The King of the Hummingbirds by John Gardner

The King of the
Hummingbirds

    T here was once a young man who was stupider than most but had one great virtue: he could always see everything from the other person’s side. The result was that he had a great many friends, and wherever he went there was usually peace and quiet, at least for a while.
    One day the young man was walking in the woods, and he came upon a hummingbird lying on its back, kicking its legs and peeping as if fit to be tied.
    â€œPerhaps it has hurt its wing,” the young man thought. “If I had a broken wing, I would want some kind stranger to pick me up and make me a splint.” But he didn’t know how to make a splint, so he decided that perhaps the hummingbird was grieving because it had been disappointed in love. “In that case,” the young man thought, “I would want some kind friend to intercede for me with my beloved.” But while the young man was thinking this, a tiny voice said, “Young man, come here.” It was the hummingbird.
    The young man did as he was told and knelt beside the bird. As soon as he was near he saw the truth. The bird was dying of some dread disease, or else old age, or perhaps from being shot.
    â€œYoung man,” said the bird, speaking with great difficulty, “I see you have a kindly face. I have no one else to turn to, so I must put my faith in you.”
    â€œYou can trust me,” the young man said. “I’m not clever, but it’s true that I’m kindly.”
    â€œIt will have to do,” the hummingbird said. It coughed and closed its eyes for a moment, then spoke again—hoarsely, for a bird. “I am the king of the hummingbirds, and all my kingdom depends on me, but unfortunately I am dying without an heir. Since you are the only one at hand, I must ask you to take my place. Rule justly, my son. Never let the power go to your head. Take the ring from my foot. It will identify you to my flock.” Without another word, the king of the hummingbirds jerked twice and lay dead as a doornail.
    The young man was astonished and grieved, though they were strangers, and he did all he knew how (which wasn’t much) to revive the poor hummingbird, but to no avail. So he took the ring the bird had mentioned and hung it on a string around his neck, and then he dug a small grave and buried the bird and put a stone where its feet were. After that, the new king of the hummingbirds went home.
    Now this young man, whose name was Olaf, was the lastborn son of a somewhat self-centered coppersmith who had hopes of rising in the world and becoming a knight. Olaf’s two brothers were clever and gallant, so the coppersmith had sent them away to school, hoping they might learn the ins and outs of things and help him. Poor young Olaf, being hopelessly stupid and much too kindly to make even a good fisherman, was left at home to patch old kettles and copper lamps.
    As soon as he stepped in the door, his father said, “Olaf, where have you been? There’s kettles piled to the ceiling, and you out dawdling.”
    Olaf hung his head and said, “Sorry, sir,” and hurried to the shop to work.
    His mother, who loved him dearly—partly because she was a little slow herself, though she was pretty as a queen (yet somehow her husband didn’t love her as he ought)—brought Olaf a pickle and some milk.
    â€œPoor Olaf,” she said, patting his shoulder. “Poor, good Olaf! What’s the meaning of it all!”
    â€œWell,” said Olaf, “it’s not as bad as it might be. I may be more important than some people think.”
    His mother smiled sadly, patting him again, wondering if her son might be crazy. Then she went to bed.
    Olaf worked all night, as usual, but at least he was not lonely. The ants on whom he had refrained from stepping came and paraded by while he worked; the mice he’d fed cheese came and polished the copper pots by rubbing their backs against them;