Nightingale

Chapter 8

Fable took her time flying home. She wanted to enjoy this phenomena for as long as she possibly could before re-entering the dull human world again. Nothing in the world could beat flying. "Hope is the thing with feathers!" laughed Fable silently to herself, quoting Emily Dickinson. She glided elatedly over the thatched rooftops of the small cottages of her village, and remarked at how quaint it looked from above. She circled the village a few more times before finally descending onto her window ledge. If she remembered correctly, she had left the small window unlatched so she could use her little beak to gently push it open, and hop in onto the footstool beneath. Everything went as planned. 

Her tiny talons gently tapped and scraped at the wooden floor as she shuffled about trying to find the right spot to transform back into a human girl. Fable ruffled her feathers in preparation and closed her eyes tightly. Change me back! - she commanded. When she opened her eyes, she was completely transformed: kneeling in front of the mirror – fully clothed! Now I wish I had my eyes open – thought Fable, who desperately wanted to know what this magical process looked like. At least she could be comfortable in the knowledge that there would be no embarrassing nakedness involved in this process. "What considerate magic you are!" chuckled Fable out loud, staring into the mirror at her same old self. Changing into a bird was weird. Fable could only compare it to that strange, intermediary stage between wakefulness and sleep – that odd temporality where you cannot remember at which point you drifted or when you were last awake. The process of transitioning was like stepping into a void – once you were a bird, it was like you were never human. It was magical. Dream-like. Being a girl again was sobering and bland. Fable rummaged about in her school bag and suddenly brandished her poetry anthology. Only Keats could come anywhere close to understanding...

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell

To toll me back from thee to my sole self!

Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well

As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf.

Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades

Past the near meadows, over the still stream,

Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep

In the next valley-glades:

Was it a vision, or a waking dream?

Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?

Mr Hudson had no idea what an effect this poem was having on her life right now. She finally understood its value. It was true. Only poetry could come close to representing her superior experience as a nightingale right now. As a bird, she felt immortal and free. Nobody could touch her. It was another dimension. She never expected how it would make her feel. Fable began to tear up. She wished she could have this power forever, but knew it had to end – in only two weeks! She had barely even thought about Mr Hudson in this time! She had been far too busy just learning about herself and her powers. It was important she didn't lose herself in the magic and remembered to focus on why she was doing this – or who, she was doing this for...