Caged Bird Act 3

Dove scraped the hair off her face, as sunlight hit her eyes. Was she outside? Dove sat up; clothes damp with dewy grass. She had fallen asleep outside. There was a pulsing in her throat. That’s when she snapped her head up, feeling thorns in her palms. She studied them closely, feeling like this garden had eyes on her. She pulled them away, working surgically. What had brought her out here? The question tingled in her brain like a bell on a gong. There was a darkness resting on her brain, her eyelids, her entire body. Nothing but a black cloud swirled inside her mind's eye. She let her eyes fall on the crowns of roses, the scarlet-coloured bench, and a paintbrush. Why was there a paintbrush out here? Was she painting in her sleep?

That’s when she saw it. Her painting nestled under the flowers. Blood stained. She scrambled across the garden on her hands and knees, clutching the painting, and her thorn-spiked palms added more smudges of blood to the page. The long-haired man stared back at her, but the paint had faded from the morning’s dew. She couldn’t wrap her head around anything. She found she could barely remember anything. Staring at the picture, and chewing her cheeks, Dove searched for answers she was not going to get out here. But, as she passed the willow tree, she found herself looking underneath it for eyes as red as blood. Her blood.

She reached her bedroom without encountering anyone and collapsed in her bed. She was in a state, reeking of moss, grassy, hair sticky, palms bloody, clutching a painting she barely remembered drawing. The longer she laid there, the more she itched to do something. No, it was her neck that itches. It almost burned. Running to the bathroom mirror, she almost missed it. It looked like little claw marks. Or teeth marks. The feeling of warmth on her neck swam in her brain. Something sweet itched her nose. Her painting of that mythical man moved in her head. She watched the blurry image surround her, thought of blood-red eyes and almost clamped a hand to her throat. Had she dreamed of him? She certainly remembered a dream. The colour red, the prickling of thorns, something musty…and golden. There was a wave of nausea, as Dove remembered now. Golden lines on his skin. He had been in her room. She had followed him outside. Was it truly just a dream? Had he really been there, or was it just a shadow? She remembered the heat of him. It felt far away.

She was feeling fiery.

She wanted to paint.

Once she’d gotten everything out of her bag (and normal sized) Dove made a brownish colour, mixed with an orange hue. An image of a warm forest was what grew, half an hour later.

The sunlight speckled on the print too, Dove felt like she could stay in this pokey little room forever. She mixed more, and more, conjuring up a large willow tree, dotted with blood. She caught herself chewing on her paintbrush, until she couldn’t stand it anymore. She was going to climb the walls thinking about last night, so she decided to go out.

The desire to explore Mookaite was fresh too, it had been years. She had been alone, of course. Her parents had never known. Dove was hit with a memory now. She’s thirteen, running away from the empty hallways of Oldbranch. She’s blooming back and forth, zipping in between rosy gardens and colourful markets. There is a thrill in her chest as she spots her favourite saffron and huge clock towers. She is rather small, but she weaves in between all the people, nobody sees her, she sees nobody else. She often found herself flocking to a library, or bookshop. Dove couldn't help but feel like a girl from a book she’d read who was very similar to her. A girl called Matilda. Running from her parents. An escape artist.

Dove blinks the memory back, not completely away, but enough to stop her chest from tightening. She dressed, wearing a flowing embroidered skirt, and a maroon bell sleeve she’d stolen from her mother. The skirt twinkles in the sunlight. As she pulls her stockings on, her eyes flit to her calf, and the large scar that ran along there. She flicked her eyes away, imagining smooth paint running over her skin. Porcelain and new.

The thought of exploring Mookaite as a 20-year-old gave Dove flutters in her stomach, but she also felt warm with nostalgia. Mookatie had always been a friend. She was grown now. It was there when she was small, and it is there now. Once she’d smoked a thinly rolled cigarette out of the dusty window and slammed some stale coffee, Dove left the small inn, greeting Mrs Chevey and thanking her for everything last night. She agreed to let Dove stay for another month, as she showed her the shiny coins in her purse, she was more than happy. Dove stepped onto the street and felt more at ease in the daylight. Birds swarmed in the cloudy sky, and she followed the windy path. She found herself drawn to all the gloomy and mysterious shop windows with owl skeletons and orbs. She knew the way to a quiet bookshop and ran her fingers along the dusty spines. She just wandered around to whatever caught her eye, including the marble mirror, carved into the shape of a raven, hanging in a shop window that she stopped to stare at for a while. As she wandered further away from the bustling crowd of families, she spotted Foxtrotters sitting in the shadows. Dove always loved his shop, and the bell tinkled loudly as she entered. No-one seemed to be there, so she lost herself in the many cauldrons and potions Foxtrotter had stocked up. Dove browsed the rest of the shelves before stopping before the window and watching the people on the street. Skeletal Yard was only a path away, and she noticed the way the air around it glimmered with something dark. It had always fascinated her, but she kept this a secret. Skeletal Yard had a terrible reputation, but such fascinating customers. Such interesting shops. Most of the sorcerers her age knew to avoid it. Dove had always been secretly amused at how her friends feared going near it. She would roll her mental eyes. There were scarier things in the world than a street full of death-whispering skulls, or blood-infused teeth. Dove swayed on her feet, as something pungent filled her nostrils. that same overwhelming smell from before…something earthy. Damp. She had the terrible urge to follow the bricky road to Skeletal Yard, feeling like something was driving her there, attracting her. Fuck it, there might be a wizard at the end of it. Dove left Foxtrotter’s and floated down the narrow path. The walls were plastered with wanted posters.

That name rang out loudest of all:

JAGGAR THORNE

WANTED WEREWOLF

BEWARE

Something about his name stood out to Dove, her eyes lingered on the black and white image. It was faded badly from age, blurred like a smoke-filled haze, but her heart jumped as she watched the outline of him in the frame. His wiry, black, matted hair. His thick beard. His eyes looked tormented. The description:

6 FEET 4 INCHES

DANGEROUS

SUSPECTED MURDERER

SUSPECTED SHAPESHIFTER

DO NOT APPROACH IN ANY CIRCUMSTANCE!

She stood closer to the poster and stared at it, like she was waiting for it to tell her something. Not noticing the pair of eyes on her in a window up above. Dove felt like he was awfully familiar, a sense of recognition crawling up her neck. Has she seen this man before? Why did his cruel smile make her chest burn? Dove scanned the rest of the brick walls. There were an awful lot of wanted werewolf posters, and Dove’s stomach clenched as she looked at them. How many of these people were innocent? How many of these won’t be heard of? Missing, extradited, whichever way the Sanctuary wanted to spin it. The noise of the street brought her back to her senses, and she carried on down the steps to Shadow Bones. She wanted to get away from the picture. It was a dark, hidden little shop, at least a few centuries old. The owner was rumoured to be a dark elf, and most people stayed away. Elves were known to be tricky to deal with. The walls were cracked, runes were etched into them, Dove’s education wasn’t particularly strong when it came to runes, but she knew they weren’t legal. A beautiful glistening caught her eye, as she stepped in front of the shop window, which was murky and brown. There was a gorgeous light blue and gold-plated looking glass dazzling on display, which looked like a cluster of crystals in comparison to the grubby, dark little shop. Her feet slowed as her eyes hungrily swept over the ornament.

Just then, a movement came from high up. Dove looked up to the window to the left above, to see a blonde-haired witch next to a dark-haired witch, whose curls sprayed out in a frenzy. The overgrown branches hooking on the roof partially blocked her view from the right window. The dark one. The two were faced away from her but seemed to be in an argument about something. A door closed somewhere, and she stepped into the shadows so she couldn’t be seen. The eyes could still reach her though. Something was keeping her in place. But what? The mirror? This shop? The dark magic she could feel practically humming through the floor? There was something drawing her in, and Dove was never the type to hold back from what she wanted. A bell tinkled as she stepped inside, there was a coldness to the shop that made her feel sharper. Her arms shivered with goosebumps. The bell continued to ring in her head. The witch floated her way around the displays, shrunken heads, black skulls, poisonous mushrooms, sphynx fur, dragon claws, but that looking glass was so beautiful, she just wanted a closer look. A golden, silk ballgown was hanging against a mirror, another object standing out from the murky shop. Almost as if they had been placed there on purpose. A shiny, twinkling trap. She brushed the hem of the dress with her fingers. It was so soft. She couldn’t imagine wearing something like this. There was that smell again. That familiarity that tickled her brain. Where was it coming from? The tinge of earth in the air, breezy whispers of moonlit, velvet hair. Why was she feeling so funny lately? Has running away changed her this much? Was it that dream last night? Dove hadn’t even fully processed what had happened. The man in the woods, the man in her head. Is this what freedom tastes like? Dove wasn’t so sure. There was no telling what she may do tonight, or tomorrow, or the day after that… and she didn't know how to feel about this. There was a pressing of helplessness, but independence too.

Just as Dove was deep in thought, Mr Bones approached her, with an odd sort of greeting.

“And what has brought you into my shop, my dear? Is there anything in particular you are searching for?”

He was a tall man, whose eyes were like large buttons. His hair was black and slicked back, his nose rather thin.

“Your looking glass is beautiful sir, although I don’t know what I’m searching for,” Dove replied to the old wizard, whose eyes shone for a moment.

“Ah, well. Not all beautiful objects are capable of great things,” he said ominously, offering no backstory for such a claim. “I might have something else for you, that I am sure may complete your search.” The wizard spoke in a strange way, almost as if he knew her.

“Something for me?” Dove was becoming quizzical of the little man.

“Many witches such as yourself find themselves in my store, in need of protection from the danger that lies on those streets. Ever feel like you’re being followed? Ever feel… unshielded?”

Dove’s ears pricked at this. A flash of the last day appeared in her mind. That Hunter, whoever that strange dream man was, the invasion of privacy, shadows in her room, being on her own, on the run…

Mr Bones produced a black, thick claw pendant from his shirt-pocket, almost as if he had been waiting to show it.

Dove scanned the item. It looked scaly. She had read about protection amulets and pendants for warding off attacks, but this pendant, like the shopkeeper had said, gripped tighter than that silly, old mirror.

“A pendant for protection?” She said softly.

“10 golden coins will suffice. These types are uncommonly rare. The strings are made from mermaid’s tails.”

Mermaids were known for being creatures of safety, unless threatened of course.

“I’ll take it.”

Dove left the store wondering if she will ever go back to the strange little building, cushioned in the crooked lane of Skeletal Yard, but then again, it’s Skeletal Yard. Weird and dangerous folk are known to be found down there. Do they mean her? She slipped the item around her neck, clasps tightened, feeling the unexpected heat against her chest, and carried on walking.