Caged Bird Act 2

Perhaps she was looking too hard. But if anyone was keen, it certainly wasn’t her. It was the dark stranger who smelled like the earth. The one who skimmed his lips over her neck like he couldn’t bear to bite it. But Circe, Dove almost wanted his mouth on her, she wanted his gentle touch and nothing more in this moment. Just the moon and the earth.

A hand covered Dove’s mouth as he went in for her throat, slowly, silently. She felt his mouth on her and couldn’t help but let out a noise as she felt his teeth sink into her. Not painfully, not hard. The feeling of his touch, however, was almost overwhelming. He lifted his head, licking his teeth. His eyes flashed. She could have sworn they looked yellow in this light. Though weren’t they dark red only moments ago? Their eyes were locked, the yellow from the man’s eyes enveloped her, and she lost consciousness. Dropping into a dark red dream. Smelling the earth, damp and sweet.

But Dove didn't sleep. Her mind felt crushed, but her body fizzed and thrummed. Her neck. He’d bitten her neck. What was in his teeth, poison?

Dove almost laughed. A werewolf. There was a werewolf here. He was here because of her father’s fucking legislations.

Then Dove heard it. Tinkling. The soft chime of a, what was it? A fairy? A bell? A bell was ringing softly. Dove blinked herself out of the fog that had clouded her brain. The man was gone. Perhaps he’d been a ghost. Dove’s heart still threatened to burst from her ribcage. She stood, her head feeling full of lead. That bell, that sound. She had to find it. Where was it coming from? Dove followed the narrow corridor of the inn, down the oaken steps, and through the glass door into the small garden. It was small, but a cobbled path led into a thicket of rose bushes. White and black. The petals drooped, staining the floor. The bell tingled again; Dove’s head turned towards the sound. Red lightning left scars across the sky, and Dove felt a strange wave of Deja vu, before the smell hit her again. It was warm. She began to sweat. It was so warm, she could feel the sweat in her hair, drenching her clothes. It was so hot there was a mixture of thickness, a net covering her face. There was too much light, but it wasn’t red this time. The moonlight. An inn. A small bedroom in an inn. That's where she was. In the darkness. Alone.

Dove gasped and realised she had been wrestling her sheets. She sat upright in her bed, clutching her red-hot face. A nauseous pit began to grow in her stomach, sleep clouded her eyesight. She had been dreaming. She wasn’t in her house either. She wasn’t in her room. She was somewhere strange, somewhere on her own. Completely on her own. The curtain fluttered with the breeze, and Dove felt a sharp twang in her chest. Fear? She couldn’t tell anymore. The man she had dreamed of came swimming back in her mind. His touch had felt so real she could swear there were fingerprints on her. From the events of the night before, to the fear of being alone had certainly taken a toll on Dove. Something deep in her mind was manifesting itself. Dove couldn't help but want to search under her bed, inside the wardrobe, the entire inn. Was that shadow of a man real? What if he was still here? What if there was a reason that he came to her? The bed was still too warm, the room suddenly too small, the smell of lavender gone, and tiredness completely erased. Dove was out of her room, black robe on, with nothing but a candle. Her second adventure of the night it felt. What were these beastly men doing, haunting Dove Levany? Why was she so convinced this stranger was real? She had woken up, feverish, alive, feeling like she could fly away again at any moment. Dove had gotten good at escaping. She had gotten good at surviving, hadn’t she?

Dove took the old, cobbled steps into the garden at the back of the inn. In the still, crisp night, she could pretend it was haunted. She could ghost-hunt and catch fairies. She tried to breathe in the night air, tried to rub away the memory of the dream. Warm hands and sharp teeth.

Should have brought my paints out.

A bell tingled. Dove froze. Blood was pulsing in her ears, as she strained, listening for another sound. The silence was torture. The silence was beckoning, the dark garden was almost inviting her in. But where was that bell? Why had she heard it in her dream? Had that even been a dream? Her room was too far to hear such a noise from all the way out here. The tingle echoed in her mind, she felt pulled to the shadows of the trees and bushes below her. An owl cooed overhead, a flutter of wings and branches. There was a large rosebush, bigger than the rest, that sat proudly at the end of the garden. Forget-me-nots, daisies and strawberry bushes lined the old, bricked wall, joining the beautiful roses in the picturesque display of colour. Dove almost felt like she’d stepped into a portrait. She could almost feel her own brushstrokes, painting falling sparks from the sky, scarlet and poisoned. She moved through the garden, bare feet on the silky grass. There was a thickness in the air, like moving would break an enchantment hanging over Dove’s head. She held the candle out, illuminating the shadows of the twisted trees that huddled around the inn. The garden now seemed to stretch out for miles, an illusion of light and darkness. She felt safe in the cover of the garden. The bell echoed in her head. But she knew it wasn’t real. Dreams and reality were often blurred. Feeling like a Carroll character, Dove wandered down into the brambles and bushes, noting the roses could possibly be painted red instead of white. She reached a red, carved bench nestled between the spikes of the rosebushes, almost creating the illusion of a throne and crown. Dove’s arm rippled with goosebumps, feeling a thin wave of recollection. She was drawn to the roses, her hand moved over them. Her hand burned for the touch of petals; their glow tempted the burn of thorns. Without realising she’d curled her hand around the stem, she yanked her arm back, feeling blood trickle from the pinprick already. Soft splatters of blood drops fell to the grass below, staining the greenery with dark scarlet, exaggerated by the crescent moon. She sucked her finger, tasting the tang of blood until the small cut bled no more.

Dove summoned more light as her magic danced through her fingertips, then with a faint push, her paint and canvas whizzed through the air, neatly plopping onto her lap. She couldn’t help herself, she had to paint. Had to paint out the dazzling stranger that clung to her brain like smoke. The stranger, the monster, waiting in the dark. Dove worked under the softness of the moon’s gaze, soothed by the buzzing of fireflies and sounds of the city around her. The colour of his eyes was near impossible to recreate. Maroon, scarlet, crimson, carmine? None of these quite matched the shade of red Dove had never seen before. She wanted to be buried in that colour. Drowned in it. Her attempts soon bored her, paints almost forgotten. She watched the trees squirm and wave under the murky light. Dove imagined them moving, walking around when nobody could see them. She’d like to see that. She’d like to be in on the secret. Dove looked around her at the countless thorns prickling from every direction. She then waved her hand, as they slowly detached themselves from the stems and branches. A circle of thorns appeared in front of her, almost mimicking a little monster in the shadows. With the flick of her fingers (and a couple flames thrown) she attempted to make a piece of artwork out of it. Perhaps the shape of a person, or a huge crown. She could be queen of this garden, just for one night. That'll be a secret the trees can keep for her. They’ll never tell (except on a windy night, perhaps. They tend to get chatty).

Dove let her thoughts run away with her. She had remembered a story once, about a tale carried by the trees. Something about a dead owl.

Snap.

A sudden crunch shattered the bubble Dove had crammed herself into. Startled, she tried to breathe quieter, attempting to hear another sound. It was probably just a bird flying off a branch. The sound of a foot crunching leaves mere yards from her quickly disregarded this thought.

Dove straightened up, almost losing her brush to the dark floor beneath her.

There was silence, the only sound she could hear was the battering thump of her heart pulsing through her body. Then, a bell rang. It rang through Dove’s skull like a gong. The thorns collapsed to the ground, unassembled. Forgotten.

She was not alone. She smelled earth.

Clutching her drying portrait, Dove calculated how quick she could run back to the safety of Mrs Chevey’s inn. Was it so safe, though? Dove’s bravery was wilting. But she could not bring herself to move. She didn’t want to. There was a shadow lurking in the dark. Wasn't every nerve in her body screaming at her to run? Run, run, run away. Is that all she was? Some sort of escape artist? The light from her candle was snuffed out. Now, Dove was starting to panic. She was a statue in the darkness, blinded with nothing at all.

There, a soft glow was growing in front of her. It took a moment for Dove to realise the flames were trickling from her palms. She held them out like a shield and turned her head.

And lost her breath.

There was a man standing right in front of her.

The stranger from her dream, stood underneath the willow tree.

He was glowing. Red eyes and golden skin. His messy, knotted hair flowed like black magic. Crooked smile and beckoning teeth. In the darkness of the garden, he melted into the shadows. It was him. He was terrifying. He still wasn’t real. Dove couldn’t breathe. The stranger cocked his head, his eyes flitted to the painting in Dove’s hand. Her chest was tight, and helpfully, her legs had frozen. The garden now felt like a cage, suddenly the darkness was suffocating, and every thorn surrounding her wanted nothing but her skin. The man stepped forward, almost silently.

“Didn’t get the colour right.”

His voice was melted gold. The man she had just dreamed of, (and painted) suddenly appears in front of her in the garden of some inn… is questioning the accuracy of her colouring? She couldn't stop herself from staring. It felt impossible not to. She tried to speak, but could only stand there, gaping in her robe and paint-streaked hands. The man watched her silently, a small grin spreading on his face, as she choked out a response.

“Sorry?”

She scowled at herself for how she sounded. How afraid she seemed. She couldn’t let herself be afraid of him. He couldn’t know.

“That red. Not my colour, I have to say.”

“It’s… you.”

“What is?”

“You. From…how?”

“You seem a little mixed up, dear.”

Dove didn't quite know how to answer. Her eyes darted to the painting in her hand, and she supposed he was right. It really wasn’t the right shade.

“I painted you. I dreamed of you. Did I make you?”

Now, the stranger chuckled. It was a quiet, but odd noise to hear from something that looked entirely made of shadows. He stepped forward again, circling Dove, like a wolf does with a hare. She watched him with bated breath. He stalked around her; he was so close she could hear his breath. The closeness gave her a shock like lightning. His eyes, his skin. Lightning strikes. A voice like thunder cut her thoughts off.

“I am quite real. I was real before I got into your pretty little head. I am sure, as a sorceress of your talent, you would know what dark magic can do, pet.”

Dark magic?

She swivelled her head, her burning eyes meeting his blood red stare.

“What? Who are you? How do you know what I can do?”

Dove’s voice failed when he lifted a scarred hand to her face and stroked a piece of hair behind her ear. She audibly shivered. He smiled; eyes filled with glee.

“I know everything about you, little dove,” he chuckled again. Unkindly, this time. His hand then met her own, the sudden warmth kneading a hole in her chest. He took the painting from her.

“Quite the artist. I am honoured, of course. You must make more portraits, starling. Hm.” His eyes flicked up and down the canvas, head tilted slightly.

He was impossible. Unreal. Standing there, musing over her artwork. She almost laughed. Was he supposed to be intimidating her?

“I wouldn’t have pinned you for a connoisseur of art.”

His head snapped up, a laugh dancing behind his eyes.

“You could say that. I do appreciate beauty,” his smirk made Dove’s heart flicker. He let out a sigh, moving towards Dove once more.

“But I think you need my help. I know just the colour for the eyes,” he spoke softly. There was mischief in his voice.

“I don’t think…” Dove started, but the stranger’s hand snaked over her mouth.

“Shh…”

In the blink of an eye, he had her by the waist and drove her carefully against the trunk of an old tree. Thorns tickled her, snagged at her thin robe. Dove gasped at the sudden contact, remembering the heat of her… dream? It couldn't have been. Her skin remembered this warmth. Her brain could not make this up. Dreams and reality are often blurred together, right?

She locked eyes with his terrible stare again. A red she had never seen before. He brought her face towards him, cupping her chin. There was a jolt in the air, her breath seemed to stop. Everything seemed to stop. There was lighting in the sky. She was a liar. She had seen this red before.

“What pretty eyes you have.”

His golden whisper was enough to make her grab him. Touch him. She had to do something. She couldn’t help but blink back at him. Their eyes did not leave one another.

“What big eyes you have.”

He leant in once again; Dove felt the goosebumps ripple every inch of her skin. Electricity fired in every cell.

“Hm. Always this talkative, little red?”

His teeth were on her neck again, Dove was hit by a memory, and the streaks of pain that thrummed in her throat. It only lasted a second, his fingers toyed with the belt of her robe. She stared at him again, lost for words for the millionth time that night. Circe, she hated the feeling of his mouth on her. That poisoned mouth. Fuck, poison was real. This was starting to feel exceedingly deranged. You can escape nightmares easily. What about in real life? How do you wake up?

His fingers brushed her neck, so softly. He held them up to her eyes, she had to squint to see what he was showing her. Her own blood, on the tip of his fingers. He held her painting up and smudged the eyes with the blood from her neck. From his bite. She watched him, enthralled.

“Isn't that better?”

Dove just reached up and touched the wound herself. Almost to confirm it was real.

“Pigs,” she whispered. “How are your eyes so...?” Dove couldn’t help it now; she reached up to touch his face. Almost to confirm he was real. He almost jumped at the touch. She could smell the earth again. Wanted to thread her hands through his hair. She was filled with inane things she wanted to do yet could hardly make one breath come out effortlessly.

“Are you going to tell me why you’re here now? Or are we going to discuss artwork in this dainty garden all night?”

The stranger was looking at her oddly. His eyes softened now, and he truly was beautiful. Dove wanted him to stay all night. She wanted him to keep looking at her like that. She wanted him to never touch her again. His fingers trailed along her hands, gently pulling them down. She felt cold when he let go. He stepped away from her, becoming a shadow monster once again. She almost lost sight of him, until his velvety voice rang out.

“You’re the artist.”

“What are you then?”

“Something different.”

“Different? Like me?”

There was a short silence. Dove waited.

“Bird of a passage.”

“Do you think that’s frightening?”

“Are you to tell me that you’re not frightened, birdy?”

“Are you something bad? Something big and hairy that goes bump in the night? You intimidate everyone by appearing in a dream like that? Dance around rosebushes all night?”

He laughs and it rings out. He doesn’t answer. He just watches.

“Were you sent by someone?”

The man’s jaw tightens. The laugh still plays around his eyes. She can even see it in the shadows.

“We will meet again. That I’m sure of.”

“Is that it?” Dove almost laughed. “I suppose you’re not going to tell me why? Are you going to curse me?”

The thorns from the ground suddenly swarmed her like a chrysalis.

“Sweet dreams, birdy.” Then a low laugh.

Dove was going to reply but heard the stranger disappear into the shadows. Leaving her with nothing but the trees and her painting.