ONE:
a discovery
Edna
put her nose to the earth and took a long sharp sniff through her snout. Her
pink palms placed flat against the stones of the seaside bluffs, green moss
hugging her digits as she took another sniff. She took a step forward, her bent
knees carrying her legs over small crags, and her equally pink toes gripping
them as she moved. Behind her, her tail maneuvered in the high wind, balancing
her body as it attempted to shift to and fro through the force of the gusts. But
she was undeterred, even as the world far below the rocks seemed miles away,
and sharp edges protruded out to decimate anyone unlucky enough to lose
footing. But she was not one of them.
Nature had blessed her opossum ancestry with agile and
dense limbs, a tail able to control her direction, and support her weight, a
fifth limb, like her hands and feet built to grip, hold, tighten, like an extra
finger produced out the middle of her backside. She was too intent on her sense
of smell giving her clues to something new, that old genetic gift, allowing her
to detect the faintest shift in sent. Proud to have these genetic gifts. Many
of her kind had abandoned basic instincts, the basic usages of their tails, and
toes, and olfactory senses, and had been content to seek assistance through
tools. It was taught that way, to abandon unnecessary evolutionary gifts,
because tools and gadgets had gifted all beings the ability to do whatever they
needed.
Her tribe had held on to the old ways. Edna was a little
troubled with the knowledge that her home was one of solitude, a place stuck in
time. The island nation of Yori was home to many opossum tribes, but where
others had chosen to grow with time, and engage with outsiders, and be lured
into notions of industry, her tribe had chosen to ignore this progress. The old
ways were the right ways, and yet Edna felt a constant curiosity all her life.
Soon she’d be free to pursue the trials and graduate into adulthood with the
allure of forging her own path, but as of now she was stuck obeying the
overseer, the council and her parents. She couldn’t remember the last time the
nation of Yori had convened together, when all six tribes had met in one place.
On occasion a trader would come by, selling wares, and spreading gossip, but
they were never permitted to stay.
Edna had taken solace on the seaside, upon the bluffs.
Her home away from home. A place to escape the talk of marriage rituals, and
responsibility, a place to escape the questions she wanted to ask, the way she
wanted to break free from the constant restraints that the tribe put upon her.
When the time came for her to forge her own life, she knew she wanted to leave,
wanted to go beyond Yori, wanted to sail the ocean, to see the ships dock in
the harbors in the neighboring village.
Fourteen
years ago, when she was but a little sprout, her fur growing in patches on her
pink skin, she remembered gawking at the vessels that took to shore, the
rabbits, and dog species exchanging chit chat. Whenever she saw the Yori
caravans pass by her village, she remembered the ships, so much bigger,
carrying so many trinkets unique to the outside world.
Eventually, the ships stopped. For fourteen years. The
village elders had said it was good, that contact with the outside world led to
bad habits, picked up through the rough and blasphemous lives of the outsiders.
Lessons taught by the fox, or cat, were not lessons needed to be taught to the
world of opossums. She had heard tales of war, battles between mighty eagles,
and chameleons. Tales of species able to conquer and take advantage of the wind,
soaring on mighty wings, and others, able to camouflage and infiltrate other
nations, and uproot them from the inside. Her older brother had filled her head
with a multitude of tales, before he had departed the village, banished, for
mocking the tribe’s ways. Gray, her big brother, hadn’t been around for five
years, and she had to eventually find her own ways to curiosity.
Visiting other tribes was out of the question. Not alone.
Until you were of age you were required to stay with the confines of invisible
borders drawn out on maps. A signpost along the road that branched in six
different directions warned of unlawful departure, fines, punishments. As much
as Edna wanted to see the world, she could wait. Only one month to go.
All the efforts of the world seemed to be there to stem
the curiosity of the young. The nation of Yori was set in its ways, every tribe
content in itself, but her own, the only one more isolated than the nation
itself. That outsiders had come in on ships in the first place was a surprise
to many, and it was bad mouthed, and rebuked at every possible avenue. When
young adult opossums started volunteering for service, to travel away from the
safe confines of Yori, that was when the murmurs grew louder. The threat of the
outsiders, poisoning the mind of the young, stealing them away, selling them on
stories of adventure and then selling them into lives of servitude, or worse,
saving them as midnight snacks.
The bluffs were the only place Edna felt secure to think
freely, as though her parents, and the overseer, and the council of elders
might read her mind. After all, Gray had been so careful in his telling of
adventures stories, in the quietest of whispers always making sure the coast
was clear of prying ears, and yet they somehow had found out. No, Edna couldn’t
take that chance, out here the winds blocked everything, the sound of her claws
gripping to the moistened stones, those subtle cracks, the labored breaths as
the air got thinner. The winds whistling bounced off into the atmosphere and
masked her dreaming from any spying eyes.
Then, on this day, she had caught something on the wind.
Like a message sent by a brush of wind that sailed into her nasal cavity, her
mind recognizing something that it did not recognize. The unfamiliar scent had
started on a flat rock top, and had sputtered out over the points of rocks, as
though bouncing from one surface to another. Even Edna with her gripping tail
and toes had trouble navigating the thin, pointed, slime covered rocks, but
she’d managed to follow the trail to another peak. A point she hadn’t ever
dared climb to before, and then the scent stopped.
She stood back onto her feet, scraped the wetness of her
hands against the fabric of her trousers and scanned back and forth across the
horizon. Her nose stuck out in the air, she closed her eyes to pinpoint her
senses, as if canceling out one sense might accentuate the others, but she
could not locate the scent again. It was a smell of something alive, but not a
plant, something that had a hint of iron like blood in it, but something else
that she couldn’t quite place. Having no luck, she moved her eyes back to the
horizon, squinting concentrating through the light fogs that permanently coated
the bluffs.
Down toward the crashing shore, on the beach, being
encroached upon by the tide was a figure, unmoving, barely discernable through
the haze. She peered awhile, notions of fear taught her by her instructors,
family, and counselors sat upon her mind. It was not her place to investigate,
surely those more suited to a task, and whatever danger it might warrant should
come and see who or what that being was down there, and her foot shifted to
retreat. And as she moved, she thought of that blood smell, the thought of a
wound, of dying, of death and against her better judgement, she moved down the
cliff face toward the figure.
To her own surprise she descended with great velocity,
her toes and fingers proving more agile and capable than she had ever thought
as she leapt her way down, point by point, little by little. Occasionally she
felt a slipping in her grip, but she pounced to the next point till the rocks
flattened out into a straight vertical drop. The drop off rushed to her, and
she had but a moment to respond, gripping tighter, sliding off into the curved
edges of the top of the ledge, and her feet kept her secure, locked against the
edge of the bluff.
Edna had realized how quick her heart had been racing,
how hard, the intensity banging drumbeats inside her body. With one hand barely
gripped to the rocks, she placed the other hand, palm out on her chest, letting
the pulses reverberate against herself. All at once the sound of the sea
beating against the beaches raced up to her, the whistles of wind coming to
odds with the immovable rock faces. The weathered smooth stone underneath
evidence of the violence the sea could commit when it was battered by the
weather. She looked up to the sky, and could not see the sun, the dense fog
shifting in position to settle above her.
With trepidation she poked her head out over the edge,
straining her neck. There was a slight curvature to the bluff wall, but it
would be risky to trust it, to slide down it, risky but not impossible. Edna
cast her sight left to right, checking how far the obstacle of the drop ran on
for, and it seemed to run on infinitely in either direction. As if remembering
what drove her to such a foolish predicament she looked about for the figure,
her heart settling, returning to steadied beats, she focused her eyes, and saw
it, small, being kissed by the tide as it moved inward. The body shifted with
the pulling of the water, it wouldn’t be long before the gripping reach of sea
water pulled the being into its depths, tossing it out into the infinite to be
lost.
But perhaps the figure was already lost. Dead. Edna
recalled the scent of blood, the iron lifeforce that had drifted up into her
nostrils and warned her of the danger. The impending loss of life. Perhaps, she
thought, perhaps this figure is gone from this world. Free to travel up to the
sky gods and be free of whatever suffering had befallen it. Her thoughts
settled into this but a moment, her body wanting to retreat and crawl back up
the rock faces. It would be a tough climb, but not near as dangerous as the idea
of sliding down the drop off.
However, she kept her footing, her eyes cast back down to
the shoreline. The tiny being trying to be stolen by nature, to a watery grave.
Even if dead, did it not deserve burial rights, to be treated as a living
thing. Just because it was not of her tribe, she felt a guilt in her bones at
the notions she had considered, even if for a fleeting moment. She once again
considered the cliff face.
With one foot holding her in place, she took the other
and felt the wall beneath her. She stretched out a leg, angled her foot, and
extended her toes as though she were out on the docks with Gray and the water
was ice cold. Smooth, like the flesh of her nose, the wall appeared free of
crags, and protrusions, at least in her small space, and with another crane of
her neck she squinted her way down its length and could not see any
obstructions that would hinder her way down. She took a deep breath and risked
two legs over the wall. She had to be careful, had to hug the wall as best she could,
had to control her descent or risk being flung from the surface or to find
herself pelted and crushed under the velocity of her fall. At the bottom, the
sand might have been fine and soft, although coarse to the touch, or as it
slipped through the spaces in her fingers, but she knew collectively it was as
tough as any solid rock, would not break her fall, but only break her.
One more breath, and she let herself go over. The descent
was quick, sudden, the ground removed, and gravity taking its charge. Edna felt
the stone grow warm under her feet, under her open hands, the velocity of the
friction generating heat, but she kept her feet planted, her knees bent, she
braced the wall as best she could and tried to find some semblance of control.
And then, she was there. At the bottom.
It was fast, the descent, she felt her right foot impact
hard into the side of the bottom of the rock face, toes curled, and then
cracked. Her other foot landing heavy and flat into the sand, and she was sent
barreling over herself into the dirt, her broken foot in the air. She hugged
her knee with one arm and grabbed at her foot with the free hand trying to pull
it closer to her face to inspect the damage.
A gash formed at the base of her toes, deep red clogging
up already, and covered in dirt. The pain was pushing through her, but she
inspected each of her toes from right to left, and when she came to the thumb
on her foot, for opossums special have them there, she noticed it fell lopsided
to what its original position would have been, as if disconnected, dislocated,
or broken.
Edna dropped her head back into the sand. She giggled to
herself, looked back over her head at the base of the wall and followed it up
with her upside-down view, and giggle with absurdity that she survived the
fall. With her pink hands she reached down her abdomen to a slit in her blouse,
and into her pouch, another genetic gift, and took out a cloth wrapping. As she
untied it, she revealed the bundle of boiled grasshoppers she had intended to
snack on as she watched the tide come in. She popped a couple in her mouth
before letting the other ones go to waste in the spaces next to her.
As she cracked the insect exoskeletons in her teeth and
savored the soft insides on her tongue, she took the cloth and wrapped it
around her wounded foot. Edna pulled it as tight as she comfortably could, the
fabric absorbing the blood, pushing the sands into her wound that made her
grimace in pain. For now, it would have to do, until the herbalist could clean
it and give her a tonic. The thumb she figured would have to stay as it was,
such as it was.
With a push Edna rolled herself over to her belly, bent
her good leg and found her grip, using her hands to push herself up to a
standing position. Ahead of her the figure laid floating a bit in the coming
tide, being pulled further out to the sea.
After hobbling several feet to the body, she reached a
hand down to grab its arms, but pulled away quickly. She shook off the brief
moment of panic, and reached down again, taking the feathered arm into her grip
and pulling the body away from the water. Back in the spaces of safety she
rolled the body over, and a beaked face looked up at her. A young face. A
child. A bird. The small round eyes looked pleading; the beak opened and closed
loosing sea water that had snuck inside to dribble out on the earth. The bird
was alive. A sparrow child.
“Hi there.” Edna said, as if speaking to an infant, she
placed a hand to her chest, “I’m Edna. I’m going to help you.”
The sparrow seemed to speak, it blinked. As Edna bent
down to pick it up the sparrow child let out a scream, strange to have come out
of such a broken creature, tired, dying. Edna stopped trying to lift it a
moment, apologizing profusely, and pulled up the wing closest to her, amongst
the brown of the feathers, a tinge of crimson red, thick and clogged was
evidenced in the pit of the arm.
“I’m sorry but I need to carry you,” Edna whispered as
she bent down again, set to cradle the small sparrow in her arms, and for a moment
the screams went out, the bird trying to flail loose, but the opossum held on
tightly, eventually, exhausted the sparrow went silent, limp in Edna’s arms.
Edna felt the tiny chest rise and fall, promising that life still existed,
lungs working, heart beating. And she moved along the shoreline, toward the
port town of Warren, closest, but promising a chastising from her own Natori
tribe.
Edna didn’t care, there was life in her hands, and she
intended to see it preserved.
Edna
found that the pain in her foot had gradually subsided, for what seemed like
hours she had hobbled along carrying the sparrow child in her arms,
occasionally placing full weight in the sands of the beach. The bluffs began to
shrink down alongside her, descending until the vanished into foothills and
then beneath the dirt. A forest of evergreen trees waiting for their absence,
strong, towering, brightly lit by a sky clear of fog. The foot was numb, paralyzed,
she felt the drag of her limp appendage behind her, making the weight of the
young bird even more unbearable, but she soldiered on to her own surprise.
If Gray had been around now, she would have thrown in
comment defending her strength, a strength he had doubted she had for as long
as she could remember. He was never blatantly rude, but she recognized the disbelief
in her brothers’ responses when she boasted of her own abilities on the same
level as his own. She doubted that he had ever carried a wounded being across
miles of beach sand, and pine needle laced forests before. It was her small victory
and the only witness to it was groaning comatose in her arms.
No doubt by now her father would be furiously waiting for
her to wander in after curfew. The sun already setting on the horizon, the
promise of darkness, the promise of a stern talking to, an evening with no
dessert of lemon cookies. It wasn’t as though she were up to no good, the
punishments seemed overkill, if anything her wandering off into the mountains,
and exploring the beaches should be commended. It was private, no chance of
outsiders influencing her mind, stealing her away from her homestead. If only,
she thought, how she’d love a bit of misbehavior to break up the monotony of
her days.
The body in her arms hadn’t been the sort of rebellion
she had hoped for, but she hoped her father might commend her for saving a
life, maybe her mother would cushion the rebuke by remarking on what a good
hearted being they had raised. But even then, she doubted it. Surely they would
challenge her with a number of what ifs scenarios that could have befallen her:
what if it had turned out to be a rabid fox being, snarling and mad in the
head, seeking to devour a young opossum, what if it had been a trap of slavers,
and they were waiting somewhere nearby with nets, and cages to box her up in,
what if the bird had been dead, and a storm took to throwing the sea at her,
breaking her body against the bluff walls.
That none of those things came to pass wouldn’t matter.
They would only be thinking of how it could have gone wrong. She felt no
worries though of her own conscience, she had in her mind, done the right
thing. Knowing that someone was suffering, and dying, and choosing not to act
seemed to Edna to be the worst possible decision one could commit.
After what seemed like millions of pine needles crackling
and prodding into her bare feet Edna came upon the port of Warren. Through the
trees the lumber framed houses, light brown with pine, reinforced with red oak
showed their roofs, and windows, their stilted legs that creeped into the tide
waters, elevated walkways connecting a number of homesteads to the market, and
auction houses. She pushed herself through the final brush that blocked her
from the seashore and collapsed to her knees. She tried to keep the sparrow in balance
in her arms, but felt herself go lightheaded, and weak, and she fell sidelong
with the bird going with her, Edna’s own body breaking the poor things fall.
From somewhere nearby Edna heard the whispered gossip of
young opossums, children, echoes of worry and apprehension. She raised her hand
up in the air, waving at those she could not see, and she announced, “We need
help, get a doctor, find some adults please.” When she heard the voices depart
in the distance, she was satisfied her request had been heard and obeyed, she
lowered her arm beside herself. Edna lifted her chin, looking at her foot, raising
it in the air, and she could make out with blurred vision that the bandage was
smothered in her blood.
As she felt herself start to fall unconscious, she waved
her arm over to her side where the sparrow had fallen and found her hand to its
chest. It raised and fell still, barely, but barely was better than not at all,
and Edna felt safe enough to let the sleep overtake her and she passed out
there beside her anonymous friend.
No comments:
Post a Comment