by Asotir
Greta felt better now. She missed Falco more than ever, but Papa told her again they wouldn’t lock her in jail so it was all right. She looked at Papa’s face in the firelight. Tears were rolling down his cheeks, his chest heaved and he sighed out loud.
Greta stroked his hand and leaned against him.
‘Poor Papa,’ she said.
Bjorn didn’t answer her. He didn’t even hear her. He was sunk deep in his own thoughts, bitter and grievous.
* * *
LATE THE NIGHT before, long after the dinner of the wonderful soup, Bjorn had prowled the house alone with all the lights out. Rayn had a headache and on such nights Bjorn knew to let her sleep alone. Usually he slept on the sofa in the great-room on such nights. But last night he couldn’t sleep at all. Something was gnawing at him and he didn’t know what. He dug out a bottle of aqua vite and drank it in burning gulps and as softly as he could he climbed up the narrow twisting attic stairs and stared at his son’s cot.
It was a wretched place but the boy never complained so Bjorn supposed it was good enough for him. The boy never showed any pride or strength. Deep in his heart Bjorn had to admit he was ashamed of the kid and always had been. He knew the boy would never amount to much of a man. Why, he wondered, had he given him Tall Pines? Falco would never be able to hold it, much less use it to provide for a family. And yet, and yet he had his mother’s wild fey look about his eyes and nose. The boy was all Bjorn had left of Ariela, Ari the little sparrow-witch.
The window to the little cell was open, and water from the fog dripped onto a tin pie plate.
Bjorn went to shut it. For a moment he felt his disappointment in Falco rise again. How many times had Rayn warned the boy about shutting his window? But when he set his hands on the casement to shut it he saw the bird-casts on the roof outside. He remembered how much Falco loved feeding the birds. The birds needed fresh water to drink, Bjorn thought. And he might as well start being nice to Falco now, and for once Rayn could drop dead. So he left the window open and backed out of the room.
One of the hanging cut-out bird-women brushed his face. He stopped it with his hand. He took another swig of aqua vite. Then he left. But he closed the door behind him to keep the cold air from invading the rest of the house.
He staggered down the attic steps, hitting the banister, making too damn much noise. He paused in the hall outside the locked door to Ariela’s room. He fumbled in his pocket and drew out the key and slipped it in the lock.
He entered the close, quiet room. He took a drink and looked around.
The room was tidy and gray and dead. The bed had the same duvet as it had eight years ago, or was it nine already?
On the little table before the window the stone bowl stood with the paring knife inside.
Bjorn walked around the bed. He touched the rocking chair and let it roll back and forth.
On the night stand was Ariela’s book of fairy tales. Beside the book was the nursing bottle. Bjorn unscrewed it and sniffed. A last hint of the sweet-milk filled his senses.
He stood at his wife’s dressing table and gazed on the mirror where long ago Ariela had kissed it and left the imprint of her mark in lipstick. After all these years the smile of her lips remained.
He pressed his lips against the lipstick mark on the mirror, smearing it.
Then and there he swore to himself, now that his career as a lumber tycoon was ended, that he would be kinder to his children, Falco most of all. He swore it to Ariela’s ghost in the musty room. He would make it up to the kid for all the pain in the past.
But that had been when he expected to have Thanksgiving Feast with Falco. That was when he still believed Falco was alive.
Now he knew better. Now it was too late. He shook his head and stared into the fire and groaned.
* * *
GRETA WATCHED her Papa. She sat apart from him and hugged her dinosaur skeleton. And then she heard the black bird’s song again.
Greta heard the black bird’s song even through the rain and the cabin walls. And now at last she knew every word it sang. She knew what the black bird was and she knew what it knew and what it would do.
She stared with horror at her Papa. He just sat there staring at the fire. It was as if he was deaf, or dreaming, or dead. She backed away from him until her shoulders wedged in between the dresser and the wall and she couldn’t get any farther away. She huddled in the corner out of the light and shook her head and moaned. But still she heard the black bird’s song.
‘No, birdie, please, don’t do it,’ she moaned.
But it was too late now.
For the rain fell heavy on White Quill too. Day had failed and the lights were on and the black bird glared at the redheaded woman through the kitchen window. He gripped the branch with his talons, with one gold band and one green band. He bobbed his head with the red band about his throat. And he sang his song as a challenge to her and a threat:
The Rain stole my Mother
She cut off my head,
The Bear took my Father
He ate me with bread,
The Goose, little Sister
Dropped my bones near the Sea,
A Bird I became by the Juniper Tree.
12
I guess deep down I always knew what it would come to.
WHEN SHE HEARD that song again Rayn felt as though something beat against her head and her knees buckled and gave out from under her. She fell on the floor shrieking and screaming and swearing.
After awhile she managed to get back control over her arms and legs. She reached up to the counter and hauled herself up, leaning against it, her hair in her eyes, her mouth gaping.
She looked out the window streaked with rain. The yard light shone on the wet grass and the Juniper Tree and the black bird perched in it.
The black bird lifted his head and glared back at her.
Across the distance, Rayn and the black bird took the measure of each other.
‘That bird! That cursed bird again—!’
She clung to the counter. Her head hurt. Her hair was burning. She remembered, after awhile, to breathe. She sucked down air and it hurt. She shuddered, looking at the black bird. And it lifted its sharp beak and sang the song again, again, again.
The Rain stole my Mother
She cut off my head
Rayn slouched around the counter island. All the way the evil black eyes of the bird followed her. She pushed herself apart from the counter and leaned against the cabinets. She reached over and made sure each window was fastened as tight as it could be.
She leaned against the wall and managed one step at a time to drag herself out around the great-room. She locked each window. She locked the glass doors. She even pulled the damper in the fireplace down almost all the way so some smoke spilled out into the room.
The Bear took my Father
He ate me with bread
She turned the switch and killed lights. Now the great-room was dark save for the flickering from the fire and the yard light shining through the windows. She leaned back and regained her breath. Then she went into the hall. She leaned against tables and walls and doors. She locked down every window and turned off every light. At the front door she found Tang-Tang scratching and whimpering and the sight filled her with rage.
‘Stupid useless beast! Go outside and do some good! Kill that bird!’
She opened the door and quickly shoved Tang-Tang out. She slammed the door and locked it and bolted it.
The Goose, little Sister
Dropped my bones near the Sea
She crept upstairs. Greta’s room was shut and she switched off the light and closed the door to it. The dead woman’s room was dark and close and Rayn pulled the door to until it stuck.
A Bird I became by the Juniper Tree
In her own room the windows were slightly open and she slammed them shut and locked them. That shut away the last sounds from outside and she couldn’t hear the black bird singing anymore.
She
felt better then. Almost at peace.
She fell into her chair before the dressing table and took a good look at herself. Heavens she was a fright with her hair all which way, flour on her apron and dress along with smears of butter and fat and seasoning. She brushed out her hair and redid her face. She put on a golden bracelet and changed her rings. She took off the engagement and wedding rings Money Bags had put on her with a smug little smile as though he were turning the key on handcuffs, chaining her to him. Well she thought there was no reason to keep her chains anymore and if he asked about them, in the couple of days before she left him for good, she could say she took them off in cooking.
Now she felt much better when all that was done. She stood up quite steady and walked across her room. She switched off the lights and closed the door and went downstairs again.
In the kitchen only the oven light was on and the yard light shining in the windows but her eyes by now were grown used to darkness and she could see quite well. She squinted and looked out to the bird in the Juniper Tree.
‘Come to me now, black bird,’ she said, ‘if you can. Every door is bolted and every window locked, and fire goes up the chimney. There’s nowhere you can come in by. I am safe here and you can sit out in the rain and die. So sit out in your tree, little bird, and sing your damned head off! It won’t bother me, not one little bit.’
She laughed. She felt good again. She was in command again.
The potatoes and beet casserole were done, and she took them out of the oven and set them cooling beside the pies and onions and salad and all the other dishes she had made ready that day. She went over her lists in her mind and was satisfied that all was ready and done but for the turkey itself. And that she finished stuffing and tied up and covered in a great big roasting dish, and put into the oven. She set the temperature and the oven timer. Early in the morning the turkey would be hot and brown and ready for carving, and then they would take their Thanksgiving Feast.
‘I’m only sorry you didn’t go into the oven alongside Tom Turkey, birdie,’ she said and shook her basting spoon at the window.
But the black bird was gone.
The Juniper Tree stood empty.
For a long time Rayn stood against the window staring out. The darkness and the rain and wind made things hard to make out clearly. And the branches deep in the tree were so dark, wasn’t that a gleam on feathers there? No. No, she was sure now. The black bird wasn’t there anymore. It had gone someplace else. Where, though?
And she had the sudden, horrible thought: Yes, I locked all the doors, I locked all the windows down here and upstairs but what about the attic?
Then the breath caught in her throat and everything went very still and she could hear the clock ticking in the great-room and every drop of water that fell upon the roof and windows. And it seemed to her that she could hear, faint and far away coming from up there, a little sound. Thump, thump, it went. Thump, thump.
A sight struck her. She beheld it as though it stood just before her in a bright, harsh light: The window to the brat’s room hanging open to the rain.
How many times had she told the brat to keep his window shut? But he never listened, he never obeyed. She hadn’t bothered to go up there today since the brat was gone, gone forever, gone for good, and she never needed to worry about him again.
She crept back up the stairs. She stood in the hall with all the closed doors looking back at her, blocking her escape. She opened the door to her room, that one at least. Never had she so longed to crawl back into her room, curl up naked under her silk sheets, and sleep, sleep and dream about her Mommie.
But the narrow twisting attic stairs pulled at her and she couldn’t look away from them for long. The darkness seemed to gather and grow up those steps. In the hall a little light from the yard stole in through her back window, and a sliver of light shone under Greta’s door from her nightlight. But up those attic steps was utter blackness, invisible and unknown.
She went to the bottom of those steps. She couldn’t help it. The song went ringing in her head and gave her no peace. She wasn’t sure if the bird was singing it somewhere or whether it went on only in her brain where it ached and burned so.
She lingered at the foot of the steps looking up.
She kicked off her slippers and stood in her bare stockings. Her legs were trembling and weak. She clung to the banister.
Tenderly, one step at a time, she crawled on hands and knees up the attic stair.
She was as quiet as she could be. Her skin was on fire as though fire-ants were biting and stinging her all over. Her arms were shaking and drops of sweat rolled down her brow and nose and dripped across her eyes.
She poked her head above the topmost step. She peered about at the black cavern of the attic with the rafters bowing overhead like the inner ribs of some great whale. At the far end of the attic a small window in the back gable let in glimmerings of light from the yard below. Outside the wind blew up and the frame of the house creaked.
It seemed quiet otherwise. Had she only imagined it? No – there it was again! Thump, thump. Louder now. Where? There. It came from the brat’s room just as she had feared.
Rayn crawled closer to the door to the tiny room. The door was closed. No, the wind blew up and the door moved. It pulled in as though by an unseen hand, then it came back out again and tapped against the jamb. Thump, it sounded against the jamb, and again. Thump.
She reached forth and touched the door with her fingertips, just her nails really, manicured and polished and painted fire-red at such expense at the best salon in the city. She inched the door open, baring the tiny room.
There was the iron bed and the dirty washstand and the walls pasted over with pictures of birds, and the cardboard bits he had cut in the shape of birds and pasted models’ faces over their heads like sirens or harpies swinging from bent hangers over the bed. Beyond the bed the narrow window opened in the narrow wall no wider than her arm. The window hung wide open.
She crawled into the room. The floor was filthy with dust and mud dropped off his dirty little sneakers. It stank of little boy. His sneakers, his dirty underwear and underpants lay before her and she couldn’t help but touch them and crawl through them. Rayn had always hated the smell of boys. Girls always smelled good but boys smelled rotten and sour because they never bathed and were always rooting in filth.
She reached the wall. She couldn’t bring herself to touch the bed, the dead brat’s disgusting bed. She worked herself up the wall until she could stretch up her arms and clutch the rain-slick sill. She pulled herself up and clung there looking out.
The back yard glowed dull green under the lights. The lights shone across the faces of the trees in the woods on both sides but beyond the Juniper Tree where the land gave way to the sea there was only blackness and rain. The rain blew in her face and stole her nerves away. Quick now she thought and reached up to shut the window and the black bird filled the window from out of nowhere it rushed in. It scrawed at her and its claws raked her face and its great wings beat against her head and she fell back and hit her head bump on the floor and passed out.
She came around some time later.
In the night and rain there was no way for her to tell how much time had passed. Maybe it had been an hour or maybe only moments.
For a while she was unsure where she was. She lay there against a hard floor and let her eyes wander about. She saw the bird pictures and harpies and she remembered. She started to rise and stopped.
The black bird perched on the iron foot of the bed. It was preening itself but when she stirred it stopped and glared at her.
She let her eyes linger on the long cruel talons curled about the iron bar.
She crawled slowly out of the room. The bird watched but did not move. She kicked against the door and wished she could pull it to but that proved beyond her courage. She slid backwards down the steps, bump bump bumping down. Dust and dirt covered her dress her arms and feet and legs. She had never been so fil
thy in her life. When this was all over, she promised herself she would draw one of her fire-baths with the water just as hot as she could get it. She would lie in the tub and burn and burn.
And all the time the Voices in her head were croaking Kill it Kill it Kill it Kill…
Somehow she made it into her room.
She shut the door behind her. The bird hadn’t followed and she felt almost safe again. She got up and with shaking hands dusted herself off but it only smeared the dust and dirt around.
She rifled through her things in her Mommie’s Trunk, still spattered with brown bloodstains. Where was it, she wondered, where did it go? Did he take it, the little dirty sneak? No. There. There it was. She reached deep into her Mommie’s Trunk and her fingers grasped it with a loving secret caress. The green bottle lay inside her palm. She fetched it up and kissed it.
Upstairs in the attic room the black bird stopped preening at the sound of the Trunk slamming shut. The bird lit down and pecked at the crumbs on the floor then hopped awkwardly to the door and out to the head of the steps, flapping and leaping to the banister. He flew down into the lower hall and Rayn appeared with a broom in her hand. She swung the broom and the bird ducked under it but the force of the breeze pushed him down on the floor. He leaped up and Rayn swung the broom again in a big round wheeling blow and the broom slammed into Ariela’s shut door and knocked it open. But the broom in passing batted against the black bird’s wings and he fell down the stairs flapping and tumbling to the ground floor.
Down came Rayn rushing with the broom. The black bird hopped aside into the great-room just ahead of the broom-head that smashed a painting off the hallway wall. The bird flew about the great-room but the ceiling was too low for flight and too low to escape the broom in the redheaded woman’s hands. The broom leapt about the room. It knocked down lamps and ash trays and books and magazines, little glass curios and paper weights and framed pictures from the walls.
Rayn was screaming and charging. The bird couldn’t get away but so far he had dodged or slipped by the blows and was not badly hurt. Outside the White Dog howled and barked and followed them from window to window as the black bird fled from the broom. And the White Dog’s eyes burned like red fire, and the redheaded woman’s eyes shone red like the dog’s, like little torches in the dark.
The black bird made it back into the hall. He flew upstairs and Rayn leapt up after him. She chased him into the hall and into the dead woman’s room. There she paused in the doorway and flung her hair back from her eyes.
