MY FAVOURITE CHILDHOOD STORY!
HOW THE BEE BECAME
By Ted Hughes
Now in the middle of the earth lived a demon. This demon spent all his time groping about in the dark tunnels, searching for precious metals and gems. He was hunch-backed and knobbly-armed. His ears draped over his shoulders like a wrinkly cloak. These kept him safe from the bits of rock that were always falling from the ceilings of his caves. He had only one eye, which was a fire. To keep this fire alive, he had to feed it with gold and silver. Over this eye, he cooked his supper every night.
It is hard to say what he ate. All kinds of fungus that grew in the airless dark on the rocks. His drink was mostly tar and oil, which he loved. There is no end of tar and oil in the middle of the earth. He rarely came up to the light. Once, when he did, he saw the creatures that God was making.
"What’s this?" he cried, when a grasshopper landed on his clawed, horny foot.
Then he saw lion, then cobra, then far above him, eagle.
"My word!" he said, and hurried back down into his dark caves to think about what he had seen.
He was jealous of the beautiful things that God was making.
"I will make something," he said at last, "Which will be far more beautiful than any of God's creatures."
However, he had no idea how to set about it. Therefore, one day he crept up to God's workshop and watched God at work. He peeped from behind the door and he saw him model the clay, bake it in the sun's fire, and then breathe life into it. Therefore, that was it! Away he dived; back down into the centre of the earth. At the centre of the earth, it was too hot for clay. Everything was already baked hard. He set about trying to make his own clay. First, he ground up stones between his palms; that was powder. However, how was he to make it into clay? He needed water, and there in the centre of the earth it was too hot for water. He searched and he searched, but there was none. At last, he sat down and he felt so sad he began to cry. Big tears rolled down his nose.
"If only I had water," he sobbed, "This clay could become a real living creature. Why do I have to live where there is no water?"
He looked at the powder in his palm and began to cry afresh. As he looked and wept, and looked and wept, a tear fell off the end of his nose straight into the powder. However, he was too late; a demon's tears are no ordinary tears. There was a red flash, a fizz, a bubbling, and where the powder had been was nothing but a dark stain on his palm. He felt like weeping again. Now he had water, but no powder.
"So much for stone-powder," he said. "I need something stronger."
Then quickly, before his tears dried, he ground some of the precious metal that he used to feed the fire of his eye. As soon as it was powder, he wetted it with a tear off his cheek. However, it was no better than the stone-powder had been. There was a flash, a fizz, a bubbling, and nothing.
"Well," he said. "What now?"
At last, he thought of it; he would make a powder of precious gems. It was hard work grinding these, but at last, he had finished. Now for a tear; but he was too excited to cry. He struggled to bring up a single tear. It was no good; his eye was dry as an oven. He struggled and he struggled; but nothing. All at once, he sat down and burst into tears.
"It’s no good!" he cried. "I can't cry!"
Then he felt his tears wet on his cheeks.
"I’m crying!" he cried joyfully. "Quick, quick!"
He splashed a tear on to the powder of the precious gems. The result was perfect. He had made a tiny piece of beautiful clay. Only tiny, because his tears had been few. However, it was big enough.
“Now,” he said, “What kind of creature shall I make?”
The jewel-clay was very hard to work into shape. It was tough as red-hot iron. Therefore, he laid the clay on his anvil and began to beat it into shape with his great hammer. He beat and beat and beat that clay for a thousand years. At last, it was shaped. Now it needed baking. Very carefully, because the thing he had made was very frail, he put it into the fire of his eye to bake. Then, beside a great heap of small pieces of gold and silver, for another thousand years he sat, feeding the fire of his eye with the precious metal. All this time, in the depths of his eye glowed his little creature, baking slowly. At last, it was baked. Now came the real problem. How was he going to breathe life into it? He puffed and he blew, but it was no good.
“It is so beautiful!” he cried, “I must give it life!”
It certainly was beautiful. All the precious gems of which it was made mingled their colours. Moreover, from the flames in which it had been baked, it had taken a dark fire. It gleamed and flashed: red, blue, orange, green, purple, no bigger than your finger-nail. However, it had no life. There was only one thing to do. He must go to God and ask him to breathe life into it. When God saw the demon, he was amazed. He had no idea that such a creature existed.
“Who are you?” he asked, “Where have you come from?”
The demon hung his head.
“Now,” he thought, “I will use a trick.”
“I’m a jewel-smith,” he said humbly, “And I live in the centre of the earth. I have brought you a present to show my respect for you.”
He showed God the little creature that he had made. God was amazed again.
“How beautiful,” he kept saying as he turned it repeatedly on his hand, “How beautiful! What a wonderfully clever smith you are.”
“Ah!” said the demon, “But not as clever as you. I could never breathe life into it. If you had made it, it would be alive. As it is, it is beautiful, but dead.”
God was flattered.
“That’s soon altered,” he said.
He raised the demon’s gift to his lips and breathed life into it. Then he held it out. It crawled on to the end of his finger.
“Buzz!” it went, and whirred its thin, beautiful wings.
Like a flash, the demon snatched it from God’s fingertip and plunged back down into the centre of the earth. There, for another thousand years, he lay, letting the little creature crawl over his fingers and make short flights from one hand to the other. It glittered all its colours in the light of his eye’s fire. The demon was very happy.
“You are more beautiful than any of God’s creatures,” he crooned.
However, life was hard for the little creature down in the centre of the earth, with no one to play with but the demon. He had God’s breath in him, and he longed to be among the other creatures under the sun. In addition, he was sad for another reason. In his veins ran not blood, but the tears with which the demon had mixed his clay. Moreover, what is sadder than a tear? Feeling the sadness in all his veins, he moved restlessly over the demon’s hands. One day the demon went up to the light to compare his little creature with the ones God had made.
“Buzz!” went his pet, and was away over a mountain.
“Come back!” roared the demon, and then quickly covered his mouth with his hands, frightened that God would hear him.
He began to search for his creature, but soon, frightened that God would see him; he crept back into the earth. Still his little creature was not happy. The sadness of the demon’s tears was always in him. It was part of him. It was what flowed in his veins.
“If I gather everything that is sweet and bright and happy,” he said to himself, “That should make me feel better. Here there are plenty of wonderfully sweet bright happy things.”
Therefore, he began to fly from flower to flower, collecting the bright sunny sweetness out of their cups.
“Ah!” he cried, “Wonderful!”
The sweetness lit up his body. He felt the sun glowing through him from what he drank. For the first time in his life, he felt happy. However, the moment he stopped drinking from the flowers, the sadness came creeping back along his veins and the gloom into his thoughts.
“That demon made me of tears,” he said, “How can I ever hope to get away from the sadness of tears? Unless I never leave these flowers.”
Therefore, he hurried from flower to flower. He could never stop, and it was too good to stop. Soon, he had drunk so much; the sweetness began to ooze out of his pores. He was so full of it; he was brimming over with it. What is more, every second he drank even more. At last, he had to pause.
“I must store all this somewhere,” he said.
Therefore, he made a hive and all the sweetness that oozed from him he stored in that hive. Man found it and called it honey. God saw what the little creature was doing, blessed him, and called him Bee. However, Bee must still go from flower to flower, seeking sweetness. The tears of the demon are still in his veins ready to make him gloomy the moment he stops drinking from the flowers. When he is angry and stings, the smart of his sting is the tear of the demon. If he has to keep that sweet, it is no wonder that he drinks sweetness until he brims over.
By Ted Hughes
Now in the middle of the earth lived a demon. This demon spent all his time groping about in the dark tunnels, searching for precious metals and gems. He was hunch-backed and knobbly-armed. His ears draped over his shoulders like a wrinkly cloak. These kept him safe from the bits of rock that were always falling from the ceilings of his caves. He had only one eye, which was a fire. To keep this fire alive, he had to feed it with gold and silver. Over this eye, he cooked his supper every night.
It is hard to say what he ate. All kinds of fungus that grew in the airless dark on the rocks. His drink was mostly tar and oil, which he loved. There is no end of tar and oil in the middle of the earth. He rarely came up to the light. Once, when he did, he saw the creatures that God was making.
"What’s this?" he cried, when a grasshopper landed on his clawed, horny foot.
Then he saw lion, then cobra, then far above him, eagle.
"My word!" he said, and hurried back down into his dark caves to think about what he had seen.
He was jealous of the beautiful things that God was making.
"I will make something," he said at last, "Which will be far more beautiful than any of God's creatures."
However, he had no idea how to set about it. Therefore, one day he crept up to God's workshop and watched God at work. He peeped from behind the door and he saw him model the clay, bake it in the sun's fire, and then breathe life into it. Therefore, that was it! Away he dived; back down into the centre of the earth. At the centre of the earth, it was too hot for clay. Everything was already baked hard. He set about trying to make his own clay. First, he ground up stones between his palms; that was powder. However, how was he to make it into clay? He needed water, and there in the centre of the earth it was too hot for water. He searched and he searched, but there was none. At last, he sat down and he felt so sad he began to cry. Big tears rolled down his nose.
"If only I had water," he sobbed, "This clay could become a real living creature. Why do I have to live where there is no water?"
He looked at the powder in his palm and began to cry afresh. As he looked and wept, and looked and wept, a tear fell off the end of his nose straight into the powder. However, he was too late; a demon's tears are no ordinary tears. There was a red flash, a fizz, a bubbling, and where the powder had been was nothing but a dark stain on his palm. He felt like weeping again. Now he had water, but no powder.
"So much for stone-powder," he said. "I need something stronger."
Then quickly, before his tears dried, he ground some of the precious metal that he used to feed the fire of his eye. As soon as it was powder, he wetted it with a tear off his cheek. However, it was no better than the stone-powder had been. There was a flash, a fizz, a bubbling, and nothing.
"Well," he said. "What now?"
At last, he thought of it; he would make a powder of precious gems. It was hard work grinding these, but at last, he had finished. Now for a tear; but he was too excited to cry. He struggled to bring up a single tear. It was no good; his eye was dry as an oven. He struggled and he struggled; but nothing. All at once, he sat down and burst into tears.
"It’s no good!" he cried. "I can't cry!"
Then he felt his tears wet on his cheeks.
"I’m crying!" he cried joyfully. "Quick, quick!"
He splashed a tear on to the powder of the precious gems. The result was perfect. He had made a tiny piece of beautiful clay. Only tiny, because his tears had been few. However, it was big enough.
“Now,” he said, “What kind of creature shall I make?”
The jewel-clay was very hard to work into shape. It was tough as red-hot iron. Therefore, he laid the clay on his anvil and began to beat it into shape with his great hammer. He beat and beat and beat that clay for a thousand years. At last, it was shaped. Now it needed baking. Very carefully, because the thing he had made was very frail, he put it into the fire of his eye to bake. Then, beside a great heap of small pieces of gold and silver, for another thousand years he sat, feeding the fire of his eye with the precious metal. All this time, in the depths of his eye glowed his little creature, baking slowly. At last, it was baked. Now came the real problem. How was he going to breathe life into it? He puffed and he blew, but it was no good.
“It is so beautiful!” he cried, “I must give it life!”
It certainly was beautiful. All the precious gems of which it was made mingled their colours. Moreover, from the flames in which it had been baked, it had taken a dark fire. It gleamed and flashed: red, blue, orange, green, purple, no bigger than your finger-nail. However, it had no life. There was only one thing to do. He must go to God and ask him to breathe life into it. When God saw the demon, he was amazed. He had no idea that such a creature existed.
“Who are you?” he asked, “Where have you come from?”
The demon hung his head.
“Now,” he thought, “I will use a trick.”
“I’m a jewel-smith,” he said humbly, “And I live in the centre of the earth. I have brought you a present to show my respect for you.”
He showed God the little creature that he had made. God was amazed again.
“How beautiful,” he kept saying as he turned it repeatedly on his hand, “How beautiful! What a wonderfully clever smith you are.”
“Ah!” said the demon, “But not as clever as you. I could never breathe life into it. If you had made it, it would be alive. As it is, it is beautiful, but dead.”
God was flattered.
“That’s soon altered,” he said.
He raised the demon’s gift to his lips and breathed life into it. Then he held it out. It crawled on to the end of his finger.
“Buzz!” it went, and whirred its thin, beautiful wings.
Like a flash, the demon snatched it from God’s fingertip and plunged back down into the centre of the earth. There, for another thousand years, he lay, letting the little creature crawl over his fingers and make short flights from one hand to the other. It glittered all its colours in the light of his eye’s fire. The demon was very happy.
“You are more beautiful than any of God’s creatures,” he crooned.
However, life was hard for the little creature down in the centre of the earth, with no one to play with but the demon. He had God’s breath in him, and he longed to be among the other creatures under the sun. In addition, he was sad for another reason. In his veins ran not blood, but the tears with which the demon had mixed his clay. Moreover, what is sadder than a tear? Feeling the sadness in all his veins, he moved restlessly over the demon’s hands. One day the demon went up to the light to compare his little creature with the ones God had made.
“Buzz!” went his pet, and was away over a mountain.
“Come back!” roared the demon, and then quickly covered his mouth with his hands, frightened that God would hear him.
He began to search for his creature, but soon, frightened that God would see him; he crept back into the earth. Still his little creature was not happy. The sadness of the demon’s tears was always in him. It was part of him. It was what flowed in his veins.
“If I gather everything that is sweet and bright and happy,” he said to himself, “That should make me feel better. Here there are plenty of wonderfully sweet bright happy things.”
Therefore, he began to fly from flower to flower, collecting the bright sunny sweetness out of their cups.
“Ah!” he cried, “Wonderful!”
The sweetness lit up his body. He felt the sun glowing through him from what he drank. For the first time in his life, he felt happy. However, the moment he stopped drinking from the flowers, the sadness came creeping back along his veins and the gloom into his thoughts.
“That demon made me of tears,” he said, “How can I ever hope to get away from the sadness of tears? Unless I never leave these flowers.”
Therefore, he hurried from flower to flower. He could never stop, and it was too good to stop. Soon, he had drunk so much; the sweetness began to ooze out of his pores. He was so full of it; he was brimming over with it. What is more, every second he drank even more. At last, he had to pause.
“I must store all this somewhere,” he said.
Therefore, he made a hive and all the sweetness that oozed from him he stored in that hive. Man found it and called it honey. God saw what the little creature was doing, blessed him, and called him Bee. However, Bee must still go from flower to flower, seeking sweetness. The tears of the demon are still in his veins ready to make him gloomy the moment he stops drinking from the flowers. When he is angry and stings, the smart of his sting is the tear of the demon. If he has to keep that sweet, it is no wonder that he drinks sweetness until he brims over.