The Gardener and the Hummingbird

Whirr whirr.
Once upon a time, in a far-off high mountain land there lived a palace gardener.

The gardener just loved colour as if he could actually taste its flavours. His quiet garden was large with many ancient twisty-bough orange-barked trees, filled to bursting with purple blossoms, bushes with scarlet flower-bells, yellow and white orchids with a heady scent and his amazing deep-blue wallflowers. He really did seem to have green fingers and spent his days lovingly tending the garden. His wife had died many years ago, but he lived happily now, content in his small house by the high garden walls, walking at sunset amusing himself by talking to each tree and to every flower that he knew individually since their first buds, thinking people would laugh if they saw me now!

One sunny blue-skied day, while working in the garden he heard a whirring sound near his ear and turned. A tiny hummingbird! Never before had he seen one here. Not daring to breathe, he watched the blur of wings as it hovered, darting a long curved beak into the red flower-bells. Magic! What colours! The flash of its iridescent turquoise wings, with deep purple breast and small bright crimson cap, more vivid than any paint pot or flower. He watched intently as she sampled his different flowers’ nectars, then just as suddenly she darted off to sit on a distant tree, then a last lightning green-blue flash of freedom and was gone.

The next days he kept an eye out, hoping to see the bird again. Sure enough, on the third day there she was again, darting between his flowers. Captivated, he watched her bright inquisitive energy. Her flashes of sun-lit colours entranced and delighted him. A tiny sprite of serendipity she seemed to him, living at an impossible speed. Occasionally, over the next few weeks she returned, each time making him feel blessed, his heart leaping happy as a kid’s when the bird visited him to hum and dart. Every day he hoped she would come again.

But the days in between grew grey and long. He missed her colourful magic. Where was she now he wondered? Were other’s gardens more attractive than his or did their flowers have a sweeter nectar? Being clever with his hands, one night he made three small bamboo feeders. The next morning he hung them, filled with sugar-water, near his house.

Sure enough she came that afternoon and, hovering on a winged blur drank the sweetness. Then she flew to a branch and - surprise! She sang a little song, a few seconds of silvery high notes. The gardener was amazed. I never knew hummingbirds could sing, he mused. Perhaps she’s glad not to have to work so very hard just to feed her life force.

Most days now the bird would come to delight his eye, but still sometimes she would vanish for a week and he would long to see his bird again, jealous of other people who might be enjoying her magic blessing.

He remembered how hard the weather could be in the mountains, surely the cold of a snowfall would kill her? Lovingly, he devoted nights to crafting an airy bamboo cage, with wide protective roof and big door until, finished, he hung it one day outside his backdoor. Putting a feeder inside, he waited. Sure enough she came, bright eyes attracted by little mirrors and flashing quartz crystals he had placed for her inside. She darted in, sipped at the sugar water feeder, and then again, those rare silver chimes of thanks.

Every day now she came to visit her cage as the days grew colder, heavy clouds appearing behind the distant mountain tops. But one day his beauty and delight did not appear. Neither the next day, nor the next and he grew afraid for her. Fearful she might have died in the cold nights, his heart felt empty without her spark. Then one cold morning, his hummingbird was back! How happy, how relieved he was. She seemed grateful for the safety of the little house he’d made and sang once again in elfin tones, her flashing turquoise lighting his eyes as she drank.

Now nectar must be hard to find in the gardens. What’s best to do? He shut and tied her door and brought the cage into the warmth to stand on his table, near the window so she’d see the sun. He was glad he’d made it large enough for her to fly in, hovering at the fresh flowers he placed inside each day cut from his indoor plants. The winter days passed and he felt content with his bright companion. True, her wings seemed to lose their lustre and she sung rarely now, even when the low sun struck her cage, but surely she would have died outside in the bitter nights?

At long last Spring warmed the air and the garden grew again, though now tangled from his neglect. Deciding with a heavy heart, yes the time is right, he took the cage outside and opened it. A blur of wings at her door to freedom, but she did not fly away to sample the newly opening flowers. Instead, she flew close to him, his face feeling the wind from her wings and returned to the feeder in her cage. Watching her return, the gardener felt for a moment a sadness that he couldn’t place.

And so the days passed in quiet companionship and they lived, fairly happily every after. Whirr whirr.