Opa Opa and the Red-Bellied Woodpecker

Vater und Kind beim Hoppe hoppe Reiter-Spiel (1863) by Charles Green

Once upon a time, in the days of Kings and Queens and knight-errants, there lived a rider by the name of Opa Opa. You might ask, and rightly so, what kind of mother would send their boy into such a hard world with such a silly name. Well, the truth of the matter is even sadder than that, for Opa Opa never knew his mother. Nor had he ever met his father. Most agreed that he must have had one or both at some point, but who they were none could say. The boy simply wandered out of the forest and into local towns and villages year after year, always growing taller and always with a brown horse by his side. This is the story of how that brown horse gave Opa Opa his name.

One, fine summer morning, Opa Opa was rudely started awake by the sound of a furious pounding. So fast and so loud was it that Opa Opa imagined that a whole army on horseback was after him. He shot up in bed and in so doing, whacked his head against a gnarled root. Yes, a root. For Opa Opa lived in the hollow trunk of an enormous Yew tree. Even as a goose egg grew on his head, he grabbed his sword and rushed outside. But instead of an army of fierce warriors, he found himself en garde with a squirrel wielding nothing more than a nut. The squirrel, of course, dropped the nut and ran up the nearest tree, turning at the top to chirp furiously at Opa Opa’s poor manners. But Opa Opa had no time to apologize. The sound was as loud as ever, and it seemed to be coming from overhead. There, a mere yard or two above, was a woodpecker with a splendidly red head and zebraprint back.

“You there!” called Opa Opa. But the bird showed no sign of hearing him. “I say, what are you about? The sun is hardly an hour old, and you’re making racket enough to wake the King in his castle.”

Again, the woodpecker kept on pecking. Thinking it couldn’t possibly hear him over the sound of the pecking, Opa Opa threw a pebble close by for the purpose of gaining its attention. That did the trick. It turned to look at Opa Opa.

“Aha! How do you do, good sir? I wonder if you know whose tree you’re pecking. You see, I actually live—”

At that moment, the woodpecker turned back to his work, drowning out his words with a barrage of pecks.

“Well, if that isn’t the most impudent bird in all of Europe,” puffed Opa Opa. “Wouldn’t you say so, Mr. Pipe?”

Mr. Pipe—a name deserving of a story all its own—was Opa Opa’s trusty, brown horse. At that moment, Mr. Pipe was still asleep inside the Yew Tree and quite unaware of Opa Opa’s troubles. He woke, however, at the call of his master and lumbered outside to meet him. To you or I, the sight would have been quite comical: Opa Opa throwing rocks at a tree with one hand and holding the red bump on his forehead with the other, all while chastising a bird for its poor manners. But, as it happened, Mr. Pipe was a half blind horse, and it took him a good many questions before he had a full understanding of the situation. Thankfully, what Mr. Pipe lacked in sight, he made up for in wit.

“Has the bird a red head or a black head?” asked the horse.

“Red as a tomato, I’m sure.”

“Good. Then it’s a male.”

“I don’t see how—”

“And his belly?” inquired Mr. Pipe.

“What about it?”

“What color is it?”

Opa made a telescope with both hands. “Reddish, I suppose.”

“Ah, we’re in luck then.”

“In luck? I don’t feel very lucky,” Opa Opa said, rubbing his goose-egg. “What’s the color of his belly got got to do with anything anyhow?”

“Everything, Opa. It has everything to do with it. Now, fetch me some oats.”

Opa Opa threw his long arms in the air. “Oats?”

“This will take a great deal longer if I must explain every step. I’ll need the fresh ones. If its from that expired stock you keep under the bed, I’ll know.”

“Oh.” Opa Opa appeared to take a sudden interest in his feet. “You know about the bed oats then. Sorry, old boy. The man at the market told me they were fresh.”

After a great chorus of banging pans and clinking ceramic, Opa Opa returned bearing a large bowl of fresh oats and set it before Mr. Pipe. “What now?”

Without a word, Mr. Pipe nibbled and whinnied, nibbled and whinnied until the bowl was glazed with slobber. The horse dabbed his mouth on Opa Opa’s shirt before speaking again. “Splendid. Simply splendid. I quite forgive you for the old oats. Now, stand on my back—it must be eye to eye—and kindly explain to our tenacious guest that he isn’t in England.”

“But he is!”

“No, he’s not.”

“Well then where in the name of the Queen are we?”

“England, of course. Boy, you really did hit your head hard, didn’t you? We’ll see to the doctor after this.”

Opa Opa was talking almost louder than the bird’s pecking by now. “How is this, this scoundrel, this intruder, both in Europe and not all at the same time.”

“Ah, I see the confusion. Our feathered friend happens to be a red-bellied woodpecker. Would you like to know how I know?”

“Don’t you go being smart with me now, Mr. Pipe.”

“Only playing, Opa. Only playing. Red-bellied woodpeckers are native only to the Eastern United States. They aren’t in Europe, you see?”

“How did he get here then?”

“Oh, that I don’t know. Lost his way, I suppose. It will be quite embarrassing when he finds out, I’m sure. You must explain it to him gently. Woodpeckers are very self-conscious birds, as everyone well knows.”

“What was all that about oats then?”

“I was hungry.”

Opa Opa became so worked up at this that he forgot all about the bump on his head and smacked his forehead in desperation. The sharp pain exploded out of him in a deafening shout, “Oppaaaaa!”

This got the bird’s attention. Unfortunately, the red-bellied woodpecker is also one of the only woodpeckers to have a funny bone, and this most definitely tickled it. The bird began laughing almost as loud as his pecking had been.

Opa Opa scowled at the bird and, knowing he really shouldn’t, said something quite unforgivable. “Oh, that’s funny is it? It’s not half as funny as an American bird pecking at a tree in England.”

Instantly, the little bird stopped laughing, and its red head grew even redder. Opa Opa couldn’t tell if it was blushing with embarrassment or outrage. Too bad for Opa Opa because it was all anger. He flew at Opa Opa with its pointy beak, like a dart thrown by a very strong arm.

Opa Opa yelped with fear and hopped on Mr. Pipes back. “Ride, Mr. Pipe! Ride!”

You’ll remember that Mr. Pipe is as blind as you or I would be in a dim room, so he saw none of this commotion. But, he was a faithful horse, and at the word ride, he rode. Through bushes and around trees, Opa Opa steered his friend. But, a horse is no match for a bird. They were hardly out of the forest and into the town when the bird caught up. Again and again, the woodpecker poked poor Opa Opa on his heinie. And every time, Opa Opa would let out the same expression of pain.

“OPA! OPA! OPA!”

Lights flicked on and heads poked out of windows as that cry broke the silence of that early morning hour. And ever thereafter, the mysterious horseman of the woods, the boy with no parents, was known as Opa Opa Rider.

And now for the rest of the story…

Dedication: To Jerry