A nightingale only sang at dusk, when the daylight buried itself in shadows. Her songs told of lost love and heartbreak and what might have been had the men not come to the woods that terrible day.

The men brought calling birds as lures, spread glue on the branches of the trees, and waited for the thrushes, blackbirds, nightingales to fall into the traps. The birds could not escape. Those who tried ripped themselves apart; those who survived were taken away.

The nightingale refused to sing for her captors. They sold her as a pet. Her cage hung on the balcony of an apartment building. She vowed never to sing again, but one night, as darkness fell, and she imagined she could no longer be seen, she let the melody escape her tiny cage.

Her song captivated all who heard it. A bat, in particular, came every evening to listen. He liked it so much he decided to visit at dawn as well, but to his frustration the nightingale was quiet. “Why aren’t you singing?” he asked. “All the other birds are singing, why not you?”

“I was caught in the daylight,” the nightingale explained. “But that doesn’t make sense,” the bat responded. “You can’t get caught twice. You can sing all you want.” The nightingale sighed. “I would not sing at all,” she replied. “But I cannot help myself.”

After that, she remained silent, at least until the tiresome bat had ceased to bother her. And then, softly at first, she felt her mournful song escape again.

© Richard Parkin 2021

further reading: misadventures in the land of fables #8