The Boy of Feathers

July 22^nd, 1908

 

Exhilaration. Rapture. Wonderment. Freedom. I felt all this as I ran through the tall grasses of a wide open field, scaring birds into flight with every step. When I got to where the grass thinned out I simply ran back the other way, breathless and excitable, not caring if my dress caught on brambles or my hair became a snarled mess in the wind. After a few more lengths of the field, during which all manner of field-fowl had been frightened into the air at my approach, I ran to the crest of a nearby hill which looked out over the small town of Veil. Below, young men and women just like me were rejoicing the end of another year at school; the girls would be making plans to go shopping together and have a celebratory picnic, while the boys would play football against neighbouring schools and toast their academic achievements with a drink. I, however, did not want to be one of them. Deep inside I was already tiring of living up to the perfect image my parents had of me, and so despite what Mama would think if she could see me running like a heathen through the fells, I had left my friends behind to be there.

Ava, my carrier pigeon, alighted on my shoulder and began to coo loudly.

“It’s great out here, isn’t it, Ava? I don’t need a new dress or a fancy afternoon tea to make me feel happy. We can celebrate right here for free. They don’t call it freedom for nothing, you know!” I began spinning in circles with my arms wide until I was thoroughly dizzy and blinded by the sunlight overhead. As I staggered about I felt something solid on my shoulder, holding me back.

“Not all liberties come without a price tag, dear thing. Sometimes you’ve got to watch where you step.”

The light male voice came from behind me, and it was only when my vision cleared that I realised I was back in the tall grass; at my feet yawned a large ditch, half full with rainwater. A small nest sat in the shadows, occupied with a clutch of speckled eggs and a startled looking moorhen. Whoever had grabbed my shoulder had saved both me and the moorhen’s precious brood. I turned around �" and gasped.

Standing before me was an angel, or at least a being which resembled images I had seen of angels, for rising majestically from his back were a pair of feathery white wings; the rest of him seemed similarly unearthly. His short crop of hazel hair had been subject to the elements, bleached by the sun and wind-knotted, hanging rebelliously over eyes so pale grey that the iris was little more than a shadow. But the skin shone with a healthy tan across his cheeks and along his skinny arms which emerged from the rolled-up sleeves of a green flannel shirt; the shirt itself was unbuttoned, revealing the slightest contours of muscle across his upper body. I was spellbound for a moment as the wings beat lazily upon his back �" and then took flight, evolving into the form of a barn owl.

“Are you alright?” He met my astounded gaze calmly, brushing his hair off his face to get a better look at me. “I was watching you for a while back there, running all through the grass like a girl possessed. Felt sure you’d fall into one of those holes!”

“I...” Heat began to creep across my cheeks. I didn’t know how to react to this strange boy’s concern for me, “I...I didn’t know they were there.” To escape his scrutiny I turned back to the hole where the moorhen was diligently resting on her eggs, “I certainly wouldn’t have wanted to destroy her eggs.” Surprisingly, the boy agreed.

“I’ve been keeping an eye out for her; won’t be long afore they hatch.”

“Really?” My enthusiasm caught me off guard but he seemed pleased with my response.

“You seem to like birds. That carrier pigeon of yours is definitely in good shape.”

Ava had returned to her perch on my shoulder where she cooed and fidgeted, obviously unsettled by the presence of the barn owl.

“Thank you,” I replied, reaching up to stroke her, “Her name’s Ava. She was a present from my father. He makes and sells violins so he uses her to send messages to his clients. My name’s Louisa, by the way. Louisa Attickus. I live in the town below.”

The boy nodded his approval, taking and raising my hand to his lips. His touch faintly tingled. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Louisa. I’m Talon Lindstrom.” Raising his right arm, I noticed it was wrapped in a thick sleeve of leather. Before I could ask its purpose, Ava had taken off again in fright as the white form of the barn owl swooped back, landing silently on the boy’s arm, “And this is Altair,” he said proudly, “she’s the star of my father’s aviary. My father has a lot of birds, mostly all nest-fallen chicks that he’s raised, but some people bring them to him after they’ve been found injured. I grew up surrounded by their feathery presence.” A reminiscent smile lifted the corners of Talon’s mouth as Altair flapped her vast wings. It was the kind of smile which allowed me, for just a second, to see the little boy he remembered himself to be; to remind myself of the girl I once was.

I flinched at his touch, realising I had been staring at his face while my thoughts took me elsewhere.

“Did you say something?” I asked, blushing deeply.

His smile widened in amusement, “I said, did you want to come see my father’s aviary? It’s a little way through the fields, on the other side of those hills.” He gestured with the arm that held the owl towards a cluster of hills that rose up on my left, “and don’t worry, dear thing, I won’t let you nearly fall in anymore ditches.”

“Are there really that many?”

 Talon simply laughed and began to lead the way through the tall grass, Altair now swaying on his shoulder. I followed the angel boy uncertainly, until he’d warned me of no less than three considerable ditches, each occupied by varying numbers of water birds and their nests, by which point I decided to take the arm he offered. Upon reaching Talon’s home, I was met by a man with the same unearthly grey eyes as him, who I took to be his father, and on whose head and shoulders were perched all manner of small garden birds from dusky blue tits and speckle-breasted young robins, to brilliant crimson bullfinches and minute wrens. On his gloved hand sat an immense black raven with one wing in a sturdy-looking splint.     

“Well this is a pleasant surprise, son. Usually you’re bringing back more casualties of the road, unless she’s been injured too,” the man joked, placing the raven back into a small wire enclosure where it hopped forlornly about.

“Her name’s Louisa. She’s got a real interest in birds, like me, although she was almost a casualty of the hidden ditches in the fields.” Talon chuckled, most likely at the memory of me running about through the fields.

“Does she now?” His father came over to me, bringing his face mere inches from mine. None of the birds seated on him moved; some continued to preen, others shuffled curiously, looking at me with beady black eyes, but none seemed at all perturbed by my nearness. I was, however, quite unsettled by the watery grey eyes of the man in front of me; his forehead furrowed as he scrutinised me, looking for I knew not what. As if sensing my discomfort, a wren on his shoulder started up a shrill tune, hopping onto my shoulder. The man’s eyes creased with a broad smile.

“You’re right, Talon,” he said, “She’s a good u’n.”

After that, I felt as if I’d been accepted not just by Talon’s father but by every bird he owned, and spent as long as humanely possible at the Lindstrom aviary, until I had to run home with the sun threatening to disappear on the autumn horizon. Mama wasn’t happy with me, but by spinning a quick tale of helping a few friends pick out dresses, I pacified her enough to be allowed out again tomorrow.

Talon truly is an amazing boy. I have never met his kind before. So caring, so…mature. I know I’ll get past the peculiar appearance of his eyes soon enough. They remind me a little of Ava’s feathers, soft and warm.