Crow and Peacock Feathers

These days the crow wears a coat of jet black. It is so black that when sunlight falls on it, only a faint blue-green sheen shows, and its call is hoarse and a little sad. The peacock is the very opposite. Its tail fans out like a piece of embroidered brocade, patterned in emerald green and gleaming gold. Round shining spots cover it like a hundred small eyes looking around, and with every step the peacock holds its head high in pride. One bird is pitch black, the other as bright as a rainbow. People in Vietnam say it was not always so.

Long ago, the crow and the peacock were close friends who lived in the same forest. Both wore the same dull, faded gray feathers, with nothing to show off to anyone. Every morning the two friends went out together to look for food. Every evening they came home to perch on the same branch and tell each other all the news of the forest. One day, looking at their reflections in a puddle, they both sighed. These gray feathers were so dreary, not pretty at all. If only someone would give them a little color, so that each time they looked into the water they would feel happier.

The crow, always quick-witted, came up with a plan. At the edge of the forest lived a painter. His house was piled with pots of black ink, green dye and yellow dye. There were bags of glitter too, sparkling whenever a little sunlight slipped through a crack in the door. The crow talked the peacock into sneaking over while the painter took his midday nap. Each of them carried off a little, held tight in its beak. Then they flew very softly back to a quiet tree in the middle of the forest, where no one would bother them.

The two friends agreed to take turns painting each other beautifully. The crow would paint first.

The peacock stood very still and spread its long tail as wide as it would go, not moving at all, so that its friend could paint it as finely as possible. The crow took a feather for a brush. It dipped it in green ink and traced curved strokes, one by one, along the peacock's neck. Then it dipped into the yellow dye and drew soft, flowing lines across the wings. When it reached the tail, the crow painted far more slowly and carefully. Each round spot was dabbed with care, green at the rim and yellow at the heart. Then came a sprinkle of glitter on top, so that it shimmered as if sunlight were hidden inside. The peacock still stood perfectly still. Only now and then did it glance down at its feathers as they slowly changed color. It was so happy that it hardly dared to breathe, afraid of spoiling a single stroke.

So it went for hours. The crow carefully finished the neck, then the wings, and nearly all of the bright tail. The peacock grew more beautiful before its very eyes, more beautiful than any other bird in that forest.

Just as the crow was getting ready for the last few strokes, another crow swooped down out of nowhere. In an urgent voice, it said there was something the crow had to go and do right away, with not a moment to lose. The crow gave a start. It glanced quickly at the ink pot, which still held a little, then at its own dull gray feathers. It suddenly remembered that its friend had not yet painted it in return. The crow hurried the peacock along: "Quick, quick, I have to go right now."

In a fluster, the peacock picked up the last pot of ink. It had never been as skillful as the crow, and now, being rushed, it grew even clumsier. Before it could even dip the brush, it trembled and tipped the whole pot over the crow's head. The black ink spread and ran down its neck, over its wings and all over its body. It covered the crow from head to toe, without leaving a single speck of gray.

The crow that had brought the news was standing nearby. In those days its feathers were still as white as chalk. When the ink splashed toward it, it pulled in its neck in alarm to dodge. The black ink covered its whole body, missing only a band around its neck. That band stayed white, like a small scarf.

The first crow looked down at its own pitch-black body and was furious. It let out harsh, sulky caws, then flapped its wings and flew straight off, without staying to hear the peacock explain. The peacock stood silent, watching it go, full of regret. But the ink was all spilled, and there was no way left to put things right.

From then on, the crow has worn jet-black feathers, and wherever it goes it calls in a hoarse voice. Crows with a white mark on the neck carry the trace of that day long ago, when one of them ducked to dodge the ink. And ever since, the peacock has worn the emerald green and gleaming gold, dotted with shining round spots, that the crow painted for it so carefully that afternoon.

Somewhere in the bright feathers of a peacock, or in the call of a crow, the whole story is still there: an afternoon when two friends sat side by side, dabbing ink onto each other's feathers, stroke by stroke.