The bird slowly began to become less distraught. For days it had been whispering in a strained voice. For days it had ceased to sing.
One night they arrived in a lightly wooded forest populated with young green ferns and red-barked trees. A brook tumbled joyfully past, spraying mist into the air. The deepness of night began to reflect in the water.
Stars appeared, one by one.
The woman broke off low-hanging limbs to help make a fire. As she got to work, the bird fluffed its feathers and glanced around it. A solitary whistle escaped its beak, represented in solid form by a hovering dewdrop.
The woman smiled and the spark caught. Soon the fire was flickering quietly beside them as they curled down in the moss to sleep, the stars shining above.
This is what it is to be happy, the woman thought. I am present. I am safe.
(
The next morning, the fire was nothing but an ashen ring.
Something flashed in her mind when she saw the remains, something hot and severe, but the woman ignored it. She stirred and rubbed her eyes, assuming it was a sign of an approaching headache.
The forest was even cheerier in the early yellow light. The brook laughed and the air sang under its breath. A mysterious floral perfume emanated from the heart of the woods, and the playful breeze carried a swarm of pink petals from some faraway clearing.
Stay here, her mind coaxed. This is the Perfect Place!
Perfection isn't a real thing, her cynicism retorted.
But this place feels like joy itself, her mind said. There are trees for the bird to sleep in, and a brook to drink from.
No, keep running, something inside her head said. You have to. You can't stay still. What if the fear finds you again? If you stay, the Viper will come, you'll shiver and shake and collapse and tug out your hair. Leave. This forest is the hook, and you are the fish. Your lip is bleeding, but you can still manage to swim away before you're pulled out of the water.
She shook her head to silence the clamor of her thoughts. They were much too dramatic. She called for the bird. In the tree above came a flutter of wings, and the bird touched down on her shoulder. She would go where it wanted to.
"What do we do?" the woman queried.
The bird cocked its head and trilled. Out from its beak wove a purple loom of music that banded in little rings to create a mountain. Things proceeded to grow out of the loom—vague spires, amethyst trees, other birds with modest plumage, and a single word: Follow.
The bird unfurled its wings and tilted its head to the brook.
YOU ARE READING
Aeolia
General FictionA woman runs from everything. A songbird joins her from nowhere, singing colors and images. A whisperer finds the pair among a field of poplars and graves. A dark and vicious viper stalks them from deep in the earth. They must flee from the Viper...