Friend

SW Virginia, 1861

Reginald

This is a true story.

I am sitting high on a rafter pondering a mouse or snake for dinner when the most dazzling eagle I could ever imagine rips the barn window off, not 5 feet from me. A crack of wood followed by a cold wind, but no crash, no glass. Just hinges creaking against wind.

She (eagles are always girls to me) gently flies the window down in her talons -they are ENORMOUS- and sets it on the ground outside, quiet. And then she’s back, sees me for the first time. Oh--

My eyes are wide (no snickers--this is just how we look!) and hers are narrow. Now that I see Her up close, I am terrified, mesmerized by her power. Then it is instant, an opiate. Its grip deepens from my feet straight to my heart. Then it’s deeper. My spirit?

Her eyes, bright amber lines against black, like the last minute of a sunset so beautiful it scares you--they possess me and a calm floods my body.

Pearl Moon

My wings beat with more panic than they have in 200 years. How could I have let this happen! Where is she? Where is she! Anxiety poisons me. My heart sinks as I begin to suspect I have flown to the wrong farm. How to know? How to know!

My eyes launch questions into the barn even before I’ve removed the window and set it down (quietly, in case someone is inside).

Slade.

Slade.

Slade.

I see nothing of him, of any of them. My eyes race up the barn.

And then I meet Reginald.

I am not startled so much as stunned because I see immediately that he is a Friend. A Friend! A beautiful discovery, enough to stand on its own even in the midst of my panic. My heart is tender for a moment as I take in his youth, his ache.

He has the usual reaction of course. I do not have time for this. All animals, dear reader, are consumed by my magic. The fiercer ones are more subtle; tigers will sit and bow their heads and stretch their claws for instance. The smaller ones, like Reginald, drown in it. A mooning, if you will. A love and devotion such as they have never felt.

I take his face in my talon, softly. Stars dance in his eyes.

What is your name?

Reginald.

Reginald, whose farm is this?

Belongs to Theo Greycourt, ma’am, of the Greycourts that hail from Boston, arriving on the vessel The Queen Mary in--

Reginald! Thank you. Do you know a man named Slade?

Yes ma’am, he helps Mr. Greycourt with the horses.

Reginald, by now, is close to fainting. I steady him with my wing for fear he would fall right over.

Reginald

Bees swarm in my blood. Not only from her beauty - she is marvelous, staggering to see up close, as frightening as enchanting - but from her promise! Gazing at her, I know she has taken much life, but it feels as though she IS my life. The belonging! Oh, the sense of purpose within this dreary place at last.

And then, for her to inquire about the farm! You see, I’m a bit of a pre-civil war era historian, self taught of course. To my dismay (though how dismayed could I possibly be, as this is the best moment of my life! Which until today had been a lonely business of reaching for more and never finding it), Athena does not seem interested in the history of the Greycourts, but in that wretched man Slade, of ALL people. The filth. Vermin. I quickly recall a fantasy I’ve had many times of swooping down and devouring him, bones and hair and all.

She says, in a voice that sends me spinning: Do you want to?

Pearl Moon

That snapped him out of it. I steady him again. “Is he here now?

“He’s late, ma’am. Probably drunk. He’ll be on his way.”

I exhale. He’s delayed without Jemma. A stroke of luck there at least. The panic subsides enough for me to take another breath.

“What about Eliza?

“Miss Eliza, Ma’am?”

“Reginald!”

“Miss Eliza comes to feed the horses each evening. She stays with them while that rapscallion Slade tends to chores in the stalls, otherwise he hurts them. She should be coming up here any moment.”

“Where can we watch for them?”

“Best place is in the pear orchard, ma’am.” In a heated, bewitched voice he says, “We? I can go with you?”

It is a wonderful feeling to know the best thing that has ever happened to you, is happening right now. I nod and let him enjoy the beginning of his real life for a moment longer.

Reginald

I fly as I have never flown before! Leading her to the trees, ready to die for her, though hopefully not before getting a go at that goddamned Slade. I am warming to that idea at a pace that alarms me. But I can’t help it; she mentioned Miss Eliza and that made me queasy.

I’ve seen the way that goodfornothing leers at Miss Eliza while he mucks out the stalls. I saw him attack Miss Lancaster after she batted away his hand between her legs, forcing his violence into her. I never want anything like that to befall Miss Eliza, who knows I secretly listen to her reading lessons and feeds me pieces of pecans freshly roasted.

Oh, the multitudes of my heart as I beat my wings to the rhythm of possibility flowing through me! How I have longed to feel this alive, this needed!

When we are perched high upon the highest tree, looking over the rolling hills, I turn to her and plead: Please tell me?

And she says: I protect the earth, and you are my Friend.

The way she says Friend sounds like a hundred voices at once. It clicks my life into place like a bolt lock. She doesn’t even have to tell me it’s magic. I breathe in the specialness that has today, finally, filled my lungs, after a lifetime of gasping and flailing in loneliness.

Part II

Reginald

I do not know the particulars of Slade’s crimes and I do not care. Pearl Moon -that is her name! Pearl Moon!- told me nothing but that he intends to harm Miss Eliza. I think about how she picked wild jasmine last summer and stuck a piece inside my wing.

I see him first. He is blind drunk, more than usual, and his shoes are missing. His feet are bleeding after his walk through the brambles and wild roses leading up to the property. His hair is greasy, sweating down from under his cap and making his face look menacing but sick.

He is fewer than 50 yards from the barn when I see Miss Eliza emerge from the treeline. She’s been picking berries and her fingers are stained red. He spots her too. Stops right in his tracks and looks her up and down. Before he can move again, I strike.

I zoom in front, then behind him. His awkward body tumbles. He smells like whiskey and blood. The scar on my wing he cruelly shot last year burns with fury. I could sink my talons straight into his jugular and kill him with ease.