Bird

 

She arrived alone and wandered the mountainous forests alone. In complete silence, on scorching days, she climbed the highest peaks, accompanied only by her weary breath. As she rested, the only sound in the heat-stirring air was the summer dance of flies to the rhythm of their buzzing wings.

Summer. Everything lives, labors, rushes. And she rests, apart from events like a stone basking by the roadside.

One day, she found an old house at the very top. Covered on three sides by forest, on the fourth, a wooden veranda with a sweeping view down the wooded valley. She so desperately wanted to see the world stretching out from the veranda that she without hesitation asked someone in the house to come up to the veranda. More than one traveler had already requested it, so the hosts, unsurprised, agreed. The girl began to come every day. She found this place where all her sadness turns into song: beauty flows down the valley, through the herb garden and the orchard, into the forest, all the way to a perpetually shaded, cool spot at the very bottom of the valley, to join the stream and vanish somewhere beyond, beyond the horizon. The view from the veranda is like balm to her aching soul. In the corner, on the wooden planks, a mat is placed. She always sits there.

The girl is mentally talking to someone: inside, she hears the voice of the house, or rather, the voice of the valley. A connection is slowly being established between them, so small that she sees nothing unusual in what is happening. The house holds leisurely conversations with her, listens to her confidences, sometimes suggests happier thoughts, entertains her. As the days pass, the girl spends more and more time on the veranda. In fact, she's stopped leaving it altogether. The sound of the place is barely audible: you can't even hear it at the other end of the porch. So the girl stops leaving her mat in the corner altogether. The events before her arrival have left her numb. She just sits there.

One day, a family member, also a young girl, is hanging laundry on the porch. A regular, cheerful girl. She's not nosy, just friendly. She wants to make contact with the Mysterious One.

"It's strange how young girls take such a liking to the corner of our porch.

" "Yes?" the Mysterious One says without emotion

. "Before you, others used to sit here just like you."

The family member hangs a sheet on the end of a clothesline, across the porch.

"Do you mind if I block you out?

" "No, why not?"

- Well, you might feel like you're in prison: I'm leaving you only a small window with a view down the valley.

The young woman leaves. The mysterious woman begins to think. Indeed. The house is incredibly nice, but is that a reason to abandon all activity? She's possessed. And what about the other girls? The ones who were also sitting on that mat. What happened to them? The voice of the house falls silent. The girl begins to feel afraid. She stands up and tries to leave. The boards beneath her feet creak and squeak more and more. She feels that the veranda and the house will soon collapse into the abyss. She runs, unable to see the end of the wooden floor. Truly, everything is collapsing! The girl seems to be moving, but the veranda stretches endlessly, there's no escape.

Then she turns toward the railing and spreads her arms. No: these are wings! With a few powerful movements, she pushes off the boards, off the house, and is already soaring over the valley. Like a hawk.

"I am a bird." Why did I forget about this?... she thought. And then she didn't have to think anymore, because again she simply felt.

The house still stood on the precipice, like a nest, and high above, birds flew in the sun. There seemed to be one more here than usual today.