A
friend’s recent mention of Alfred Hitchcock’s classic film, The Birds, reminded me of this story of
mine, based on Irish mythology and published in 2014 at Eternal Haunted Summer. May it give you a shiver on
this summer day!
***
Two Black Birds
The morning after his tryst with the queen, Dermott
Donn stood before the high king’s judgment seat. He was unbound¾a courtesy as a
noble of the kingdom. But under his plaid the skin of his back shrank against
his spine, trying to distance itself from the spears of the king’s bodyguard.
The queen sat beside her husband, looking at nothing except the little pet of a
jackdaw perched on her gloved hand.
“My wife says you accosted her at the hunt,” the high
king said. “How do you answer that?”
Dermott glanced at the queen. Surely, she had some
plausible story prepared against this mishap. He had only to let her speak, to
follow whatever lead she gave him.
Her face was pale as a dead woman’s, but her fingers
never trembled, stroking her bird’s glossy black feathers.
“You came back with the mark of her whip on your
face,” the king said. “Have you nothing to say in your defense?”
The queen’s lips¾her lovely, lying lips¾moved as she
played with her pet. But no sound came from her mouth. Why did she not speak?
Would she sit fondling her wretched bird while he twisted at the end of a rope?
He hated the bird, the talking jackdaw she was besotted on. Hated it from the
first moment its glass-shard eyes glinted at him from amid its black feathers.
Hated it from the first moment he heard it shrieking human words with its
inhuman voice.
But he shouldn’t hold that against the queen. She was
so friendless at court, with none but her pet for company, until he arrived.
She could not mean him any harm, beautiful and lonely as she was. She would
recover herself and speak for him. And he would live, would regain the king’s
favor. Only he would wring the neck of that miserable bird, some day, some
night when the queen was not watching.
He became aware of the king’s silence, waiting for his
answer.
“My lord,” Dermott said, “it is as I told you before.
Your lady left faint during the hunt. We turned aside to let her rest. By the
time she recovered, the hunt was over, so we returned to the castle. That is
all.”
The moment I saw you, the queen had said,
with your lips red as a girl’s, and your smooth white forehead, and the brows
over your bright eyes black as a corby’s wings, I loved you.
The king turned from Dermott abruptly. “Bring in the
groom.”
 |
| image: pixabay |
Inside the woodsman’s hut where they lay,
the queen loosed the jackdaw from its cage.
t fluttered about, chattering and crying, “kiss me sweetheart kiss me
sweetheart!” The queen still laughed at her pet when they heard the groom
returning. Gesturing to Dermott to stay quiet, she went out, leaving the door
partly open for him to listen.
“The young gentleman’s horse was loose, cropping
grass, when I got back,” the groom said. “There was no one about. I thought
maybe the queen went inside the hut to rest, so I called, not wanting to seem
forward.”
A low, broken melody interrupted the groom’s
testimony. Dermott’s gaze went to the queen, still with eyes for nothing but
her little bird. She crooned a childish
song, “Jackie, jackie, will you stay? Jackie, jackie, will you play?”
“Stay, play,” the bird piped.
Is she mad, Dermott wondered. She can’t be. She was as
sane as I yesterday. Is she feigning or have horror and grief broken her mind?
“And then?” the king asked, returning to the groom.
“And then, in a little while, she comes out.”
“My lord king,” Dermott said, “I have told you all
this before. Why waste your time with this villein?”
“Was she alone?” the king asked the groom.
“I thought so,” the groom said. “Least, I saw nobody
else. Then.”
“Then? But afterward you saw someone, heard someone?”
“Nothing at first. Nothing but that bird of hers. She
sets more store by it than by any human creature.”
Dermott had slipped to the queen’s side
when the groom’s footsteps faded. “There’s nothing to worry yourself about. No
one will believe the word of a churl against your word. Or mine.”
“Perhaps,” she said, “but for good
measure. . . .” And she struck him across the face with her riding whip.
“Then, of a sudden,” the groom said, “I hear someone
cry out. I look back and there was the young gentleman standing beside the
queen, with the mark of a lash red on his face. And the bird says, clear as day¾”
“Kiss me sweetheart! Kiss me sweetheart!” the jackdaw
shrieked from its perch on the queen’s finger.
Dermott leaped to the queen’s side, tore the bird from
her hands and wrung its neck.
Blows from the guards
left him dazed on the rush-strewn floor. The queen cradled the bird’s small
body to her breast, tears streaming down her face.
“Your guilty action
speaks for itself,” the king said. “Only the service your father did me, for
which I swore to him when he lay dying to treat you as my own son, forces me to
spare you. I banish you! Never show your face in my court again!”
Before the morning passed
to noon, Dermott left the king’s castle.
As he passed out of the gate, a woman’s voice cried out behind him. The
queen’s voice. He looked back. She leaned from the window of a high tower, arms
raised as if she would fly, calling to him. Calling in terror, in desperate
fear.
Then she disappeared from
the window embrasure so suddenly he thought she must have fallen. But no
woman’s body lay broken on the stones at the tower’s base. Instead, a great
black bird sprang from the window high into the sky. Behind it, the shutters
slapped closed.
Had the queen tossed the
bird into the air? He had never seen it in her rooms before, a creature as
large as a carrion crow. And why had her cry broken off? Had hurtful hands
seized her?
He turned to run back to
her, but the gate was barred against him. He shook the bars, demanding reentry.
The porter only laughed grimly and retreated out of reach of his sword.
Snow began to fall as he
stood watching, listening for some sound more. Nothing. Shaking snowflakes from
his hood and cloak, he trudged down the road. The snow fell faster, heaping on
the still unshed leaves of holm oak, bay and holly by the roadside. The corby
that had flown from the queen’s window circled overhead, following him,
croaking raucously. Scraping a handful of pebbles from the road’s verge,
Dermott flung them at the bird.
He would have vengeance
for his disgrace. He was still lord of his own lands. When the season for war
came, his father’s kin would stand by him, his mother’s kin would come from
over the water, crying for justice against the king. Justice and war.
He walked on. But over
his shoulder, he was aware of the corby still following, black as a sin.
The sun had dimmed to a
luminous haze in the west when Dermott stopped to devour the bread and meat
saved from last night’s supper and take a swig of wine from his flask. He
fingered the flint and iron in the pouch under the dark plaid of his cloak,
wondering whether he dared stop long enough to light a fire. But dusk fell fast
this close to winter, and there were wolves in the forest and masterless men on
the roads. Better not delay.
The corby hopped to the
ground, prowling close. Dermott threw the crumbs of his meal onto the snow and
the bird gulped them down. Cocking its head, it examined him with snake-like
eyes, then leaped into the air, flying first down the road on which he had
come, then back again, croaking.
As the echo of the bird’s
cries died, another sound followed. The beat of hoofs. Then the jingle of armor
and arms¾so
much for the high king’s promise of mercy. If not for the bird’s warning,
Dermott would have been caught in the open.
He plunged off the road,
toward the forest to take cover. The snow slowed his speed to a staggering run,
but it couldn’t fall fast enough to cover his tracks. The rumble of hoof beats
on the freezing road grew louder. The corby rose higher over the treetops,
circling him, marking where he stood for all to see.
He stared at the black
bird in desperation, not daring to shout at it. Wasn’t it only a bird? It
couldn’t know it was, unwitting, marking him for death.
He found a tree broad
enough to shield his back and prepared to die.
Three riders wearing the
high king’s insignia came into view around the curve of the road, dark against
the snow. The creak of leather harness, the clink of the iron plates of their
armor and the snorting of the horses carried clear in the chill air.
Dermott stood against an
oak, its branches, still clothed thickly in unshed brown leaves, dipping low to
the ground. The horsemen galloped past him on the furlong-distant road. In the
deepening dusk, they had gone too swiftly to mark the fading track where he
left the road. He dared breathe again.
The corby lighted on the
topmost branch of the sheltering oak. It flapped its wings and shrieked. At the
sound, the last horseman slowed his mount and looked back. A final ray of sun
broke through the clouds, glinting on the metal of Dermott’s unsheathed sword.
The hunt swirled toward him.
Dermott sprang for a
branch and climbed, frantic to get beyond reach of their spears. At a signal
from the tallest of the three guards, they took their horses’ reins and moved
away, covering themselves with their shields. They stopped out of bow range. If
they kept him treed all night, more of the high king’s men might arrive.
Full dark had now come, and he could only see the men
as shadows against the snow when they moved from under the oak. Could he drop
to the ground on the side away from them and slip away? Before he could act,
they spread a perimeter around the great tree, each out of sight of the others,
but so close no one could pass between them unseen.
Dermott crept to the end of a branch over the head of
the shortest guard, dropping to the snow.
The man’s thrashing as his life flowed over the snow
echoed loudly in Dermott’s ears.
“Fergus?” The voice came from further around the oak.
“You got him?”
Dermott pulled off the fallen man’s helmet and clapped
it on his own head. He knelt, hiding his face as much as possible within the
helmet’s shadow, fearing the faint radiance of the snow would let the
approaching guard descry his face.
The second man drew near. “Here’s one bird will fly no
more.” He kicked the fallen man onto his back. Then, “Gods!” as he caught sight
of the dead face turned toward him.
Dermott lunged upward, striking under the hem of the
man’s coat of iron mail. But as he tried to pull the sword free, it caught on
something unyielding, grating against bone. More shouting. The third warrior
charged, spear brandished.
Dermott let go of the useless sword and flung himself
for cover behind the dying man. His knife slipped from his cold-numbed hand as
he gripped the other’s belt, holding the convulsing body like a shield. With a
yell, the spearman thrust his weapon its full length through his dying fellow.
Dermott dropped his hold, throwing himself to one side
as the spearhead ripped through his tunic, scraping across his ribs. He fell,
the dead warrior atop him. The sword of the surviving warrior, the tallest one,
hissed from its scabbard.
As the warrior raised his sword in both hands, Dermott
slipped in the muck of bloody snow. He threw out an arm and felt his hand light
on a stick of deadwood. From the ground, he swung it against the swordsman’s
leg. The man pitched forward. Dermott leaped on him, kneeling with a knee
against the writhing warrior’s back, beating the man’s wrists until the sword
dropped to the ground. Dermott snatched it and struck.
He fell to the ground beside the dead man, too
exhausted to move.
When next he knew anything, snow lay cold on his face.
A pale dawn lighted the sky. He staggered to his feet.
A flock of corbies covered the dead men, tearing at
them, soiling the snow with red meat. The horses were nowhere in sight. Dermott
walked around the tree, picking up a sword here, a cloak there. The birds moved
aside, too busy feeding to flee. The largest among them paused to glance at
him.
“What are you?” Dermott asked. “Are you satisfied?
Have you had blood enough?”
As he spoke, there was a clamor from the road¾hoof beats,
women’s laughter, the jingle of bells. He heaved himself into the branches and
waited for the end.
The party came in sight¾a man riding alone, another with a woman
on a pillion behind him, a servant with a pack mule, and a girl whose hair
gleamed red under the hood of her riding cloak.
“Uncle,” she said, “what
is it yonder the birds are fighting over?”
The older of the men
hardly spared a glance. “Deer brought down by wolves that the corbies found to
strip the bones of. Come along.”
They had passed when the
girl leaned a hand back on her saddle crupper to stare at the wreckage
scattered over the snow. She straightened suddenly. “Uncle, I think it’s men!”
“If it is, there’s
nothing we can do for them. Outlaws who got what they deserved, I don’t doubt.
Don’t lag behind gawking. You’ve a wedding to prepare for.”
She spurred her horse to
gain her uncle’s side and leaned against him, shivering.
“No matter who they
were,” she said, “there must be someone looking for them. What if they have
mothers living still?”
“Their dams will wait as
long as young Dermott’s before she sees him coming home again,” her uncle said.
At the sound of his name,
Dermott leaned forward, desperate to catch their words before they passed out
of hearing.
“Angus’s son, you mean?”
the girl asked.
“The very one.”
“Why do you speak so of
him?”
“Too many questions.”
“Just one more, uncle.
One more, if you please. You said the queen was dead, but I’ve seen no one in
mourning as we passed. Has she been dead so very long?”
He looked up at the sky,
reckoning on his fingers. “By my figuring, lass, she will have died yester
e’en.”
“But you said, when the
summons came from the high king three days ago, it was to ask for my hand in
marriage.”
The girl’s face went so
pale, white as the snow, so white Dermott could make out the sprinkle of
freckles across her cheeks even across the distance between them.
“Why does the king want a
new wife so quick after the last one died?” she asked, a quaver in her voice.
“Because that’s the
nature of kings. And a fine thing for you it is. This is the chance I’ve been
waiting for ever since the news came that Angus’s widow was fool enough to send
that pretty-faced boy of hers to court.”
The girl looked again at
the blood and bones and the black birds fighting over them in the snow.
“A terrible sight,” she
said, still with the sick trembling in her voice. “But in some ways a fine one¾the red and the
white and the black. I think I could love a man who had those three colors in
his face. I wonder, does the king have black hair?”
“The old king will be
lucky if he has any hair on his head, much less a black one.”
A bend in the road hid
them from Dermott’s sight. He thought of the queen, not with rage now, but
pity, pity for her life ended too soon, knowing her heart must have hammered
with the terror of a hunted doe even while she lay in his arms, smiling her
false smile. Now the red-haired maiden was to be drawn into the same trap. The
girl who had pitied him, had pitied the dead. He clambered down from the tree
to follow. Behind him, the whir of wings rose into the sky.
THE
END
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