The Blue Balloon

That evening, Mrs Tip left the nest. She stood on the furthest twig. Her taupe speckled wings were plucked and fluffed and flattened. The art was practised: that of a dolphin – diving first downwards, and then upwards with the full, uncluttered aid of the autumn air. Antoinette watched her mother with admiration. Those two maternal wings, practised in their knack of manoeuvring between cedar branches, mastered the highest altitudes of the trees. Then, onto the sky, and its flattened clouds backlit by an orange horizon. As she watched her mother’s silhouette shrink into the distance, Antoinette could feel the gap between the two of them, turning from space into something only her heart could sense.

Barnharte looked up at Antoinette from down in the nest. His large, worried eyes seeking assurance in those of his elder sister. She clambered down from the perch and sat by him. Their feathers touched a little, and a warmth defied the cold air above. Barnharte’s gentle shivering formed a reminder of the innocent substance beneath his new plumage.

While Mrs Tip was gone, Antoinette would tell stories to Barnharte. They would consist of the things she had seen on those occasions she too had left the nest. Of the people in the village drifting around on their long, unstable legs, and how the forest looked from above. How the moon, which Barnharte had not yet seen in full, would illuminate some nights to a degree that the whole world could be seen from the simple majesty that was the top of their tree. Barnharte would listen attentively until night came. But right before he shut his eyes to sleep, Antoinette would see the stars Barnharte gazed at with incredulity. There they were, reflected in his eyes. She watched him sitting, unaware of their presence right above his beak.

That night there was a storm. Neither Barnharte nor Antoinette could sleep. She tried to comfort her brother when the tree would sway, when the branch would angle down to the dark forest floor, and when their mother did not return by the time she always did. But as the night drew on, Antoinette, despite her reassurances, became afraid herself. It began to rain. There were deafening roars from the sky, and blinding flashes of light neither of the siblings had faced before. The tree begun to sway in the most violent of manners. The wind made them fall into one another, and cling as hard as they could with their claws onto the twigs of the nest. But they could not hold hard enough, and the tree could not bend enough, and the nest could not cling to its lodging fast enough. A forceful burst of wind ran its course over the forest. The nest dislodged from its perch and fell, further and further down towards the forest floor. Then, with a heavy landing, and with the torrent of rain that forced its way through the canopy, it hit the ground of pine needles. The two owls, huddled together, felt the force of the earth upon which they had never walked. They looked out over the nest’s ridge at the blackness around them. Their eyes were not yet large enough to see as their mother could. As Barnharte began to cry, his sister hugged him, but tried though she did, she could not conceal her own fear. They trembled together in the cold until the morning broke through the trees.

***

The rain was still drizzling through the canopy. Antoinette looked out of the nest, and the light brought her solace for she could see around. She saw no dangers and hopped out of the nest. Barnharte was looking up at her. She knew he must be hungry, but the forest floor was dangerous. Owlets belonged in the branches.

Antoinette flapped her wings. They were wet and heavy from the rain. But as she flapped them the cold droplets dispersed from her feathers fell onto the dew that laid gently on the pine needles. The floor was cold beneath her claws. As she spread her wings, she latched onto the twigs of the nest and begun to fly upwards. But the nest was too heavy. It was hopeless trying to lift it from the forest floor. She would have to employ help.

She flew over to the bushes where she knew the rabbits lived. Coming upon their hole she looked in, and she called the rabbits. A hare appeared and came up to her. It asked her what was wrong. Antoinette told the hare what had happened, and it bounded after her over to the nest.

Looking at the situation, the hare’s ears fell. “I can jump,” he said with resignation, “but not that high.”

Antoinette flew over to the mole hills that ran all the way up the steep bank. When she reached the mole hills she called out. A mole appeared. She told the mole what had happened, and when he heard the situation, his head drooped.

“I can wish,” said the mole, “but I cannot see.”

Antoinette knew she would have to go further afield. She told Barnharte this, and he wore a brave expression on his white, cordate face for his sister.

“Mother will be back soon,” she assured him. Then, rising from the forest floor, her brother looked up at her with wonder. She gained altitude, and soon was above the height of the trees, flying higher than she had before. She could see the edge of the forest in the distance, and though her wings were not yet at full length and width, and her feathers were not quite yet matured enough to glide as her mother did, she persisted towards her destination.

She came to the edge of the forest and perched for respite upon a branch. She remained there for a moment, swivelling her head around. There was a road that ran along the edge of the forest. A truck was moving steadily along, loaded with stacks of trees, trimmed of their greenery, and measured against one another – their rings visible, sliced in perfect edges. The truck’s exhaust emitted both a deep noise of diesel, and plumes of grey, narcotic fumes. Antoinette followed its path, keeping herself to the treeline for breaks in her flight. The edge of the forest terrified her, and when she looked out along the barren, treeless land beyond, it presented itself to her as a void, in which she would be lost forever if she ventured too far.

The truck continued its steady rolling of wheels against the flat asphalt, pulling itself along the surface. In a short time, a group of buildings became visible. Antoinette stopped. It was the village, though the truck rolled on further along the road, she cut herself from its chase, and inspected the houses. She heard voices and shouts, and so she flew down from the treeline towards the sound. Landing on a rooftop overlooking a street, she saw the crowd of people. They were manoeuvring their ways past one another, all wrapped in long, woollen coats. They wore wearing hats on their heads, and gloves on their hands. Antoinette watched their breath condense into clouds of steam at the rim of their lips. The smaller people ran around after one another, and the longer, larger people walked hand-in-hand. There were others too, stood still and cooking on trolleys with wheels, and a smell of fried meat emerged from the hot pans in front of them. The street was dirty, and the rain had created arrays of puddles with shimmering, murky surfaces holding the reflection of the sky.

Antoinette looked around. She knew she had little time to waste, and the thought of her brother, isolated in the forest, shivering among the thin, brown twigs of their nest made her heart flicker.

At the end of the road there was a man holding a mass of strings. Attached to the strings were a collection of colourful balloons, and Antoinette thought they looked wonderful against the greys and browns of the street. They floated above the man in the air, suspending themselves and subject to the direction of the cold wind. Children were walking around with their own balloons, and Antoinette watched with thinned eyes. Across the street, there was a smaller child holding one coloured bright red, and Antoinette saw how it floated by itself when the child lost its grip and the string floated away from the small hand chasing after it, the bright red ball rose into the sky. Antoinette took flight without hesitation, and she grabbed the string mid-air. Immediately her own body rose, and she felt herself flying with ease. She flapped less and felt the pull of the balloon that was intent on rising to the clouds, seemingly against the pull of gravity.

***

Antoinette returned to Barnharte, finding the way in the forest by the sight of their tree. The highest branch was slightly curled, like a hook, and it reached above all the surrounding trees because of this feature. She declined in altitude and came to land by the nest, and in her beak, there was the string, attached to the floating, red balloon. Antoinette worked with a dedicated accuracy, wrapping the string around the nest. When it was attached, she stood back and looked at her work, and she clawed onto the nest and flapped her own wings, and with the pull of the balloon she could feel the nest was lighter, but still its weight remained too great to ensure any lift from the forest floor. She would have to go back for another.

Antoinette flew back and forth all day. When she arrived in the village, she would scout out the coloured shapes – some in the form of animals, others in hearts, of stars. Each time she brought one back, a new colour and shape would be introduced to the floating array above the nest, and Barnharte’s face would grow with excitement to the point he was jumping up and down at the simply joy of watching the floating colours above him.

As the day grew on, there was half a dozen balloons above the nest, and Antoinette, each time flapping her wings to try and pull the nest off the ground, determined that only one more would be required, and the nest would float up through the branches back to the top of the tree.

The day was growing dark, and Antoinette arrived at the village as the sun was touching the horizon. To her horror, by the time she returned for the final time, the street was empty. There was noise from the tavern, and the glowing insides of the houses were spilling out onto the desolate street, but there was not a soul outside in the cold with her. And, most importantly, not a balloon in sight. Antoinette flew down low above the ground searching for any left behind, and she looked up into the deep blue oasis above in case any had floated off and could still be seen. But she could not spot a single shape of colour. She decided she had no choice, and that to ensure her brother was not alone by the time night fell, when the dangers of the forest would emerge, she would have to return. In the morning, she told herself, I will come back for the final balloon.

Barnharte’s excitement had waned by the time Antoinette re-joined him. Instead, it had been replaced by a fresh anxiety of the darkness around the nest, and he was relieved to feel the warmth of his sister by his side. They stayed together, under the dark shapes of the orbs above them and thought of their mother.

“She will return soon,” Antoinette said to Barnharte as the darkness enveloped the forest in another night. The sky, however, was clear, and a few of the brightest stars could be seen against the blue.

“At least there is no storm,” Barnharte whispered.

Antoinette began to recite a story, of the people she had seen, of the children in the village running around with pots of homemade Jam, and the night grew on.

It became late, and the moon was at its apex in the sky. Barnharte had closed his eyes. Antoinette, however, could not sleep. She had heard a sound in the dark. Looking around, she could see little. She closed her eyes to garner up as much vision as she could in the dark, but she could only make out the gloomy trunks of trees around the nest. Then, looking behind her, she spotted the pair of yellow eyes looking back. She cried out, and Barnharte awoke in fright. The pair of eyes were at a distance, in the mid-level of the bushes, and they looked straight at those of the two owls.

“Be quiet,” Antoinette urged Barnharte, “I think there’s a fox.” Her brother looked back at her with his wide face, and it fell into shock. He could not see a thing. He could only depend on the eyes of his sister to assess the danger. Then the eyes began to move nearer. Antoinette did not know what to do. She watched them, ovate and yellow, as she trembled beneath her plumage. She began to flap her wings.

“Flap your wings,” she said to Barnharte in a wavering voice. In a weak attempt, Barnharte copied the actions of his sister. The two of them could feel the nest moving, and Antoinette looked up at the balloons above, making out their mysterious shapes against the sky.

“Keep going,” she said. The nest was grazing against the pine needles as the two owls flapped as much as they could. The eyes were closing in, the sound of its paws could be heard crunching the twigs, and its body of fur brushing against the ferns. Antoinette stopped flapping and began moving her beak down towards the nest.

“Break off the twigs,” she said to Barnharte. “No – keep flapping.” He did as he was told, as his sister broke off as many twigs as she could, discarding them onto the forest floor around them. The nest begun to move higher; the eyes closed in further so the two could almost hear its breath. Antoinette begun to cry, she could see the horrified face of her brother beside her and wished that he would not be so scared. Then, at once, the nest stopped in its lift, and dropped.

“What’s happened?” said Barnharte. His voice was shaking. The eyes lurched forward towards the nest and right before the snout followed, and Barnharte could smell the breath of the animal, there was deafening noise from above them. They jumped. Their feathers ruffled. The preying yellow eyes stopped dead and the animal turned itself with a raised tail and darted off through the ferns in fright. The remains of a blue balloon rained down on the nest and landed on Barnharte’s head.

“I can’t see!” he cried. Antoinette removed the blue plastic from his head.

“One of them burst,” she said. “It must have hit a branch.” Then, as Antoinette removed the plastic from the nest, and the twigs which Barnharte had pulled away from the walls, the nest begun to rise. Antoinette flapped her wings, and it rose further. Her brother joined her efforts and soon the nest could be felt rising without a stop, up past the lower branches, past the hole in the trunk and the swallows’ nests, and up to the highest branches. Antoinette took off upwards and the nest followed her, and when she reached the branch from which they had fallen, she grabbed her brother’s outstretched wing.

“Jump!” she said to him, and he jumped, landing on the branch beside her. The little hearts of the two owls were racing, and they looked up at the starry patchwork above them and watched the little black disk of a nest floating upwards. Above it the shapes of hearts and stars and colourful balloons twirling in the still air. They huddled together, clinging to the branch of the cedar, and they pecked one another. Antoinette looked at Barnharte.

“You saved me” he exclaimed.

Antoinette’s large eyes were gleaming.

“Why are you crying?” asked Barnharte.

“I’m just happy you’re safe,” said Antoinette, and she looked into the heart-shaped white of Barnharte’s face, adorned by the two black eyes which held the reflection of the stars.