Where the Birdies Fly

Milo rubbed his eyes desperately, as if trying to erase the vision. Nightmares seem harrowingly authentic when they are based on your own reality. Momma said that he had witnessed what no human should witness, certainly not an innocent boy, and that’s why his mind plagued him so morbidly. His short breaths became deeper and a familiar comforting sound dismissed the echo of screaming. As if attentive to Milo’s distress, the swallow was singing a soothing tune from his usual resting tree, drawing Milo to the window.

The solitary but loyal bird lifted his red chin and revealed his white belly as he arched his wings to fly. Milo watched in admiration as the morning broke; from the peak of the sun growing out of the horizon until it topped the tips of the swallow-singing tree. In the air, heavy with humidity, the bird danced, seemingly as light as a grain of sand puffed up by a weightily trodden foot.

“Where does the birdie go when it’s not here?” Milo asked Momma, recently awoken.

“Europe,” she replied, “British birds they are. Only here for their holiday.”

“Britain? That’s where we’re going isn’t it, Momma? Why? Why do we have to leave?”

“It’s better there…”

The strained silence cleared Momma’s fog of sleep. As she turned, her eyes lay upon her young son: dust battered feet swinging from the windowsill, taut skin over his meagre limbs and his jovial face twisted into a confused stare.

“Come here boy,” Momma cooed. Milo ran to her, curling himself up on her lap. “You’re going to love our new home, I promise. You’ll get to go to school. We’ll live in a nice house. And, most importantly, we won’t have to be scared. The bad men won’t be able to get to us.”

“Will Daddy be there?”

“No, Milo, I’m sorry.” With the exhalation of a deep sigh she murmured, “The bad men have already got Daddy.”

“But the birdies will be there. We’ll be just like them!” Momma compensated, lifting Milo up from under his arms so they spread out like bird wings. “Travelling across all the oceans and deserts and cities to get to Britain,” she hawked as Milo giggled and kicked his legs as if trying to launch himself into the sky.

In excited anticipation, Milo imagined a bird’s journey; over the huts of the village and across the blue of the sea. Sometimes, Milo would dream of the birdie flying closer and closer then straight through the window. Its claws would grab Milo’s shoulders and lift him higher and higher, further and further.

When the day of their journey finally arrived, the birdy didn’t come to pick him up, although Milo would have much preferred that over the walking he had to endure. He could always spot the black winged, red chinned, white bellied birds up above or in a tree. “We’re coming,” Milo would whisper, “We’re coming too!”

Milo knew they were going far away but he hadn’t expected it to take so long. When they finally reached the sea Milo was slightly disappointed: it wasn’t as blue as he had expected. The distant mass on the other side didn’t look very friendly to Milo; neither did the boats or the commanding men or the shoving bodies desperate to board the precarious old boat. Sensing Milo’s uncertainty Momma tightened her grip on him, although the boat was packed so tightly they couldn’t be any closer.

Milo began to panic as they floated further and further away from anything he was familiar with, everything turned blue. “Don’t look around,” Momma advised him, “look up to the birds. You can see them flying, dancing, all the way.” Milo did as he was told, concentrating on the black wings, red chins and white bellies and imagining that he was up there with them under their tight claws.

But the more he stared the darker the sky became; the frothing white of the clouds mimicking the frothing white of the increasingly violent sea. Suddenly, Milo didn’t know why or how, but everything started to tip and turn and swirl with the screams of terror. Even Momma was whispering a horrified “No”.

Milo looked into her eyes, pleading for an explanation but she said nothing. She only stroked the back of his head as rhythmically as the sea foaming up into the peaks of waves. Then Momma dropped from beneath him and they smashed into the relentless turmoil of the sea. His salt-water infected eyes could barely see Momma but he could feel her grip around his waist holding him above the surface. The mass on the horizon seemed further away than ever. Milo’s gangling legs were weakening under the pull of the sea and his upper lip was barely keeping afloat.

Then he was grabbed by the shoulders, high; as high in the sky as the birdies fly. The animosity of the sea dripping off his wrecked body as Milo was lifted into another boat. Too terrorised to focus on any of his surroundings, he only dared look up at his loyal guardians above. “I’m coming too,” he chanted before drifting into unconsciousness.

Milo peered out the window towards the birds in the tree, trying to forget the confines of the walls and the wails of those packed tightly around him. Momma said there wouldn’t be any bad men. Momma said they would be looked after. Momma said they would be alright. But to Milo this didn’t seem true. He couldn’t ask Momma. Milo couldn’t find her. “Maybe she’s with Daddy,” he thought.

All Milo knew was he wanted to be up where the birdies fly.