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.
