The Blue Scarves: A Fable (G)

Lacey was a shy rabbit — an exceedingly shy rabbit. 

She spent most of her days in her little burrow poring over her favorite legends and sewing elaborate quilts. Because a hawk had taken her left eye when she was a wee kit, those hobbies were often difficult to pursue. Still, Lacey persisted. She loved beauty — whether it be expressed in a tale of derring-do or in an Amish she’d stitched together using scraps of old tunics and worn-out britches.

An unprepossessing doe, her fur an unremarkable beige and her face crisscrossed with ugly scars, Lacey didn’t keep abreast of the fashions of Green Hill Warren. Whenever she ventured out to shop for fabric and thread — or to restock her pantry — she dressed simply, concerned more for her comfort than for attracting a buck’s eye. 

So on this particular summer afternoon, Lacey stood in the middle of Green Hill Market clad in a plain, faded-green dress, her measuring tape dangling around her neck, her trusty yellow basket hanging off her left front paw. She was considering the look of the vegetables that had just been stocked at the grocer’s booth when suddenly, her ruminations were interrupted by a lilting chuckle behind her.

“Lacey, dear, haven’t you heard?”

Lacey turned — and her ears blushed. Priscilla, an old schoolmate, giggled at this with her usual entourage of the warren’s most respectable does. 

Priscilla commanded attention in part because she was pretty. Her coat was a glossy white, and her eyes were a piercing sapphire blue. But even more importantly, she carried herself with a sort of confidence that Lacey had never hoped to match. No matter what the issue, Priscilla was always sure she was right, and she could easily persuade the others to follow along with her dictates.

“River Bend Warren was attacked and burned by wolves last night,” Priscilla informed Lacey, her delicate pink nose turned up a bit in contempt.

“Oh my!” Lacey replied with sincere horror, her crooked, uneven whiskers twitching. “What a terrible thing!”

“Quite. Fortunately, our defenses are far more robust. But as you can see,” Priscilla added with a gesture at her middle, “we ladies have all decided to tie these around our waists to show our support for our poor, suffering neighbors.” The does around Priscilla nodded, bleating unintelligible expressions of woe and sympathy. 

Lacey slowly blinked her remaining eye, taking in the scene around her. Indeed, it did appear that nearly every doe in the market sported the same bright blue scarf. “Ah. I see. Well, I’m afraid I have nothing like that in my burrow.”

Priscilla laughed again. “Not to worry. Tabitha is selling them in her stall on the other side of the market. Surely you have a bit to spare, yes?”

Frugal almost to a fault, Lacey had saved up plenty of bits. So after a moment’s hesitation and another wiggle of her nose, she hopped to the seamstress’s booth, her basket banging against her side, her measuring tape flapping in the wind. It seemed like a well-meaning fad — nothing like the usual pointless crazes that blew through Green Hill at regular intervals only to die like short-lived thundershowers. Lacey could see no harm in participating — just this once.

But once she’d run her paw through the scarves Tabitha had put on prominent display, Lacey was hit with an inspiration so powerful it almost knocked her off her hind legs. Why wear these around my waist, she thought, when I can make them into quilts for River Bend’s displaced kits? 

Reaching into her coin purse, Lacey bought almost all of Tabitha’s stock. Then, her heart fluttering with excitement, she hurried back to her humble abode and got right to work. She could see the pattern in her mind’s eye — could see how the blue would fit into the overall design — and like any true artist, she was eager to make that vision a reality.

Many days later, her eye smarting from the hours and hours of obsessive, close labor, Lacey strapped a pack of her first finished products onto her back, slipped her father’s knife into her pocket, and started off on the winding forest path to River Bend. To be sure, it had occurred to her that she might meet the rapacious wolves along the way — but then she remembered Lady Maryam of the ancient scriptures, who sacrificed much to save her kit from the depredations of her jealous and murderous king, and the story instantly screwed up her courage.

Lacey sustained herself on her journey with grasses and springs she found along the way and slept in the tight, austere bolt holes that had been dug countless seasons ago by other unnamed rabbits who’d traveled on the same road. Thus, when she arrived at her destination, she was somewhat sore and very, very dirty.

Her minor discomforts, however, could not compare to what she saw in River Bend’s charred ruins. The rabbits who lived in that tiny, impoverished warren had managed to erect several tents to temporarily house all those who’d been rendered homeless by the raid, but it was clear they needed far more assistance. Lacey met the dull, haunted gaze of one grey buck who sat hunched before a fire pit, and her heart broke.

“Please,” she called out, timid. “I — I come from Green Hill with a donation for your orphans.”

At once, she was surrounded by does and bucks of all shapes, colors, and sizes, who pawed open her pack and gasped approvingly at the soft, exquisite quilts contained within.

--*--

Upon returning to Green Hill, Lacey, determined, broke open her piggy bank, scooped up the bits that scattered onto the floor, and rushed back to the market. She needed more cloth, more thread, and more needles if she was going to bring warmth to all the residents of River Bend, and if that meant she had to clean out her life savings, well — so be it. She was on a mission, and her usual retiring nature was falling away, revealing something far more settled and certain. She could do good, Lacey knew. Just like the heroes in her treasured books, she could do real, tangible good.

It dismayed her, then, to discover that Old Maud’s stall was unrabbited — and completely empty. In fact, only the tattered remnants of Maud’s signs were left behind. Picking up two of the larger pieces that lay scattered on the first table, Lacey carefully fit them together. “Needles, five for a bit!” the resulting creation screamed. 

What happened here? Lacey wondered. But before she could investigate further, she was stopped by a perfectly groomed, ivory paw.

“Oh!” Lacey squeaked in surprise. “Hello, Priscilla.”

“Long time no see, honey. What have you been up to these past weeks? And pray, where is your scarf?” Priscilla wore a silky lavender tunic that, yes, was belted with the accessory in question.

Lacey glanced at her frumpy yellow frock, then scratched nervously behind her ear. “I decided I could put those scarves to better use,” she finally explained after some reflection.

“Ah, Lacey! Leave it to you to be so practical!” Priscilla smiled, but there was something unnerving in it — something less than genuine. “But don’t you care about the plight of the rabbits of River Bend?”

Lacey gaped at the other doe. What a strange question! “Well, yes, of course I do,” she stammered. “I was just there delivering quilts free of charge. And I plan to make many more.”

“Good! Good!” Priscilla exclaimed, clapping her paws in icy delight. “Then wearing the scarf shouldn’t be a bother for you. The proceeds for each one Tabitha sells go to a relief fund after all.”

“That’s wonderful, Priscilla. But — if I buy more scarves and incorporate them into my quilts, wouldn’t the end result be the same for your fund? What difference does it make if I wear one?”

“The difference, dear, is in the message you send. If refugees from River Bend come here to stay, they must know we stand behind them.”

Something about that didn’t sit right with Lacey. Working her jaw, she remembered the story her mother used to tell — the story of Loud Jack and Quiet Sam. Quiet Sam was the one who was honored by the Source, for he helped without proclaiming his intentions from every balcony.

“I appreciate your passion for this cause, my friend,” Lacey said, her head down. “But I think I shall like to do things my own way — and let my actions speak for themselves.”

And with that, Lacey bounced off in search of the booth’s former proprietor, not bothering to wait for Priscilla’s response. If Maud had decided to abandon her business, Lacey needed to know why — and, for reasons she couldn’t quite identify, she needed to know now.

--*--

Old Maud had dug her burrow between the roots of a magnificent sycamore whose broad, pale limbs reached high, high up into the vast heavens above. Lacey owned a painting of a tree that looked much like this one. It was her mother’s depiction of the World Tree, under which the very first rabbits were created by the Source.

After thumping on Maud’s wooden door, Lacey waited, chewing on her paw.

“Leave me alone, I told ya!” a voice eventually yelled from within. “What, do you want to take the clothes off my back as well? Git, I say! Git!”

“Um. Maud? It’s me.”

The door opened a crack, and Maud peered around the edge, her eyes suspicious, her whiskers quivering. “Ah. Lacey,” she croaked, relaxing once she’d recognized her guest. “Come in, darlin’. Come in. And please forgive the mess. I’m afraid I ain’t got no other place to put my wares.”

Maud’s entry tunnel was crammed so full of boxes and bolts of fabric that it was a wonder the aging doe could traverse it safely. Lacey carefully maneuvered herself around the hoard and made her way to Maud’s sitting room, where she parked herself beside a small tea table and set down her basket.

“What happened?” Lacey asked. “Why aren’t you keeping your booth in the market anymore?”

Maud glowered, tugging on her broken ear. “‘Bout a fortnight back, I told that damned Priscilla I wasn’t doin’ anythin’ if I was bein’ shamed into it. Ya think I don’t care about River Bend? Ha! I got a cousin in those parts. Naturally, I care. Was even sendin’ things their way before this nonsense began. Next thing I know, a coupla those young bucks who moon over her day and night came and tried to trash the place, sayin’ I don’t deserve to do business ‘round here if I don’t wear the scarf.”

“But that’s not right at all!” Lacey cried.

“You bet it ain’t.”

Clearly, Priscilla was taking things dangerously far. Every decent, Source-fearing rabbit knew it was an obligation to help those who were less fortunate — to help heal the world from the wounds of the original Sundering. But forcing your fellow rabbits to don a single totem of that commitment? That’s certainly not what Lacey, Priscilla, and all the other kits of their generation had been taught in Assembly.

What on Earth had come over the alluring white doe?

“Perhaps I should talk to her. Try to make her see sense.”

“Good luck, youngin’,” Maud cackled. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned over all the seasons I’ve breathed, it’s hard to reason with a rabbit who thinks she’s on the side of the angels. It’s a heady thing, the quest for justice. It can really turn your head if you ain’t careful.”

“But Priscilla has to know we all want the same thing.”

“Hmm. Maybe. But maybe not. She was always a touch full of herself, that one. Never really wanted for anythin’. Got a lot of fancy schoolin’ but not a lot of wisdom.”

Lacey sighed, at a loss. She knew something needed to be done, but was she the rabbit to do it? Could a meek and damaged doe like her actually take this stand?

And how soon would Lacey’s convictions be put to the test?

--*--

The next few weeks, Lacey kept to herself, crafting more quilts for River Bend between her other commissions. It was soothing to retreat from the world of politics and focus on her craft — to add more that was lovely to the universe the Source had made.

But then her paying work began to drop off — so slowly at first that she almost didn’t notice the change. The bits in her coffers dwindled, and it became just a little harder to buy the required supplies from Old Maud.

Lacey knew the trend threatened both her business and her charitable work, but what was she to do? She had an inkling what had prompted the downturn, but she couldn’t prove it before the lawgivers, for the campaign that was surely playing out in the gossip that spread throughout the warren left no physical trace.

Alas, Lacey thought she had no recourse but to bear it — until, that is, she risked another trip to the market to satisfy a craving for a radish and immediately found herself surrounded by Priscilla and her supporters, who fixed her with identical glares that complemented their identical scarves.

“Lacey bat Alfred,” Priscilla declaimed, “we are here to call you to account.”

Lacey shrank. She was alone there in the square. The other passing rabbits hopped as quickly as they could out of the line of fire, their faces averted. No one, it seemed, was prepared to come to her defense. The realization filled her with despair.

Then a breeze kicked up, swirling leaves around Lacey’s trembling form. Do not fear, daughter, a still, small voice whispered in Lacey’s mind. You have done nothing wrong.

Who are you?

I Am What Is. Speak the truth.

Something profound settled in Lacey’s chest, and she straightened. “What for, Priscilla? What have I done that requires a calling to account?”

“You have shirked your duties as a rabbit. You have abandoned the vulnerable.” 

“Why?” Lacey scoffed. “Because I don’t honor your silly scarf? That’s nothing but a piece of cloth. It’s my deeds that should matter — not what I choose to wear.” She raised her voice. “And as everyone knows, I have spent all of the past season bringing comfort to the rabbits of River Bend. Abandon the vulnerable? Not at all!”

“If it’s nothing but an inconsequential piece of cloth,” another doe cut in, “then why do you resist? What harm could be done in showing your allegiance? Can you make that compromise?”

“No. No, I can’t. And you know why? Because I’m a free rabbit. Do you understand? I’m free. I have a right to choose — to serve rabbitkind in my own way. I don’t have to do anything just because Priscilla bat Jordan thinks I should.”

“But it’s for a good cause,” Priscilla objected.

“Oh? And how good can a cause really be if it makes people afraid? You used to know better, Priscilla. A crusade must be moral in its means as well as its ends. Otherwise, there is only pain.”

“She’s right,” a bespectacled buck piped up in the back. “I have studied the histories. But I have kept that knowledge to myself.”

Riding on a surge of elation at the unexpected help, Lacey continued, “Who else? Who else out there knows that this is wrong? Who else can take off their scarf and join me in being free?”

Who else, reader? Who else indeed?