Animal Activities #38

Baraka was a tortoise that lived in the lonely garden where red flowers were bending over the green grass. Baraka appeared to be nothing more than another snail to most who passed by, with a heavy shell and wrinkled skin. However, there was more in that shell than the trees, as Baraka was not an ordinary tortoise. The Keeper of the Garden he was.

Baraka rose each morning out of his dark corner with half-closed eyes like a half-awakened dream. His steps were slow, but they stamped deeply in the soil, and by their side, undiscovered lines of defense were left behind them. The flowers appeared to brighter blooms as he went and the earth grew to softness. The birds were sitting on the branches above, and chirped as though they were welcoming their old friend.

Few knew his story. The land was previously barren long before the garden was planted. The sun blazed it and the rains swept it away without fertilising the soil. One evening, according to the legend, one wandering tortoise came in. This one, unlike the others, got his way dug out of the earth slowly, cutting the hard crust, and turning the soil. Where his feet fell, which had been down with the seeds years long, sprouted. And after a short time the life spread green across the land, And bloomed in radiant red.

That was the memory that Baraka was doing. He would go out day after day on his slow patrol, never in a hurry, never fatigued. He resembled a sleepy old giant to those who came there with children. They frequently questioned themselves why he was spending so much time by the bushes in blossom. But Baraka was listening. And again he could hear the sound of the roots in the earth.

One afternoon there came a huge storm across the garden. The blossoms were blown away by winds and soil washed away by the rain. The plants stooped and were trembling with fright. Unstable in his steps, Baraka came to the feebleest point in the garden, whereby roots lay bare. He gnawed his way deeper with quiet deliberation into the soil, forming little heaps which retarded the flowing water. The beating rain was obscured by his shell that covered the delicate stems. At morning the storm had gone, and the garden was high again, and its colours incomparably vivid.

The caretakers would never be aware of the role played by the old tortoise. He was to them, a mere tenant of the garden, and therefore slow and dangerous. To the flowers and to the soil Baraka was still their protector, an eternal soul to remind the world that the smallest strides can be the most powerful.

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