This is a story that my nurse told me when I was very young. I had never heard its like before and a few days after she told it to me, I never saw her again, my father telling me that I was too old for a nurse.
When I was older, I understood why she left, though I didn’t agree with it, and I understood what she had told me, and I did agree with that. Now I doubt she still lives. But I can still tell her story.
Once upon a time, there was a land of Kitsa, ruled over by the other animals.
Kitsa’s are vermin where I grew up. They get everywhere because they can flatten and shape there body to fit almost anything. I once saw one get run over by a slave’s cart, only to find it had fit in the cracks of the wheels. And they are very cleaver.
The other animals disliked them for being so cleaver. So they rounded them up in the worst places far from their native fields and set the slaver hounds to guard them. But the animals were cruel, and let just one Kitsa out to trade, saying that if he made enough, all the rest could go free.
So all the Kitsa gathered every treasure they had, all the secret jewels and family heirlooms they had, anything that would fetch the price of their life, and the put it all in a cart, and the one Kitsa harnessed himself to it, and pulled it out of the village.
But on the way to the market, the slaver hounds stopped him and started to root through the cart to stop any Kitsa from escaping, they said, and as they rooted, they broke, and tore, and ripped, and smashed, until nothing was left. The Kitsa took it to market anyway, but no one would buy such broken things, and he had to bring them all back.
The next day the Kitsa tried again with their ordinary things, clothes, bedding, toys from their children’s hands. And again, the slaver hounds stopped the one Kitsa on the way to market to make sure that no Kitsa escaped, and again they ripped and tore and broke until nothing was left. And the one Kitsa could sell nothing and came back with only the broken things.
The last day the Kitsa put everything they had left, stick, twigs, food, anything left into the cart. And again, the slaver hounds stopped the cart, and looked, and ripped, and tore, and broke. And again no one would buy the spoiled food, the broken sticks and twigs. The one Kitsa even lost his cart before he returned to the laughter of the slaver hounds.
That night, the Kitsa sat around their fires, and cried, and sang, and mourned.
But Kitsa are cleaver.
And they talked, and planned.
The next day the one Kitsa pulled a cart out to where the slaver hounds waited. But this was not the cart from yesterday. It was crooked, and shabby, and covered in patchy furs. The slavers looks at it and asked the Kitsa, “What is this?”
“Its my cart,” he replied.
“Where did you get the furs?”
“The furs are those of the elders in the tribe, and the cart is made of their bones. You left us nothing else.”
The slavers laughed at this, and poked and prodded, but of course found nothing. The Kitsa hauled the cart out of sight, and returned that evening with nothing, not even the cart. The slaver hounds laughed as he passed, dragging his feet.
The day after, he came back, dragging another cart, again crooked, and shabby, and covered in furs, but these furs were soft and lovely. The slavers looked at it again and asked again, “What is this?”
“Its my cart,” he replied.
“Where did you get the furs?”
“The furs are those of the women in the tribe, and the cart is made of their bones. You left us nothing else.”
The slavers laughed at this, and poked and prodded, but of course found nothing. The Kitsa hauled the cart out of sight, and returned that evening with nothing, not even the cart. The slaver hounds laughed even louder as he passed, dragging his feet.
The day after that, he came back, dragging another cart, again crooked, and shabby, and small, and covered in furs, but these furs were soft and messy. The slavers looked at it again and asked again, “What is this?”
“Its my cart,” he replied.
“Where did you get the furs?”
“The furs are those of the children in the tribe, and the cart is made of their bones. You left us nothing else.”
The slavers laughed at this, and poked and prodded, but of course found nothing. The Kitsa hauled the cart out of sight, and returned that evening with nothing, not even the cart. The slaver hounds laughed even louder as he passed, dragging his feet.
Finally, the next day, he came back, dragging another cart, again crooked, and shabby, and covered in furs, but these furs were short and strong. The slavers looked at it again and asked again, “What is this?”
“Its my cart,” he replied.
“Where did you get the furs?”
“The furs are those of the men in the tribe, and the cart is made of their bones. You left us nothing else.”
The slavers laughed at this, and poked and prodded, but of course found nothing. And the Kitsa pulled the cart away. But as he did, one of the slaver hounds looked after him. Something bit his brain, something made him see, and his mouth dropped open in shock.
“What is it,” the others asked him. “What is wrong?”
“He isn’t hauling a cart.”
But the Kitsa had been looking back and as he saw understanding dawn, he gave a long whistle and the cart sprang apart into all the young men of the village and they dashed for the tall grasses and vanished. The slaver hounds chased them, but they were gone.
The one slaver hound who had understood sat in the dust staring after them, and said. “He’s hauling his people.”