by Karen Wyld
‘How peculiar,’ remarked Brigid.
‘What is it, child?’
‘That bird, the one that was singing, it’s now perched on the windowsill.’
Maeve shifted in the bed. ‘What does it look like, Birdie?’
‘Small. Black and white feathers.’
Maeve nodded sagely. ‘So that time has come. Too soon, if you ask me. Bring me that box, lass.’
Brigid fetched the small wooden jewellery box that always sat on her grandmother’s dresser, the one whose contents she desperately wanted to discover. She respected her granny too much to peek inside.
Opening it, Maeve took something out. ‘Here. This is yours now.’
‘What is it?’
‘An apple seed dipped in silver. It’s from the very first apple that ripened in our orchard. That tree was grown from a cutting I carried across the seas, all the way from my birthplace.’
Brigid held the pendant up by the small silver chain to which it was attached.
‘Put it on, go on. Wear it always, so you never forget.’
‘Forget what, Granny?’
The old woman patted her granddaughter’s hand. ‘Never forget that an apple seed may travel far, carried on the wind by bird or folk, but the fruit never falls far from the tree.’
Brigid began to ask what her granny meant, but a sharp trill interrupted her. Brigid noticed the small bird on the windowsill. A bird that seemed quite determined for attention.
Before the tale of the little black-and-white bird can be told, other birds must be heralded. Three, to be precise. For a conspiracy of ravens had formed near the small cottage at the bottom of the garden. First one settled in the tall tree out the front of her grandmother’s cottage. Then a second. Maeve knew it wouldn’t be much longer before the third would appear, but she was not afraid. She was more than ready.
These large carnivorous birds didn’t frighten away the smaller bird that had taken up residence in the apple orchard. A willy wagtail goes where it will and does what it wants. And what it wanted was Brigid’s attention. It had first appeared at her bedroom window, on an unmemorable morning a few weeks past. It was a couple of days before Brigid noticed it. First by its cheeky song, later by its persistence. That bird sang at her window every morning, greeting her with joyous chirps as she woke to a new day. The novelty soon wore off for Brigid. She had many times opened her window to swoosh it away. That cheeky bird just hopped around a bit, before recommencing its song.
Her brothers then tried to make it to go away, rushing at it comedically with flailing arms. The bird wiggled its tail at them, took a few hops to the left, and started singing again. On the third morning of the third week, that willy wagtail was at the door, waiting for Brigid. When she walked to the washing line it followed, chirping away. When she went to pick apples, it led her to the juiciest in the orchard. When she walked into town, to the general store, it hopped down the lane in front of her. She couldn’t go anywhere without that bird. In the fifth week, sick of it carrying on, her stepfather Frank chased it away with a shovel. Not with malice, just frustration. It made the family laugh to see the gentle, tall man yelling at a tiny bird. By the time he’d shut the door, it was already out the front of the house again, singing even louder than before.
That look-at-me bird was annoying the whole family, so it came time for Granny to tell Brigid what that little bird was saying. Because Maeve knew the secret language of birds. She had learnt it from her grandmother, who had learnt it from her grandmother. And so on and so on, through a long line of apple-growing grandmothers. Maeve had discovered the local birds weren’t that much different from those in her homeland. And that is why Maeve knew the raven duo was waiting for the third to arrive. Once it did, it would be time for Maeve to leave. Although she’d miss her Birdie, Maeve knew her granddaughter had a journey of her own to go on. Who would be leaving first was still undecided. So Maeve knew she needed to put aside thoughts of her gatherers for a while and have a much-needed talk with Brigid about the birds and the apples.
The soft thud of the cottage door closing roused Maeve from a most pleasant dream. Her dreams were full of vibrant colours and sunlight. As the days began to pass even slower, sleep was where she preferred to be. Orientating herself to the darkness of the non-dream state, Maeve felt the presence of Birdie in the cottage.
‘Good morning, lass.’
Birdie laughed. ‘It’s late afternoon, Granny.’
Maeve clicked her tongue, annoyed at being found in a state of disorientation again. With her mind clearing, Maeve remembered she had to tell Brigid why that small black-and-white bird was so persistent.
‘Brigid, come here. Sit for a bit. I need to tell you some things of importance.’
Having loved her grandmother’s stories since she was a small child, Brigid eagerly did as she was told. And so Maeve told her granddaughter about the small messenger bird. And how it carried a message just for her. That willy wagtail would not be going away any time soon. Instead, Brigid must follow it. Brigid protested. She did not want to go anywhere, ever. She wanted to stay with her granny. Maeve sternly asked her to stop chattering and listen some more. So Brigid listened as her grandmother told her about birds and destinies.
According to her grandmother, there were two types of birds: those that led you to good fortune, and those that led to no good. It was almost impossible to tell the two apart, usually not until it was too late. Maeve didn’t say that she had a feeling this bird was the type that might just escort a young person to find their one true love. What Maeve didn’t know was if this would be a harmonious pairing or a whole lot of trouble.
The day the third blue-black raven appeared, Maeve didn’t need to be told. She’d already felt its presence, and was wondering if she really was ready.
‘There’s three of them,’ Brigid noted as she closed the door.
Placing a warm plate on the bedside table, Brigid removed the cloth that covered her grandmother’s dinner. A pungent but pleasant aroma hit Maeve.
‘Leave it,’ she grumbled.
‘It will go cold, Granny.’
Maeve shifted slightly, letting out a faint sigh. Brigid helped her sit up, fluffed the pillow, and resettled her grandmother. Maeve turned her head towards the window, her milky eyes sensing a shadow. Unseen by Maeve, on the other side of the glass the three ravens perched in the oldest apple tree. The first she’d planted.
Brigid raised a fork. ‘Have just a little. It’s roast lamb, peas and mashed potatoes with gravy. I made it for you. Please, Granny.’
‘Maybe I’ll just try the mash, Birdie.’
Brigid carefully lifted the fork and placed warm, smooth potatoes on her grandmother’s tongue. Savouring the taste, Maeve instantly thought of potato eyes wrapped up in dampened moss and rags. And a husband with eternal youth, resting on an ocean floor. Suddenly, she longed for Roan’s embrace. The memory of his strong arms around her shoulders was still as vivid as if it was only yesterday. She knew then that she was indeed ready.
TWO
She left in black. Carrying a small suitcase, she stepped over the threshold. Tears had been shed. Her mother, stepfather and brothers had been farewelled. There was nothing left to do but follow that little black-and-white bird.
Tilting its head, the willy wagtail waited for her.
Brigid nodded. ‘Get moving. I’m ready.’
The bird hopped down the road and Brigid followed with sadness weighing down each step. She was leaving behind the place she swore she’d never leave. As she passed her grandmother’s cottage, Brigid turned to look at the oldest apple tree in the family orchard across the road. Three ravens let loose sorrowful caw-caws as they flew up into the sky. When they became not much more than dots in the distance, Brigid plucked an apple from the tree, and then turned her sights to the road ahead.
Brigid walked for all of that first day, following that little bird, heading due north until the sun disappeared. Then she made a fire, before falling a
sleep to the soothing sound of the bird’s chattering tales. The next morning, she walked some more. Until it was again time to light a campfire. Days soon became weeks, and weeks turned into months. Still she followed that bird, continuing the journey to an unknown destiny.
Sometimes Brigid would stop in a town for a while, seeking work and a soft bed. She’d stay just long enough to replace worn shoes with new, then pack her suitcase and be off again. As Brigid walked, her vista changed: from coastal dunes to scrubby plains, hilly terrain to rocky outcrops, and finally red sand and spinifex. With that little black-and-white bird as companion.
Just when Brigid felt she could walk no further, the bird stopped where desert stretched out to kiss the ocean. There sat a small town, nestled behind red dunes. At a rusted road sign, on the edge of town, Brigid sat down to catch her breath.
‘Where’d you come from?’
Startled, Brigid looked up and saw her reflection in a stranger’s hazel eyes.
‘Did you come out from the desert, all on your own?’
Brigid turned around, looking for the bird. It had disappeared. ‘I walked here from down south. I mostly followed the coast.’
The man extended a hand and helped her up. He gave her the warmest of smiles, so inviting that Brigid thought perhaps she really should still be sitting down.
He shifted his gaze to the west, and with a slight up-nod of his head remarked, ‘Did you know there’s an ancient sea out there, in a faraway desert? I hear it sometimes, on still nights. It calls for me. Know what I mean?’
Brigid reflected on her long days of walking, with just a little bird for company. On the road she’d heard many types of sounds, including some that frightened her in the dark. She’d never heard the sound of waves in the desert. She’d never even heard of the possibility of interior seas. Not until today, when she’d chanced across this spot, where red desert met blue sea, where a man with the warmest of eyes and strange notions on his tongue was waiting for her.
The young man turned back towards her. ‘I’m Danny, by the way. You look like you could do with a cold drink, a warm meal, and a comfy place to rest your weary self. Come on.’
So she went with him. She ate, and she rested. She even stayed the night. Then she stayed another day, and another night, and then another day. Days soon turned into a week. And that week turned into a month, and then another month. Until she called that place home. And he called her My Birdie.
They were happy for a while. Some might even dare to say they were blissfully content. Until that moment Brigid expressed something carelessly. Despite the look of pain in Danny’s eyes, she insisted no offence was intended. It was of no significance. Danny felt it was of great importance. At that moment, a crack appeared. Neither of them knew how to make things right again. They did know how to make things worse. Before either of them could whisper those two words that make wrong things right again – I’m sorry – slammed doors and regretted words had filled the space between them.
One morning Danny announced his plans. He was leaving to find that ancient sea. He told Brigid he needed to take some time out, to cool down. To reflect on whether he should or could be with her, now that he was conscious of her views that had sparked the conflict between them. And he had no way of telling if he and she were wrong-skin. This had been worrying him. Danny knew they couldn’t properly be together until he knew for sure who his mob were. He still loved her, and wanted to be with her. If she was prepared to talk things out, instead of repeating that meaningless tale of potatoes.
For now, all of that would have to wait, because he’d been offered a few months’ work, moving cattle along well-trodden stock routes into the interior. He believed this was his chance to find the inland sea that called to him. As Danny packed, he kept glancing over at Brigid expectantly. She stayed silent. Grim of mouth, he picked up his swag. As Danny walked out the door, whispers of forever-and-evers followed him, drifting away on the wind.
Brigid heard word of Danny’s travels from his friends. He’d finished the droving job, and was now searching. She was told that he’d headed in an easterly direction, towards the heart country, apparently aiming for the spot where he suspected a sea lay under hot red sands. Reassured that he was safe, Brigid wasn’t sure if she wanted him to return just yet. She had her own thinking to do, some of which involved piecing together half-forgotten tales of potatoes and apple seeds. And matching those with older, forgotten stories, when she’d lived with her mother even further up the coast. She’d once overheard her mother and stepfather talking of those years. When Brigid had lived with a different father, one she did not remember. She wondered: Was he a potato, or an apple?
Three months after Danny left, Brigid began to feel unwell. At first she thought it was regrets churning her stomach, making her feel sick. Then she realised what was really happening: she had an ocean inside her, with a little boat riding the waves. Brigid couldn’t wait to share the news with her wayward beau. She began to wish for his return, prepared to tell him that she was wrong, not him. Each day she sat on the wide sea-view verandah of the home they’d once shared, waiting for him to come whistling out of the desert. Days soon became weeks, and weeks became months. Still he did not return.
And then came the worry-thoughts. No one had heard from Danny for quite a while. No letters, not even a single word had been passed along the road. Brigid imagined all sorts of things: he was hurt, lost, incarcerated, or had simply stopped loving her. No one could console her. She turned her back on everyone and everything.
Until a little white-and-black bird turned up at her bedroom window. Convinced this was her bird, come back to lead her to Danny once more, Brigid immediately packed her battered suitcase. In her haste, she’d forgotten what Granny had told her. Brigid hadn’t even taken a good look at that bird. If she had, she would have seen this was one of those no-good birds her grandmother had warned her about.
With no one to hug farewell this time, Brigid left with just her suitcase and that turbulent ocean-within. On this journey, she soon found out the walking was harder and sleeping outside was most uncomfortable. During the day, she carried that watery weight, and at night tumultuous waves gave her no peace. Still she walked, following a little white-and-black bird.
It didn’t take too much longer for Brigid to realise this was not her bird. She noticed it was moulting. A black feather here, a black feather there. That bird was becoming more and more white. Then Brigid surmised that it was a selfish little bird. It didn’t even try to slow its pace for her. And Brigid was moving slower and slower. As each day passed, that bird travelled faster and faster, until it was further and further ahead. Brigid had to strain to hear its song in the distance. Until, one morning, she woke to the sounds of silence. That bird had left her.
Brigid scanned unfamiliar terrain, trying to recall how far away the last town was. She didn’t even know in which direction it lay. In the distance, she saw a shimmering. It was like that flash of light when sun hits metal. With renewed hope, she rushed forwards, stumbling over small rocks, kicking up red dirt, disturbing small creatures hidden in low-lying vegetation. Finally, standing on top of a small sandy hill, she saw what had caught her attention.
A large lake stretched out before her. Could it be? Might it be? Perhaps it was. She rushed forward, stumbling towards the waters’ edge. Bending with much difficulty, she scooped up sun-warmed water from the shallow lake. Raising a hand to her parched lips, she took a sip. And spat it right back out again. It was salty! Was this the inland sea that Danny had been seeking? More importantly – was he here?
Brigid stood and, using a hand to shield her eyes from the blazing sun, peered into the distance, to the other side of the lake. Brigid saw nothing. Only red sand and this shallow water. She knew then it was just a lake, not the inland sea Danny had spoken of so many times. It was just a salty lake of disappointment.
Brigid dropped next to the suitcase she’d flung in the dirt. Tears she’d been holding back could no
longer be contained. For the rest of that day, and into the night, she sat beside the lake and wept. The morning found her still weeping. She cried until her tears became a small salty rivulet that drenched the sun-hardened ground. Some of those tears sought out that lake, merging with the salty water. And some of those tears kept on flowing, becoming a stream, then a river. This river of tears snaked its way towards the south-west, leaving the desert behind. Much much later, it flowed past the wooden gate of an empty cottage nestled in an apple orchard. Unnoticed, it went past the house next door. Inside, a mother, father and three almost-men were seated for dinner. Finally, that tributary of tears found its way to the sea. Once there, Brigid’s salty tears mingled with a much older brine.
Meanwhile, back in a desert far far away, Brigid had dried her face with the hem of her dress. Too busy crying, she hadn’t noticed the occasional ripple on the lake. She hadn’t noticed ancient eyes watching her from that salty lake. She’d not heard long, sharp fingernails scratching and scratching, in anticipation, on the sides of an underwater cave. Something with an ancient hunger, waiting for the right moment to make its move. She’d not heard anything at all, until the wind picked up. That zephyr quickly became a squall, pushing Brigid, forcing her to leave the lake. Walking away, Brigid remained blissfully unaware of the frustrated wails of the insatiable old one that lurked within those waters.
Feeling lighter from the release of tears, Brigid walked with determination. And even when that resolve wavered, she kept on walking. Until, a few days later, as the sun set behind her, she came to a place of snaking waters. Brigid couldn’t see if it was a series of thin interconnected lakes or part of a river. What she could see reminded her of snakes. At a relatively stone-free point in between the two largest serpentine bodies of water, Brigid set up camp.
