A glance back, and then another. The hobby was nowhere to be seen. On he sped, just to be sure, to be very sure. His eyes scanned the forest about him. The hobby had not followed him. He had lost him. He was safe at last. He landed, his heart beating wildly, and perched there for some time, on the lookout all the while for the stubby-tailed silhouette he so much dreaded, listening for the killer kew-kew call he never again wanted to hear.
Hero had stayed long enough. He had to go, he had to risk it sometime. He lifted off his perch out of the dark depths of the forest and flew away south, straight as an arrow, high over the sunlit sierras.
The hobby came down on him like a bolt from the blue, missing him by only a whisker at the first pass, so close Hero could see the dark glint in his eye. The bare sierras stretched away to the horizon – they offered no hiding place. Hero dived, and the death shadow followed him. He cried out, steeling himself for cruel claws that would tear the life out of him.
A gunshot blasted the air around him. Hero saw the hobby stagger and stutter in flight, and hurtle to earth, where he bounced and bounced, and then was still. Hunters came running over the hills with their dogs.
Hero could feel the wind off the sea ahead, and the heat of the desert beyond, beckoning him on. The sea was quickly crossed. He drank from a swimming pool, beside a hotel of white marble, in Morocco. Children were playing there, laughing with delight every time he came swooping down to dip into the blue of the water beside them. But once the children had gone inside, once he had drunk and fed his fill, Hero set off across the desert. He flew by the moon, by the stars, keeping low over the sand.
The great red sun came up over the desert and chased away the cold of the night. Still no water, still alone. Hero cried out for his friends again and again as he flew. Tswit. Tswit. Tswit. Never an answering call, never a sign of them. All day and another night and another day, Hero flew, gliding, resting on the thermals whenever he could, for he felt his strength ebbing away fast. Without water he could not go on much longer. And now there came a hot desert wind blowing against him, slowing him. He saw the billowing sandstorm in the distance, and heard its dreadful roaring. To be caught in it would be certain death. He would have to fly over it. With the very last of his strength he beat his way skywards. Try as he did, Hero could not entirely avoid the stinging lash of the fringes of the storm, but at least the murderous heart of it had passed safely beneath him.
Hero glided now because there was no power in his wings to do anything else. He was completely exhausted. That last stupendous effort had finished him utterly. He floated on the air as far as he could. He called out desperately for his companions. Tswit. Tswit. Tswit. Suddenly, the whole desert seemed to be answering him. He called again, and from the heat haze below came a clamouring chorus of welcome. The haze darkened and became trees – an oasis of palm trees amongst the sand dunes below him, where every tree was alive with birds, all of them singing out their greetings.
Hero floated down to join them. They were there in their thousands, swallows and martins, and swifts too. Hero landed where he needed to, right at the water’s edge. It didn’t matter a bit to him when a camel came down to drink beside him. Camel and swallow drank together, oblivious to anything but the sweet cooling relief of the water.
n a far-off Eastern land, a long, long time ago, there once lived a great and mighty Sultan. He was, without doubt, the richest, laziest, greediest and fattest Sultan there had ever been. He was so rich his palace was built of nothing but shining marble and glowing gold, so rich that even the buttons on his silken clothes were made of diamonds.
He was so lazy he had to have a special servant to brush his teeth for him, and another one to dress him.
He did nothing for himself, except eat. He was so greedy that every meal – breakfast, lunch and dinner – he’d gobble down a nice plump peacock just to himself, and a great bowl of sweetmeats too. And then he’d wash it all down with a jug of honeyed camel’s milk.
It was because he was so very lazy and so very greedy that he was so very, very fat.
He had to sleep in a bed wide enough for five grown men, and his pantaloons were the baggiest, most capacious pantaloons ever made for anyone anywhere.
But believe it or not there was something the Sultan cared about even more than his food – his treasure. He loved his treasure above anything else in the whole world.
Before he went to sleep every night, he would always open his treasure chest and count out his jewels – emeralds, rubies, diamonds, pearls, sapphires, hundreds and hundreds of them – just to be quite sure they were all still there. Only then could he go to bed happy and sleep soundly.
But outside the walls of his palace, the Sultan’s people lived like slaves, poor, wretched and hungry. They had to work every hour God gave them. And why?
To keep the Sultan rich in jewels. Everything they harvested – their corn, their grapes, their figs, their dates, their pomegranates – all had to be given to the Sultan. He allowed them just enough food to keep body and soul together – no more.
One fine morning, the Sultan was out hunting. He loved to hunt, because all he had to do was sit astride his horse and send the hawks off to do the hunting. There was only one horse in the land strong enough to carry him, a great stout old warhorse. But strong though he was, to be sat on by the great fat Sultan for hour after hour under the ho
t, hot, sun, proved too much even for him.
Lathered up and exhausted, the old warhorse staggered suddenly and stumbled, throwing the Sultan to the ground.
It took ten servants to get him to his feet and brush him down. He wasn’t badly hurt, just a bit bumped and bruised, but he was angry; very angry.
He ordered his servants to whip the old horse soundly, so that he wouldn’t do it again. Then they all helped him back up on his horse, which took some time, of course; and off they went back to the palace.
The Sultan didn’t know it, not yet, and no more did anyone else, but he’d left something behind lying in the dirt on the dusty farmyard track, something that had popped off his waistcoat when he’d fallen from his horse.
It was a button, a shining, glittering diamond button.
Just a little way off down the farmyard track, was a tumbledown farmhouse where there lived a poor old woman. She had little enough in this world – though she never complained of it – only a couple of nanny goats for her milk, a few hens for her eggs, and a little red rooster. She always kept the goats hidden away inside her house, and the hens too, for fear that the Sultan’s servants might come by and steal them away for the Sultan. She had always tried to keep her little red rooster in the house too, because she loved him dearly, and because she wanted him to keep her hens happy. But this was a little red rooster with a mind of his own, and whenever he could, he would go running off to explore the big, wide world outside, to find friends – and to find food, for he was always very hungry.
That same day, when the poor old woman went out to fetch the water for her goats and hens, the little red rooster scooted out from under her skirts. Before she could stop him he was out through the open door and running off down the farm track.
“Come back, Little Red Rooster!” cried the poor old woman. “Come back! If the Sultan finds you, he’ll catch you and eat you up. Come back!”
But the little red rooster had never in his life been frightened of anything or anyone. He just kept on running. “Catch me if you can, mistress mine,” he called out.
On and on he ran, until he came to the farm track where the cornfield and the vineyard met. He knew this was just the perfect place to scratch around for a good meal. Here he’d find all the ripe corn and dried-up sultanas he could eat. As he pecked about busily in the earth, he came across dozens of wriggling worms and singing cicadas and burrowing beetles, but he never ate these. After all, these were his friends. He couldn’t eat his friends – though he had thought about it once or twice.
Meanwhile, back in his gold and marble palace, the great Sultan was stamping up and down. He was in a horrible temper, his stomachs and his chins wobbling with fury.
“The diamond button off my waistcoat,” he roared. “I have lost my diamond button. Search, you miserable beggars, search everywhere, every nook and cranny.”
His servants were scurrying here and there and everywhere, all over the palace, but they could not find it anywhere.
“I’ll lop off your heads if you don’t find it,” he bellowed. But no matter how loud he shouted, how terrible the threats, no one could find the missing diamond button.
“Am I surrounded by nothing but fools and imbeciles?” he thundered. “I see I shall have to find it myself. We shall go back and search every inch of the ground we hunted over this morning. And you will go in front of me, all of you on your knees in the dust where you belong, and search for my diamond button. Fetch me my horse.”
He clapped his hands.
“At once. At once.”
Out in the countryside, the little red rooster was scratching around in the dusty farm track at the edge of the cornfield. He scratched and he scratched. Suddenly there was something strange in the earth, something different, something very pretty that glistened and shone and twinkled in the sun. He tried eating it, but it didn’t taste very good. So he dropped it. And then he had a sudden and brilliant idea.
“I know,” he said to himself. “Poor old mistress mine loves pretty things. She’s always saying so, and she’s got nothing pretty of her own. I’ll take it home for her. Then she won’t be cross with me for running away, will she?”
But just as he picked it up again, along the farm track came the great fat Sultan on his horse, and in front of him, dozens of his servants, all of them crawling on their hands and knees in the dirt.
Closer and closer they came. All at once they spotted the little red rooster and the diamond button too, glinting in his beak.
“There, my lord Sultan!” they cried. “Look! That little red rooster. He’s got your diamond button.”
“So that’s what it is,” the little red rooster said to himself.
The great fat Sultan rode up, scattering his servants hither and thither as he came. “Little Red Rooster,” he said from high up on his horse. “I see you have my diamond button. I am your great and mighty Sultan. Give it to me at once. It’s valuable, very valuable. And it’s mine.”
“I don’t think so, Mr Sultana,” replied the little red rooster, who had never in his life been frightened of anyone or anything. “Cockadoodle-doo, Mr Sultana. Finders keepers. If it’s so valuable, then I’m going to give it to poor mistress mine. She needs it a lot more than you, I think. Sorry, Mr Sultana.”
“What!” spluttered the Sultan. “Mr Sultana? How dare you speak to me like that! How dare you! Did you hear what that infernal bird called me? Fetch me that rooster. Fetch me my diamond button! Grab him! Grab that rooster!”
There was a frightful kerfuffle of dust and feathers … and squawking, as the Sultan’s servants tried to grab the little red rooster. Whatever they did, they just could not catch him. In the end, the little red rooster ran off into the cornfield. But although he’d escaped their clutches, he was very cross with himself, for in all the kerfuffle he had dropped the diamond button.
One of the Sultan’s servants found it lying in the dust and brought it back to the Sultan. The Sultan was delighted, of course, and all his servants were mightily relieved, too. Now, at least, none of them would have his head lopped off, not that day anyway.
But had the Sultan seen the last of the little red rooster? Not by any means. The little red rooster wasn’t going to give up that easily – he wasn’t like that. He followed the Sultan and his servants back to the palace. Then, in the middle of the night, as everyone slept, he flew up to the Sultan’s window, perched on the window ledge, took a deep breath and crowed, and crowed.
Cockadoodle-doo!
He let out the loudest, longest, cockadoodle-doo he’d ever doodled in all his life.
“Cockadoodle-doo, Mr Sultana,” he crowed. “Cocka-doodle-doo!”
The Sultan tried to cover his ears. It didn’t work.
“Cockadoodle-doo!”
The Sultan tried to bury his head in his pillow. It didn’t work.
“Cockadoodle-doo, Mr Sultana! Give me back my diamond button.”
By now the Sultan was in a terrible rage. He had had quite enough of this. He called in his servants. “Grab me that infernal bird,” he cried. “I know what I’ll do. I know. We’ll throw him in the well and drown him. That should shut him up, and shut him up for good.”
All night long, the Sultan and his servants chased around the palace after the little red rooster. The little red rooster had lots of fun. He played hide-and-seek behind the peacocks.
He flew,
he hopped,
he ran.
He perched on cornices,
on chandeliers,
on the Sultan’s throne itself!
And that was where they finally caught him. One of the servants crept up behind and grabbed him by his tail feathers. The little red rooster didn’t really mind – he’d had enough of the game anyway. He wasn’t at all frightened of water. He knew what to do with water. He wasn’t worried.
“Aha!” cried the exultant Sultan. “We’ve got you now. You’ve crowed your very last doodle-doo.”
“I don’t think so, Mr Sultana
,” said the little red rooster. But the Sultan took him by the neck and dropped him down the well. It was a long flutter down, and of course it was a bit wet when he landed. But the little red rooster didn’t mind. He simply said to himself: “Come, my empty stomach. Come, my empty stomach and drink up all the water.”
It took a bit of time, but that’s just what he did. He drank up all the water, every last drop of it. Up and out of the well he flew, up and away, until he reached the Sultan’s window.
“Cockadoodle-doo, Mr Sultana!” he cried, “Give me back my diamond button!”
The Sultan could not believe his eyes. He could not believe his ears. “What!” he spluttered. You again!”
He called his servants. “Look!” he shrieked. “Can’t you see? That infernal bird is back. I know what I’ll do, I know. We’ll grab him and throw him into the fire. Let him burn.” So the Sultan’s servants rushed at the little red rooster and caught him.
“Aha!” cried the exultant Sultan. “We’ve got you now. You’ve crowed your very last doodle-doo.”
“I don’t think so, Mr Sultana,” said the little red rooster. But the Sultan took him by the neck and threw him on the fire. He wasn’t at all frightened of fire. He knew what to do with fire. He wasn’t worried. He simply said to himself: “Come, my full-up stomach. Come, my full-up stomach, let out all the water and put out all the fire.”
It took a bit of time, but that’s just what he did. He gushed out all the water and put out all the fire, every last spark of it. And up he flew again to the Sultan’s window.
“Cockadoodle-doo, Mr Sultana,” he cried. “Give me back my diamond button.”