The Serendipity of Flightless Things

by Fiadhnait Moser

  “But the thing is, you don’t need him. Why should you need your father when you have me? I will always love you, more than the mountains, more than the sun. What matters is that you have me, and I am here for you, always, my Finbird.”

  My Finbird. I wanted to spit. Nuala used to call me “My Finnuala.” Nuala was the only one I belonged to—well, she and Da. I was not “Finbird,” and Aoife owned not a toenail, not an eyebrow.

  “Now,” said Aoife. She stood and grasped my hands, pulling me up as if inviting me to a waltz. Her hands felt like they were made of paper. “Come down for some tea and—”

  Aoife’s neck tightened, and she glanced down to my hands, eyebrows raised. She dropped my left hand, then flipped over my right and trailed her fingers along the thin red scratches that the thorn vine inside the hearth had made.

  “You’ve been to the border.” Her voice trembled. “You tried to climb the thorn trees. You wish to leave me.”

  “I—not exactly—er … They’re from my shower comb. The handle had some rough plastic on it.” But I doubt I had ever told a lie quite so unconvincing.

  Aoife looked up, eyes wide with fear. “How did you escape?”

  “I swear—it’s nothin’ like that—”

  But in one motion, Aoife swished out of the room and double-locked the door behind her. From the corridor, I could hear Aoife bark, “Barricade the doors. Bolt the windows. Phone the locksmith,” and the squeak of the maid: “Yes, ma’am. As you wish, ma’am.”

  THE RUMBLING OF FURNITURE being rearranged echoed up the stairs, and two doors slammed as Aoife sentenced her children to their rooms.

  “Why should I be punished just because that Finbird did something stupid?” complained Posy-Kate from the hall.

  “This is not a punishment, but another word and you’ll find out what a real punishment feels like, young lady,” warned Aoife.

  “Fine,” huffed Posy-Kate. “Obviously, you love that waterfowl more than me anyway!” And another door banged shut, followed by a muffled “She gets away with everything.”

  I dragged out my suitcase from below my bed and yanked it open. My orphanage of hawthorn leaves was inside, and I deposited the hawthorn petal from Inis Eala inside for safekeeping, then threw in my Sunday dress. I slammed it shut, pinching my thumb in the latch, sending it shooting for my mouth to suck the pain away. I cursed something nasty as my face tingled and tears burned in my eyes.

  I paced back and forth and back and forth until the house went silent, and I slumped against my door. I let the loneliness and the hopelessness creep into my bones, rush through my veins. But then I remembered—the locket. I pulled out the half with the photo from my jeans and smiled down at Margaret, Ed, and Oliver.

  “Found you,” I said.

  Margaret gave me one of her probably-too-quick-to-be-real winks, and even Oliver, who normally smiled shyly away from the camera, seemed to tilt his chin slightly my way. And Ed, ridiculous Ed, slyly smirked as always. Margaret laughed. I could hear that laugh in my mind—it was ugly, yes. A bellowing, bumbling laugh with a snort thrown in, like the laugh of a hippopotamus, if hippopotamuses could laugh. But it made me smile.

  “I’ve got to get Darcy out of here,” I told Oliver. Then I turned to Margaret, who, in my mind, was the cleverest of the group. “You know any ways out?”

  Margaret stared back at me, doll-like. “This is pointless,” I muttered, stuffing the locket inside my pocket. I leaned my head against the wall and ticked off all the possible ways to get out. There seemed, to me, only two possible options: doors or windows. Doors, I would have to contact the locksmith for him to make me an extra set of keys. To do that, however, I would have to escape my room to use the phone. But of course, I wouldn’t be in this predicament if that were a possibility, now would I?

  The other option was windows, but their screens were triple locked, and more recently, four iron bars had been fixed across each window of my room (supposedly to “keep the poor, pathetic birds from banging into the glass”), so it was impossible to break through. But even if I did escape through the window, there would be no way of rescuing Darcy unless I planned on flying up to the roof and sliding down the chimney—

  The chimney!

  My heart raced. I sprang to my feet and shimmied into my jeans, then threw on one of Posy-Kate’s elephant-stitched peasant blouses. If I could just escape my room, I was free. Me and Darcy … we’d be free. How sweet that word would taste when stirred among the autumn breeze and the oak trees and the cool, soft earth between my toes.

  Chapter 31

  I CHIPPED A SPLINTER OF WOOD off the bed frame and knelt at the door, picking at the top lock. Luckily, Aoife did not hear the subtle ticks and clicks of the lock, but after what felt like hours of it, someone else did. A bang that sounded suspiciously like a shoe whacked at a wall came from Posy-Kate’s room, which was to the right of mine.

  “Quit it, would you?” The wall between us could not muffle the petulance of Posy-Kate’s voice. “That won’t work, you know.”

  I jiggled the lock faster, harder. “Clearly,” I muttered, “you’ve never had something worth breaking free for.”

  Posy-Kate sighed exceptionally loudly to be sure I would hear it on the other side. “The locks only open from the outside, Finbird. Luckily for you—” There was a click, and then Posy-Kate’s voice lowered to a whisper seeping in from the other side of the white door: “I’m on the outside.”

  I dropped the splinter as my door creaked open. Posy-Kate stood there, her outfit having been changed since breakfast. She wore a long white peasant skirt and a chiffon blouse.

  “How’d you get out?” I said.

  Posy-Kate’s voice was a whisper the size of a penny. “Mom doesn’t lock my door. She’s far too preoccupied keeping you locked up to notice me. Besides, even when I do escape the house, she doesn’t really care. You’re all she talks about. All she’s ever talked about.” Posy-Kate shrugged, then said matter-of-factly, “Tie your shoes around your neck; we can wear them once we’re out, but for now, they’ll just squeak. And that top? Ugh! You’ll stick out like a lemon tree in a peach orchard. Here—” She shoved a pile of white clothing into my arms. “You’ll blend in better. Be quick.”

  Bewildered, I took the clothes and half closed the door. I shook open the clothes to reveal a near replica of Posy-Kate’s outfit, except my blouse had little birds and fish stitched in blue thread along the collar. I wasn’t sure whether to be touched or offended, but either way, I had to stifle a laugh. I changed into the clothes, feeling not nearly as pretty as Posy-Kate looked. Despite my shortness, I always felt lanky and awkward in skirts, but a stark white one simply made my ankles look like chicken legs.

  I slipped both halves of my locket into a pocket on the skirt’s side and swung open the door. Posy-Kate immediately said, “C’mon.” She turned and began to scurry down the marble corridor.

  I hurried to catch up, and before she could get far, I tugged on her sleeve. “What?” she said.

  “Why are you helping me? You hate me.”

  Posy-Kate rolled her eyes. “I don’t hate you. You’re simply not as refined as Mom and me.”

  I’ll take that as a compliment, thanks very much, I wanted to say, but didn’t. Posy-Kate was my ticket out.

  Posy-Kate then said quickly and without moving her lips, “Um—sorry. Whatever.” She added, “Anyway, if I hadn’t let you out, I’d’ve had to listen to you pick at that lock for who-knows-how-long. Now, Darcy’s up on the top floor—I trust you’ve found her already. I suppose what you lack in looks, your brain seems to make up for. We’ll escape from there. Are you coming or not?”

  “Coming.”

  And together, we swept through the swan palace, feathers ruffling in our wake.

  WHEN POSY-KATE AND I arrived at Darcy’s attic, the swan sack had disappeared, and a smear of dried blood was caked on Darcy’s forehead. She gazed up at us, eyes swollen and bloodshot, but then sprang up from her cot and bounced over
, nearly toppling Posy-Kate and me over in a hug.

  “I knew you’d come,” she said, pulling away. “We’re escapin’, aren’t we? How’re we escapin’?”

  “Shh,” hushed Posy-Kate. “We must be quiet, Darcy, or Mom will hear.”

  “Right!” exclaimed Darcy, and then she whispered, “Oops—I mean right.”

  “The chimney,” I said. “We’re getting out through the chimney. There’s a vine in there we can climb—but watch yourself on the thorns.”

  Crumbs, I thought. We should have brought gloves. We did, however, bring our shoes, so at least our feet would survive the thorns. I hurried over to the chimney, then beckoned for the others to follow. “We haven’t a moment to spare. Darcy, you go first. Here—” I pulled her sleeves over her hands. “That way the thorns won’t bother you so much. If you fall, I’ll be right behind to catch you.”

  Darcy eyed me warily, but then ducked into the hearth and began to ascend the vine. She squealed with the pain of the thorns, but with a shh! from Posy-Kate, she quieted up. I followed suit, bracing myself for the thorns’ sting, and Posy-Kate followed behind me. The smoke filled my lungs, and I held my breath to keep from coughing. All was dark, but when Darcy’s head bumped against the damper, I said, “Push it up, Darcy. Here, I’ve got you,” and, arms shaking, I held tight to the vine with one hand and used the other to steady Darcy as she slid open the damper.

  Sunlight flooded the chimney, and I couldn’t help but grin. “Keep going!” I said, letting go of Darcy as she scrambled up the vine with a newfound vitality.

  With a squelch of pain, a huge thorn scraped my left palm. Blood dribbled down my hands, seeping into my blouse and blooming like roses.

  “Quiet!” snapped Posy-Kate again.

  A grunt sounded from above, and then a clip-clop of shoes landing on the roof. I looked up; Darcy had made it. She stood victorious on the rooftop, grinning down at us. I strained through the shivers and twitches taking hold of my muscles and focused on her face, even more joy-struck, perhaps, than Ed’s.

  “Think of the sunshine, Finn,” Darcy whispered as I reached for the top of the chimney. “Think of the breeze.”

  And I did. I thought of the most beautiful scene I could imagine. I thought of the view of Inis Eala from the top of the Slieve League Cliffs. And for the first time since Nuala’s death, the memory did not make me feel sad. It made me feel strong. And with one last push, I heaved myself over the edge of the chimney, and clambered onto the roof.

  Before I knew what was happening, Darcy squeezed me tight, saying, “You made it, Finn. We’re free.”

  Darcy was right. The sunlight felt like magic, and the breeze—I wanted to bottle the breeze and save it for a lonely morning. Bluebirds chirped a sweet melody as cicadas buzzed in harmony, and the grass, how wondrous smelled the grass.

  Posy-Kate’s hand stuck out the top of the chimney, and I turned my attention to her. I grabbed hold of her wrist and pulled. “C’mon,” I grunted as Posy-Kate, heavy breathed and sweaty, heaved herself out the chimney.

  Her strawberry-blond hair stuck on end and she plucked a thorn from my hair. All three of us exchanged glances—and then laughed in spite of ourselves. Finally, Darcy said, “What now?”

  I surveyed the valley. From the top of the manor, I could see all of Starlight Valley—from the little village to the farmhouses, and from the strange and lonely aspen forest to the gurgling ravine encircled by the thick thorn trees. The mountains, the glorious, sun-spotted mountains, cradled Starlight Valley in gentle arms, reminding me dearly of the cliffs of Donegal. And then the tree.

  The hawthorn tree Nuala planted when she came to Starlight Valley stood at the edge of a small cliff over the ravine. And there, just beneath its branches, was a black-haired boy and a bird pale as seafoam.

  “The tree,” I said. “We’re going to the hawthorn tree.”

  Chapter 32

  WE DESCENDED AN OLD OAK TREE to get from roof to ground, and once our toes touched soil, we ran, leaving our shoes behind. Barefoot, we scampered under branches, over tree roots, feet kicking up dirt and blowing the fluff off dandelions. We slunk through the village, sticking to the backsides of shops and houses, where rusty pipes clitter-clattered and steam billowed out from kitchen windows.

  When the shops thinned and the farmhouses turned to dots in the distance, and at last, the familiar red berries began to squish between our toes, the hawthorn tree slipped into view. Darcy, Posy-Kate, and I climbed the grassy cliff, huffing and puffing and crawling on our thorn-scratched knees as the rushing of the ravine thundered louder and Posy-Kate’s complaints grew ever more frequent. (“I’ve never been so filthy in my life!”) And then, as the hawthorn towered over us, a pair of spider-thin legs and hole-speckled boots appeared an inch from my nose.

  I stood and smiled at the boy who held in his arms the beautiful swan. The swan’s wing was wrapped in an elastic bandage, and her neck draped lazily over the boy’s shoulder.

  “Sojourn,” I said. “What are you doing here?”

  “Waitin’ for you, of course,” he replied, nodding toward the tree for us to follow him. Darcy and Posy-Kate stood, and we followed as he continued, “I said I’d meet you here, an’ you said you’d come. At least one of us is good on our word.”

  “There were … complications,” I said. Perhaps out of habit, I first felt annoyed, but that quickly ebbed away as I realized Sojourn had waited … every day, he had waited for me.

  As we ducked under the hawthorn’s branches, I slipped the broken locket out of my pocket and set it down against a root, comparing the photograph to the tree before my eyes. The same winding branch stretched out from a gnarled trunk, the same branch that, in the photo, Margaret and Oliver sat atop, and Ed swung single-handed from. The photo looked to me almost identical—except for one thing. In the locket’s photo, the thorn trees were nowhere to be seen. The background was simply the view of the valley—sparkling streams and sunlit mountains—and I thought about what Nuala would say if she were here right now.

  Imagine how beautiful it would be, she would whisper. Imagine the view without the thorn trees stranglin’ the wildflowers. Imagine the mountains. Imagine the stories.

  “I know you.” Posy-Kate’s voice snapped me back to reality. She circled Sojourn as he set Ena down on the carpet of hawthorn berries. “I know you.” She crinkled her nose at the smell of him—soggy shoes mixed with dead meat. There was not a slightest hint that he had bathed in the past week, no less the past month. “You’re that hunter boy. The one Mom gets her swans from.”

  Sojourn slicked back his oily black hair. “I’m changin’ me ways, love.”

  “How is she?” I asked, bending down to Ena. I dropped my locket onto the berries and stroked her wing. She twitched in pain, and I withdrew my hand.

  Posy-Kate scowled up at Sojourn. “I don’t like you, boy. I don’t like you one bit. And you smell like socks, in case you didn’t know.”

  “Leave him be, Posy-Kate,” I said. “He’s harmless, if not a touch unpleasant.”

  Posy-Kate crossed her arms and turned her glare to me.

  “What happened to her?” said Darcy, kneeling down to Ena. “And also does she bite? And if so, does it hurt too much to pet her anyway?”

  “Fluffy? Nah, she’s gentle as a lamb,” said Sojourn, kneeling down as well.

  “Fluffy?” I gasped. “You named her Fluffy?”

  Sojourn shrugged. “Have you got a better name?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I have.”

  “Go on, then,” dared Sojourn.

  “Ena,” I replied, tipping up my chin. “Her name is Ena.”

  The swan lifted her head at that, eyes blazing into mine. Her eyes were like a solar eclipse—dark and bright all at once. Sojourn, for once, was speechless, mouth waggling up and down. At last, he managed, “You know.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Know what?”

  Darcy and I waited with stilled lungs as Sojourn simply glanced from me to
the swan and back to me again. Posy-Kate, however, was not as patient. She flourished her hands and burst, “Well, for biscuits and gravy, is anyone going to tell what Finbird’s so smart about?” She flopped down beside me, laying her already mud-stained and twig-cluttered skirt delicately around herself so the berries wouldn’t further mar it.

  Sojourn leaned in close, as if telling a ghost story ’round a campfire. “You know,” he whispered, “’bout them Children of Lir.” I eyed him suspiciously as he added, “You know you’re one of ’em. Admit it, you know.”

  “It—it’s just a story.”

  “Naw,” said Darcy. “Nuh-uh. You said it was real, Finn.”

  I felt my cheeks redden as I stammered, “That was just—that was before, Darcy.”

  “Before what?” said Darcy. “Before we got proof?”

  I shook my head, ash falling to my eyelashes, and breathed, “There is no proof, Darcy.”

  Darcy crossed her arms and stuck out her bottom lip. “That’s the thing about grown-ups—”

  “I’m not a grown-up—”

  “They won’t believe nothin’, even if it’s starin’ them in the face.” She nodded toward the swan that still gazed directly into my eyes. “They’re too afraid of gettin’ their hopes up. Like hope’s such a heavy thing to carry.” Darcy squished a hawthorn berry between her fingers and painted a picture of drippy stars and hearts on her palm. Then, after a minute of silence, she whispered, “But if only they’d pick it up … if only they’d heave that hope onto their back, they’d see it only lifts ’em up instead of draggin’ ’em down. They’d see hope is made of balloon stuff and bird wings. They’d see.”

  The swan laid her head in Darcy’s lap, and she stroked it with berry-inked hands. I fiddled with the shoe-buckle wing tied to my ankle that Darcy had given me all those weeks ago, then turned warily to Sojourn and said, “It can’t be real, Sojourn … can it?”

  “I knew since the moment I saw you in the forest back in Donegal,” said Sojourn. “You’re her. You’re their youngest sister. An’ you know it, love. You’ve known it all your life.”