The Vision of the Formosan Blue Magpie
The Vision of the Formosan Blue Magpie
One day, a Formosan Blue Magpie—wearing a black scarf around its neck, lipstick-red lips, red wooden clogs on its feet, and its body gleaming like a sapphire—flew past a mulberry tree. Attracted by an indescribably rich aroma, the magpie narrowed its eyes and saw old Uncle Kam-khó selling vegetable zongzi in front of the Shangdi Temple. He was opening a cloth bag filled with strings of zongzi: plump peanuts, golden sticky rice, drizzled with dark soy paste, white crushed garlic, fresh coriander, and the fragrance of bamboo leaves. However, a plainclothes policeman nearby nagged and badgered him incessantly (lô-kah-khì-phut-phu), leaving everyone gasping with rage as he sat before the tree trunk. Suddenly and unexpectedly, a ten-wheeled heavy truck sped past and struck him dead, scattering the zongzi all over the ground—a truly pitiful tragedy. Although no one dared to collect his body at the time, fortunately a young man endured the scorching sun (烈日曝曬) to pay his respects at the uncle's grave. Only after extensive investigation did the young man learn that it was not Uncle Kam-khó who had collected the body of Mr. Tang Te-chang (who was martyred during the 228 Incident), but rather Mr. Yeh Tou-chi, the keeper of the Dadao Temple. The calamity brought by political party violence filled his heart with profound grief and chill.
Soon after, the magpie spotted a grandmother crying by the roadside, withered like a dying flower. Crying as she spoke, she recounted the hardship of a lifetime spent having "ears but no mouth": if she were to tell the whole truth, the tears would never stop. Children today speak American English most fluently, but to our ears it sounds like meaningless clatter (lin-lin long-long / 玲玲瑯瑯). And when our grandson tries to speak Taiwanese, it comes out stiff, clunky, and broken (ki-ki kia̍k-kia̍k / 嘰嘰嘎嘎)—to us, it is nothing more than wind blown across the lips. The magpie let out a long sigh, eyes streaked with red. It remembered how children in schools used to be forced to wear shameful signs and pay fines just for speaking their mother tongue. Though they no longer pay fines today, the humiliation and trampling of a noble language by political oppression filled the bird with deep indignation.
Thus decades passed, and the young man grew to become a renowned Taiwanese author. Strumming his guitar, he sang a song to give voice to his homeland. The lyrics touched the magpie deeply, and it softly hummed along:
The magpie hovered reluctantly in the sky, filled with sorrow and attachment, lingering for a long, long time, unable to bear leaving this land.