On the Wind

First light comes like clockwork. Then droning. Beaded eyes, cracked beaks and slender spines twisting, finding the rhythms of wake. Another mournful morning as the mothers account for their stolen babes, taken in the night. Some new recruit panics in a corner, unaccustomed to bars, longing for canopies and wet air. They all once knew that corner.

An iced stare towards the noise. Creaking awake, jack in the box, waiting to pop. A lackluster ruffle: to groom oneself is to hold onto hope. Hope is a myth. His hunched body, scorned, yet bright in design. The eternal prisoner. An almost patriarch in this hoard.

He croaks. The dull twittering lulls, until only the panic from the corner remains. Croak. Croak. Full of solidarity and reassurance that it will all become routine. The panic subsides. And the world begins to rock.

A steady pace, always the same. Their bodies brace for the bumps that could strike at any moment. A journey in the dark hull of a ghost ship. Headed somewhere unbeknownst to the hoard.

His icy eyes flutter. There is nothing to do but rest. A tired routine of nothing, in this nothing. For a lifetime. It seems this is all there is. A memory tickles the back of his brain. Plucked from the nest, when he was ripe and bloody and barely breathing. So long ago now. More like a fable.

He is tethered, always tethered to the metal earth. Rust and rope burn, curled under and over unkept talons. Piles of muck, dust, of straw and gunk, his perch. A throne with no kingdom.

This is life to him, to the hoard. To the panicked one in the corner. There is no room for hope.

The world shakes around them. Then, there is light, blinding light. Hurting them. Husks thrown at their feet, fresh water sloshed on top of dirty dishes, overflowing, cooling them as a by-product of this ‘care’. The light leaves as quick as it comes.

He bends to drink. Pecks at the offering of corn and crusts laid out before the king. The panicking resumes in the corner, distressed at the scraps. “Where is the greenery, the crisp, bursting goodness of the wild?” it seems to say. Wild? Like hope, that word. Mythical.

He scratches. He picks at the feathered body of scarlet, a curse in this darkness. The curse that locked him away. He plucks, a habit to soothe him, plucks until the red falls from his chest, to line the grime at his feet. He should stop, but it’s almost like being able to feel.

His eyes close, and he imagines colour. He imagines the light, not blinding but illuminate, and rich. Warm. He imagines green, whatever green is. Whatever blue is. Whatever wind is.

The world stops moving.

There is unrest. Around him, there is panic. Not just from the corner, but from below, above, forward and back. The consuming twittering of gossip and anxiety. His eyes snap open, alarmed.

The light appears, brighter than before, sustained. He hears voices, shouting, distressed. One of the creatures that brings them their dinner rushes in, clawing at the cages, and running with as many as it can carry. A cacophony erupts. He lets out a noise that he can’t remember ever making. A war cry, or distress signal, or a laugh – he is unsure what it is.

There is shouting from beyond the wall of light. Loud noises from the metal pipes the creatures carry on their belts. There is silence. The cacophony dies down, awaiting the next chess move. One of these creatures steps into view. Slowly. Reaches out a hand to the first tiny prison. With a flurry, the prisoner runs, but is not chased. Slowly, the creature moves to the next. Again, the prisoner escapes. Again and again, until the cacophony roars into celebrations, into cheers of “me, me, me!”

He is unsure. The creature makes its way to his cell, delicately unlocking, opening the door for him. His head crooks. His feet, still tethered to metal. The creature gently reaches forward, a glint of silver catching the light. He recoils, into the familiarity of the cage. The creature swiftly, cuts. The tether, broken.

He is no longer trapped. Timid, he steps forward, peaking out of the cell he has always known. Then he sees it, above the doorway of light. Blueness. He stretches, feeling the length of himself. And leaps towards it.

He flies.

He is flying.

He sails on the wind, knowing that this is what they call wind. Engulfed into the vast blueness of it all. The further he goes, the more he knows wind. Knows its breath, and its power, its forgiveness. He begins to see green. He looks down upon the wilds he’d only known to be myth. Sound cries from his belly, and the icy eyes leak with joy. He does not stop. He is weak, but he is full. He is wild. He is free.

A lifetime seems to pass, and the blueness fades into red, much like the redness of his belly, that is no longer his curse. His terrible wingspan, gritty and macabre from the years in the dark, casts dancing shadows over the dying light, and it is what they must call beautiful. Finally, he floats to the earth – onto soft, green earth. He feels the thick, wet air in his lungs. He settles, into this. Into all of this. His new, wild kingdom.