On the far side of a valley, where two streams merge to form a broad river, two rabbits, each from a slope of the valley’s walls that the other had never visited, chanced to meet. Looking for food, they had followed the streams to the point where the river gathered them together.
“I’ve eaten all the food on the north slope,” said the larger of the rabbits, frowning. Exasperated, he explained that his warren, once strong and fruitful, had dwindled, gradually disappearing as it ravaged the once bountiful grasses growing on the valley wall.
“I’ve followed the stream in hopes of finding more food,” he continued.
The smaller rabbit looked puzzled. He too had followed the stream to find more food; his warren had depleted the rich grasses and flowers that once grew on the valley’s south slope, toward which the larger rabbit appeared to be traveling.
“Well, you won’t find anything there,” spoke the smaller rabbit, tracing the path of the south stream with his paw. “Our warren ate everything.”
The rabbits stared at each other, wondering what to do.
The larger rabbit mused aloud: “if I can’t follow your stream, and you can’t follow mine, we’ll both have to find a new pasture.”
Quietly, to himself, the smaller one added, “and if my warren’s gone, and if your warren’s gone, we’ll both have no one to mate with.”
“But we’re both bucks,” cried the larger one. “We couldn’t mate anyway!”
“Of course not, but together our wits are sharper, and if a bird or a fox should kill one of us, the other can keep going until he joins a new warren where the grass grows tall and bright.”
The smaller one paused. “On the other hand, if we part, and one of us follows the river and the other travels away from it, we’d be twice as likely to find one.”
“And twice as likely to get killed or lost,” retorted the large one.
Reluctantly, in consternation, they sat silent, flicking with their feet as the evening flies tickled their faces. After what seemed to the larger rabbit a very long time, the smaller one spoke:
“If we split up, the odds of feeding or starving go up for one of us and down for the other. And it’s the same for the odds of finding a new warren, and for getting killed. The problem is that we can’t know which of us will be better off and which will be worse.”
The larger rabbit chewed thoughtfully on his chest fur, and then, with much gravity, replied, “Then we should take our chances apart. The food may be good or bad both downriver and where the waters dry up in the west. If we travel together to the east, where the sun rises, and we find no food and no warren, we won’t have the strength to turn back, to go west, where the sun sets. We would both be doomed. It is better for both of us if one of us goes one direction and the other in the opposite direction. Even if I am the one who starves, or is killed—or you—then one of us will survive to enjoy the new fruits of fall and the clean, brisk hay of late summer.”
Saddened by the larger rabbit’s words, the smaller one crouched, concealing his disappointment. He knew the stranger was right. But being weak, and slow, and not very clever, he had hoped to persuade the larger rabbit to accompany him, whether to the east, where the sun wakes, or to the west, where it sleeps. He was afraid to travel alone. Since abandoning his slope, where the ground had grown dusty and death-like, and the chambers of the old burrow, where his loneliness multiplied like so many generations of ghosts, his journey had not been perilous. Once he had slipped and fallen into the cold confusion of the stream, but its easy current had not troubled him. But every evening, when he crept from the bushes to begin his night’s reconnaissance, to search for the grasses he so desperately craved and the bond for which he so mournfully ached, his solitude frightened him. When the moon rose, and its silvery shroud fell over the valley, he felt his ears twitch, his stomach turn, his heart shudder. If an owl startled him, it would catch him. If a fox pounced, it would eat him. If nothing happened, and his body bought rest for another day by its vigilance, he would be lonely. He didn’t want to survive like that, trembling at shadows, arguing for safety. His frailty haunted him.
As he watched the smaller one lower his belly, hunched instinctively, like an ageless child, against the ground, the larger rabbit, sensing distress, relaxed his posture, his eyes candid. He knew he was strong, and swift, and wily, and that his chances of reaching fresh food or a new warren were better than most. He had danced with the dangerous birds before, and beaten them. He had bullied the proud stray cats and eluded the badgers. He also knew what the smaller one did. A fearful rabbit will not survive. The birds will circle; the hounds will chase; his spirit will fail him.
The larger rabbit sighed plainly. “But you know, I’m a big rabbit. It’s hard for me to run. The birds spot me easily, and there is more of me for the dogs and weasels to smell. I get very lonely on my own. Sometimes even the moonlight scares me, when it bounces on the rocks and makes shadows. A light, little one like you could scout the eagles and sense the dreadful hollow of human steps. And being so young, so lithe, you could distract my pursuers.”
The smaller one sat, stunned.
Seeing that his words were working, he went on: “I wouldn’t make it on my own. It’s true that splitting up will improve your chances, and soon, no doubt, you’ll bask in the company of kind does, grazing on all the finest flowers. But I’m thick and heavy, and without your help, I expect I won’t make it much farther than two or three bends in the river. It’s to your disadvantage, I admit, but what if we travel together, to the east, downriver, where the sun wakes? There we might find a new family, and good greens, and no predators.”
The spell began to take hold of the little one. Could this large rabbit actually be fragile and faint? Could a slight creature like him save such a powerful buck? He began to believe. He saw them bounding downriver, confusing their foes with elaborate interplay, resting together at midday, in the calm and quiet of the hedgerows, while the dangers stalked and deranged the wilderness. Yes, they would go together. They would travel downriver and find friends, dig new burrows, devour the glad goodness of earth.
“Let’s make a nest for the morning,” he said quickly. His heart was beating fiercely, defiantly; they would begin tomorrow at dawn, when the owls had gone, and would stop when the sun woke, before the people came with their chaos and hard sounds. For the first time since leaving his burrow, on the south slope of the valley where the two streams merged, the smaller rabbit forgot his fears. His neck craned restfully, his gaze softened. His heart lost its knots. “A quick little nest and tomorrow we’re off,” he determined.
The larger rabbit was pleased. “It’s a good plan. And thank you. One rarely encounters such a generous buck, such a noble brother.”
With nimble teeth he stacked the first of the nest-thistles, grateful for the fatigue that, like a dark secret, settled over him. It took the rabbits only a few minutes to build their loose lodgings, and in an instant they concealed themselves within its scant protection, the smaller rabbit docile and lighthearted, the larger afraid, but unregretful, of the inexorable end that his lie had set to snare them. Together they would not make it. Sooner or later, at the next bend or after, by fox or owl or hunter’s thunder, or, after all their struggle, by the devilish pangs of starvation, the two rabbits, larger and smaller, would die. The smaller would go first, taken by teeth or tiredness. And the larger, resolved not to forsake his new friend to the appetites of their enemies, would soon follow. Feeling the weight of sleep on him, he groomed the paw of the little one, who already dozed, half-happy. As he nestled his flank on the warm body of his companion, his mighty pulse slowed and his powerful lungs contracted. It was not wrong that they were together.
Beautiful.
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