Bird Summons Page 8

  ‘Nathan ordered the blacksmith to forge large heavy chains. Standing in front of the villagers, he wrapped the chains around his ankles and up over his shoulders, tight around his waist. “I am going away,” he said out loud. “I will walk to Jerusalem to seek forgiveness for the crime I’ve committed. That will be my penance.’’ He secured the chains with a heavy lock and twisted the key into the lock. Then he threw the key into the river and set off.

  ‘A young lad hurried after him, ‘‘I’ll come with you. I will serve you and keep you company on the way.” Nathan welcomed his company, someone familiar on a journey to unknown places with new languages. The two walked and walked. It is always a longer road than one thinks; even after you start walking and cover considerable distance, it stretches further. The chains dragged Nathan, but he pushed to catch up with the brisker strides of his young companion. Whenever they came upon other travellers on the road, the lad would explain Nathan’s chains. He was talkative and often, to Nathan’s embarrassment, boasted about Nathan’s wealth and nobility. ‘‘All sorts of people travel on these roads – ­criminals, thieves and those desperate enough to do anything,’’ said Nathan. ‘‘It is not right that you boast to the likes of them.’’ As a result, one day Nathan and the lad were attacked and robbed. All the money Nathan was carrying to fund the journey was stolen.

  ‘Arriving at the next village, they decided that the best strategy was to split up. Individually, it would be easier to find work and shelter, or beg for food. Nathan was welcomed into the workshop of a carpenter and given food. Curious about Nathan’s chains, he drew him into conversation. When he heard all about Nathan’s predicament, the carpenter said, “If you are travelling to find redemption, I would advise you to travel alone. Have you not heard the story of the brave hunter and the bear? Let me tell it to you.”

  ‘The carpenter took away the empty dish in front of Nathan, sat down and said, “A brave hunter once rescued a bear from the jaws of a mighty dragon. The bear was filled with gratitude and followed the hunter with devotion. The two became companions, sharing meals and hunting together. In town, when the hunter went to sell his wares and buy sugar, bread and tobacco, people marvelled at how docile the bear was, as faithful to the hunter as a dog would be. However, some of them warned him, saying, the fondness of fools – meaning the bear – is deceiving. He dismissed these words as envy. On a particularly hot night when many flies were buzzing around, the hunter lay down to sleep in a clearing in the forest. The flies annoyed him, fluttering around his nostrils and disturbing his sleep. Seeing this, the faithful bear sat next to the hunter and swatted the flies away. He would not let a single fly settle on the hunter’s face. He waved his paws, but one fly was particularly persistent. No matter how many times he swiped at it, it buzzed and ducked down to the hunter’s face. The bear became more and more angry. That wretched fly! If only he could be rid of it once and for all. He picked up a rock and brought it down on the fly. The rock smashed the hunter’s face into pulp.’’

  ‘Nathan pondered this advice from the carpenter and on the following morning sent the lad back to the village. From now on, he would travel to Jerusalem alone. When he reached the sea, Nathan began to search for a ship on which he could set sail. He found that he would have to wait. This delay gave him time to work as a porter and earn more money for the journey. It was not easy to work while dragging around his heavy chains. Often, the snippets of stories he heard among the sailors and other porters distracted him from his struggles.

  ‘Once, he overheard an elderly sailor say to another, “When I say island, you no doubt imagine solid land, surrounded by water, but this place was not like that. It was soppy like snow, the air as thick as fog, the vegetation brittle and sparse. On that island, a giant ape was trapped and its cries were as eerie as the blowing wind. They pierced the heart of anyone who heard them. But instead of invoking terror, these screams sounded like convoluted laments, the anguish in them was such that anyone who heard them was struck down with a broken heart. Grown men would sob like babes and collapse utterly helpless. Too smitten to feel hunger or thirst, many eventually perished. The island was sloppy and airy, neither water nor solid, the only hard objects were the human skulls and bones strewn about. The few who escaped this island could not talk for three months. They could only weep with a sense of terrible loss. It was the sound of the trapped ape they kept hearing. It echoed in their ears for the rest of their lives.”

  ‘From a fellow porter, Nathan heard about an island in which the trees bore women as their fruit. The women dangled off the branches, ripe and ready for plucking. But these women were poisonous, the slightest bit of their saliva or sweat could cause instantaneous death. Nathan heard about places where death couldn’t reach, where crops didn’t need to be planted or watered, where the barks of trees were made of cloths. Mountains could be smooth as enamel, sparrows could be larger than oxen and antelopes as small as mice. Places in which there was never day and places in which there was never night. Nathan heard that a captain seeking fur seals landed on the back of a whale, mistaking it for an island. Another captain, chasing an octopus, found the island of smoke and fire. Creation indeed was a wide and wonderful space where Nathan was but only a fleck.’

  ‘I know I’m a fleck,’ Iman interrupted. ‘It is men who have the largest egos, the biggest heads, the delusions of grandeur. They’re the ones who need these lessons, not me. There’s no pride in me.’

  The Hoopoe did not reply. Her words dissolved in the air . . . there is no pride in me, no pride in me, no pride . . .

  He then said, ‘A poor, helpless woman can have a higher spiritual standing than the mightiest of kings.’

  She knew this, but she had forgotten it, laid it aside like any other ideal. ‘What about Nathan? Did he get on the ship?’

  ‘Yes,’ the Hoopoe replied. ‘On the ship to Jerusalem, his chains scraped across the wooden planks and the sounds disturbed the crew. They were jittery because of the bad weather they were encountering and their fear of pirates. A superstitious lot, they regarded Nathan as bad luck. It did not help that he introduced himself as a sinner in need of redemption, someone who had locked himself up in chains and thrown away the key. He was weighing down the ship. Dislike towards Nathan grew even more when the captain befriended him. This happened when the captain discovered that Nathan could read, write and, more importantly, play a good game of chess. It pleased the captain to find learned company, someone he could talk to about a diverse range of subjects, from monarchs to agriculture, from map making to astronomy.

  ‘The first mate became jealous of Nathan’s friendship with the captain. He mistreated Nathan by setting harder tasks for him on the ship and by giving him little or no food. Nathan accepted this as part of his penance. Wasn’t this why he had set out on this journey? He knew it would be a road littered with tricks. No matter how strong he was, or how weak, there would always be something heavy to carry. There would always be a puzzle that was hard to solve. Everything was mixed or running in parallel – the gains and the losses, the lies with the truth. Nathan did not report the first mate to the captain, but he did his best to remain in the captain’s company for as long as possible.

  ‘To do this, he told him stories from his native home. The story of the selkie very much captivated the captain. It went like this. Once, a fisherman heard singing at night. He waded in the river until he came upon a small island and beheld a magnificent sight. Three maidens naked under the moonlight were singing and dancing. The fisherman had never seen anything more beautiful. When the moon hid behind a cloud, the girls picked up what looked like fur coats from the ground and started to put them on. They were sealskins and, on wearing them, the girls transformed back into seals, lowered themselves into the water and swam away. On the following night, the fisherman was waiting for them. The seals swam ashore, shed their skins and became women. This time the fisherman was prepared. He crept with care, unseen, and stole one
of the skins. Quickly, he took it home and hid it in his house.

  ‘When the moon disappeared behind the cloud, the maidens put on their sealskins and slipped back into the water. All except one. She could not find her skin. No matter how hard she searched, it was not there. She called to her sisters, but they were already out of earshot. Frightened and forlorn, she sat shivering on the rocks. The fisherman made his approach. He appeared as her kind and gallant saviour. Gently, he coaxed her back to his hut. She went with him.

  ‘The fisherman was patient and cautious in his seduction. He provided her with clothes and as much jewellery as he could afford, he taught her to speak his language and to cook his food. Soon he had her as he wanted her to be: loving, grateful and dependent on no one in the world except him. But she did not like staying indoors and she did not stop searching for her sealskin. In all kinds of weather, she would be at the shore singing to her sisters. They would swim to her, bob their heads out of the water and look at her with sad eyes. How could she return to their world without her skin?

  ‘It became known in the village that the fisherman had taken a foreign wife. The villagers did not warm to her, but neither were they unkind. She remained a lonely figure, taking her daily walks to the sea, where she would sit on the rock and sing her strange song. The years passed, and she gave birth to two boys and two girls. They were beautiful children, free-spirited and healthy. Everyone was particularly impressed by how well they swam. Although they occupied her time and alleviated her homesickness, there was still an inner sadness in her, a restlessness for the life in the sea she had known, a longing for her sisters and cousins.

  ‘One rainy day as the children were playing in the attic, they came across a brown, furry bundle and took it down to their mother. She cried out when she saw her sealskin and understood immediately her husband’s treachery. The skin was glossy and alive, inviting her to step into it, to pick up the past where she had left off. But how could she abandon her children! She was distraught with indecision and anger. When her husband came home there was a big row while the children cowered with fear and confusion.

  ‘She was determined to leave. She would not stay. The fisherman pleaded. He was a man in love and she was a mother. This was a happy home. ‘‘No,’’ she said. ‘‘You are all happy, but I am out of place. I belong in the water.’’ ‘‘You are my wife,’’ he said. And so it went on until he shouted, ‘‘I should have burnt that skin, destroyed it once and for all, instead of hiding it. I will burn it now.’’

  ‘She fought him for the skin. They tugged and tussled, but he was stronger, and the skin fell with a thud into the fire. She dived after it and, although he pulled her out, much damage was done. Her skin was badly scorched, her beautiful face deformed and ugly. Watching her sealskin burn to ashes, she screamed in anguish as if she were the one dying.

  ‘From that day onwards, the fisherman no longer had a beautiful wife. Instead he had a bitter, ugly presence in his home, one that forever wished him ill and brought him bad luck.

  ‘After Nathan finished telling the captain the story of the selkie, he crept into his bedding below deck with thoughts of that beautiful woman who was on the land human and in the water seal. He was woken in the middle of the night by a warm, soft creature who put her arms around him and pressed her breasts against his body. She was molten and her heated breath was what had first woken him. She promised him that if he gave her his body, she would melt his chains. She was fire, she explained, and iron was hers to shape and to break; she was a flame and wood was hers to crush into ash. Did he not want to give up his chains, did he not want to abandon what was dragging and holding him back? She tempted and cajoled him; she mocked his reluctance and sneered at his indecision. Did he not believe in her power? She blew on the iron chain that was looped around his neck. He watched it glow in the dark, he felt it soften and scald his skin. With one more breath it would melt and his freedom would be complete. He swayed towards her and then suddenly tugged his chains away from her grasp. He wrestled and pushed her with all his strength. He turned away. The breath of a genie – because this was who she was, a shape-shifter, a half-demon – was not the way to his salvation. It could not be his just end. There was another way.

  ‘The ship arrived on shore and Nathan was on the road again. He was weaker but lighter on his feet, less healthy but quicker. How familiar these chains were to him now! They were almost a part of him. For hours, for days, he would forgot all about them until people pointed them out and asked for an explanation. What he did not forget, however, were his sins and the particular sin that had brought him all this way. He asked forgiveness at every step, under every tree, past every field. At every shrine he came upon, he would kneel and pray. One day, sudden acute hunger distracted him from his prayers. Leaving the shrine, he found a little boy selling fish. The fish were raw and not gutted, but they were available for the meagre sum Nathan could afford. He bought two fish and immediately gave one away to the leper who was always sitting at the entrance to the shrine. Nathan took his fish to a nearby trough of water. He washed it and split it open down the middle. Inside the body of the fish was the sign of his forgiveness.’

  ‘What was it?’ Iman interrupted.

  ‘The key, the very same key Nathan had locked his chains with and thrown in the river.’

  Before she could speak again, the Hoopoe was gone. When she looked outside the window, there was a speck flying towards the moon.

  Chapter Six

  Moni vowed not to leave the cottage. Not out of anger or any desire to make a statement. It was just that she was fulfilled in the cottage. Unlike Salma and Iman, she was not curious to explore the area. Very early in the morning, the phone signal was strong, and she managed to call the nursing home and speak to the night nurse just before she came off shift. Adam had had a fairly good night given that he was in new surroundings. This reassured Moni and cancelled the need to venture out in search of a stronger phone signal. She found a deckchair and when she was not busy in the kitchen, she sat in the garden, content to read Lady Evelyn’s book or doze. There were magazines in the cottage, but she avoided them. They were parenting magazines, Mother&Baby, The Green Parent. They did pique her interest, but she was worried that they might distress her and aggravate confused feelings about Adam. Since seeing him last, he had not stopped being at the forefront of her mind, between every thought, but her thoughts were becoming genial, uncomplicated memories of his nearness and voice. If she picked up a parenting magazine, a photograph, some words or an ad might disturb this tranquillity and plunge her back into the usual negativity. So, she stayed away from the magazines and from the television too. She made breakfast, washed the dishes and tided up. Then she sat in the garden and, after a while, especially because it wasn’t cold, she forgot where she was. Place wasn’t important any more. She could have been anywhere nice.

  She heard a thump and a ball hit her left shoulder and rolled onto the grass. The pain – sudden and sharp – shot through to her neck. She rubbed her shoulder and rolled her head from side to side, then stood and picked up the ball. She went to the front of the cottage and looked around. At first she couldn’t see him, but then she did. He was a beautiful little boy, with lively eyes and a mixture of chubby cheeks and loose, thin limbs that made him even more endearing. There was an energy in him, a friendly glow.

  ‘Is this your ball?’ she asked. It was a yellow football, hard under her fingers. It gave off a specific rubber smell. Perhaps it was new.

  He nodded, but instead of coming near her, he opened his arms. She tossed the ball to him and he caught it. It made her smile that she was able to throw the ball in the correct way. A way in which he could easily catch it. It would have been embarrassing if she had thrown it into the bushes or thrown it with too much force or too little. Then it would have hit him on the chest or even failed to traverse the distance between them.

  She thought he would say thank you and r
un off, maybe even just smile his appreciation. Instead he threw the ball back at her. She didn’t catch it and it rolled back towards the gate of the cottage. She lumbered towards it, thinking how long it had been since she had run or even gone for a brisk walk, if you didn’t count yesterday at the castle. Her body was an instrument for tending Adam, a piece of equipment for carrying, feeding and bathing him. She bent down to pick up the ball, stood up again and tossed it.

  This time she was ready when he threw the ball back. She caught it in time. They continued to throw the ball back and forth. She noticed that his blue T-shirt had a small logo that she couldn’t recognise. His shorts looked like they were too big for him – they reached his knees and once or twice he had to hitch them up as if they were sliding down. His feet were in canvas shoes that had most likely been white but were now streaked green and black with dirt. She tossed the ball and he reached out to catch it. He pitched the ball and she cradled it on her stomach, holding it while she asked him his name and if his family were staying at a nearby cottage. He seemed not to understand what she was asking. She threw the ball back at him and then found herself chatting to him, talking about their surroundings. He listened, his facial expressions responding to her words. When he started to show off his skills – how he could balance on a ledge or jump over a bush – she clapped and said, ‘Wow, how clever you are, how strong, how quick,’ which seemed to please him no end. After some time, without a goodbye, he picked up his ball and, carrying it under his arm, turned around and broke into a run. She wanted to shout after him, ‘Wait,’ but there was no reason to do so. She went back to her seat in the garden.

  Salma jogged after the man because he cleared a path for her. He was the leader, the one showing her the way. But he himself wasn’t clear. He wasn’t near enough, and this was part of the incentive to keep running, to try and minimise the distance between them so that she could see who he was, maybe even catch a glimpse of his face. Right now, he was a blur of brown hair and red T-shirt, long black running shorts. The only thing about him that was tangible and near was the imprint of his trainers. They were the evidence, the clues she could follow. She brought her feet down on each print and pushed through woodland park and in between trees. Sometimes she heard a twig snap, the thud of his shoes, a gravel swish when he skidded down a slope covered in leaves. Sometimes she heard birds screeching his presence, ruffled, and taking flight because of his advance. He kept running and she kept following. She thought she was catching up with him only to find that he was further away.