The Robin On The Cherry Tree

The Start

(Set in 1864, the year in which the Democrats and Republicans of America waged war- a manor house was kept secret).

"When I stepped out into the bright sunlight from the darkness of the movie house, I had only two things on my mind: Paul Newman and a ride home."

"Bullshit." I got interrupted. I peaked up from the worn book and scowled at the interrupter, or dead man, as I had thus christened him.

The boy was the snobbish type. He had short cropped blonde hair with a half- hazard tuft at the front. His pig brown eyes shadowed by furrowed eyebrows and a mouth I would rather see closed. He never closed his mouth. He always breathed orally, as if his flat nose never existed. It might as well not have existed, it was so flat. If I were not as respectable, I would have dubbed him Lord Voldemort a long time ago.

"I haven't even finished the first page and you are already judging it. Give the book a chance and shut up." I snapped, snapping the book wide open so that the already fraying spine kneeled backwards easily. Pig Snout shot me the stink eye and proceeded to remain silent.

"When I stepped out into the bright sunlight-" I started again to annoy the boy further, however thundering footsteps paused my fluent jabber. Footsteps of the sizes 3 and 4 travelled down the corridor above us and stampeded down the old dark wooden stairs. The 15th century old heavy door creaked open as fast as it and four spindly arms could allow and proceeded to authorise two little girls of five and six, both in 19th century spring dresses that allowed those size 3 and 4 white croquet shoes to poke through almost delicately, like newly sprung ballet dancers, despite the noise they expel, to pass through.

They tiptoed through, as if treading on petals, but their eyes however, held the roaring waves of the Atlantic, experiencing swash buckling battles between pirates and nobles.

"Crissy, Chris! Alice brought a man!"

"A man?"

"Yes, Crissy a man!"

This was preposterous. A fable at best. No man of age had ever set foot in this manor and grounds in over three hundred years. Pranksters they were not; I could not help but believe this to be one of their imaginary games. Ones that included deep stories of the North and bounding bliss from the East. However, if what they say is true, I would never hear the end of it. I humoured them. I fastidiously closed the near broken book, nearly breaking it beyond damage, and ushered the spring daisies to where this 'man' was being kept in.

"If this is a joke in which you were pressured into, I will have you and the main culprit spending your time in the kitchens." I warned, quite perplexed as to why I had not dismissed their alarming stories.

"I told you she would say that." Kishy whispered loudly, enough for me to hear. She nudged her older sister and nodded as if she knew all the secrets of the grounds. She was smaller, younger, more delicate than the starlight hair upon her youthful face (sunshine hair curled and up, with springing tendrils framing their porcelain faces, looking like swirls on rock candy), however, she acted as the voice of the two and although her mouth ran away with her at the best of times, she was much too mature for someone of her age.

Her older sister, even more so adult than the girls who hit puberty. Even at the age of six her fine face held a sharp taste, an edge that let on that she had seen more than she could possibly take. We all stand quiet when she decides to speak, for her words and baritone voice released more wisdom than the ancient beings only revealed within the most sacred of books. Charlotte of six and Charlosse of five. The latter a rare name, however, their mother was... original.

"We promise you, Miss, Alice brought a man! He is most injured that Alice held fear that he may die, although I told her otherwise. But she has not listened and dragged him to the infirmary." Kishy insisted. She rose on her tiptoes and straightened her arms at her sides. They were just spread apart, quite subtle, but I could not help but be reminded of a bird. A robin, to be precise. My Robin.

He was a funny little bird. Such a rouge chest with grandeur stance. He could fight any American Eagle to save our delicate hides. Like a guardian, he would stand to attention on his specific branch of our Cherry tree, just high enough to see all levels of the front manor, keeping guard of any intruders. He would not go near us. Any closer than he desired, and he would be off like the wind: uncatchable. Nevertheless, he brought me comfort, and sometimes I would sit on the highest step in the front porch and stare at my little Robin. And he would stare back. A whole world of conversations cascaded between us for endless amounts of time. He was my protector, my closest friend, and the closest I'll ever be to the outside world.