‘And In Them Are Spirits’ by Priya Rohella
I couldn’t stop my tears from falling, or control my runny nose. He was my best friend after all, the reason to leave my bedroom - to explore the woods on my doorstep.
I remember the day I found him, chirping and nestling inside a bundle of leaves. His nest was somewhere up there, in the mess of tangled canopies and branches thick with moss. One of my slippers fell off while I climbed with him tucked into my hood. I must have looked so daft – a hoodie on backwards, with my dad’s old slippers on, I had squashed raspberries in my pocket. It looked like I’d been shot.
It didn’t matter though – I had returned him to his nest. I’ll never forget how he turned his head and had his beak slightly ajar – pulling the type of face I’d make when I was waiting for mum to finish making supper. I brought the raspberry mush from my pocket and dribbled some into his mouth. He blinked a lot, but took it. He sure was energetic.
I never did get rid of him. Every morning I’d open my window and find him there. One day he brought me a stone, other days two pence pieces or freshly picked rowan berries from the forest. Every day he came, and every day he got bigger, less fluffy. We became each other’s reason to venture out from our nests – together we were adventurers. Mum said he was a juvenile like me. I remember being so glad he was.
I went to the forest again, like I always did. My dad was already there with a shovel. On the ground he lay - his pitch-black feathers pulled out beside him.
“A cat got him, juveniles can get careless sometimes.”
My dad said. On the day we buried him, I didn’t cry. My tears refused to fall with my dad sweating with a shovel in hand, with my mother running over with a scarf, with his cold eyes staring up at me, beak ajar.
Now I sit here, turning over the stone he gave me through my fingers, bottom wet on dead leaves, tears and snot mixing on my face.
Mum said that when something dies, its spirit stays to finish any last wishes - after that...? Thinking about it didn’t make me feel any better, all I know is I had no reason to leave my room again – he was gone.
I wipe my nose with the back of my sleeve and lay a twig of rowan berries on his grave. When I look up again I see shimmering particles in the air – the forest’s oxygen. I watch with wide eyes as a feather descends between the shining dust. It spins slowly from the canopy, drifting straight into my hands. The forest settles as quickly as it came alive, and though the feather is a void of black, there are twinkling specks on it, a whole galaxy inside.
One last tear falls before I let myself smile.
Priya Rohella wrote this story in response to the prompt A Taste Of Freedom, as part of July’s Just Write! short story competition.
