| THE LORELEI SIGNAL |
.
| Written by Kyle Hemmings / Artwork by Holly Eddy |
| Make a donation to this writer |
| The Bird Woman |
She says her name is Garuda and she misses the sun. You think she is odd, but you ask no questions
because you are homeless and where can you go?
The backroom smells of dust and feathers. It is crowded with wire bird cages, feeders and knickknacks,
ceramic or porcelain figures of little girls wearing pinafores, the boys, sailor suits, feeding starlings or carrying
them on their shoulders. You squint. On the far wall, you can't tell if the portrait is of Jesus or St. Francis. But
then, you figure, Jesus didn't wear a monk's robe. We only use organic, she says.
Something about the room makes you sad like the thought of men playing garmoshkas and people throwing
them pellets instead of coins. Across from you, she scribbles fragments of what you give up. The fingers of her
writing hand are dried petals. Occasionally, the old woman peers up and asks, if it's Katherine or Katy. You
shrug and say either will do. You notice she never looks directly at you. You tell her you are good caring for
sick birds, really, all animals, but you hope she doesn't ask for references.
She wanders away, opens the door to a small refrigerator, draws some clear liquid through a dropper. Come
here, she says, and help her find the one-quarter milliliter mark. The birds must be given their medicine twice
a day ,she says, once in the morning and in the evening.
Everything, she says is labeled.
She leads you into the outer room, the one where customers bring their exotic birds, damaged, victims of
mishaps, and points out the Macaw with the one eye that won't open, the Toucan with the broken foot, the
Cockatoo with a torn wing. She has names for all of them, like Millie or Gretchen or Spencer. She turns and
asks how old are you.
You are tempted to say it's on the application because you can't remember what you put down. Nineteen, you
tell her. And that's about as close to the truth as the woman who once beat you and gave you away. At least,
this one doesn't ask for references.
***
You are wandering about because wandering is something you do well. You are happy you landed a job,
found a temporary nest. One of nature’s requirements is that all birds either eat or starve. You look up and
notice a strange bird, bigger than any you’ve seen, one that flies alone. If you knew more about birds, you
would give it a genus, or at least, a name.
In this strange city, you skirt its parameters, the streets becoming narrow and sparse, the voices, low,
speaking in another tongue, and somewhere behind windows, you conjure a thousand unblinking eyes that
can no longer navigate beyond a safe distance. You take in everything as you drift.
In the coffee shop, you negotiate a price with a man wearing a pea coat, who asks you if you'd like another
slice of cheese cake, pineapple or cherry. Anything you want he says with an over-confident smile.
For some reason, he reminds you of the sea, a gray eternity of water, of men with rough-hewn faces,
spending hours knitting their fingers through gigantic nets, dreaming of the bodies of silver and sleek fish that
only dance for a few seconds. His skin is white, whiter than your stepfather's, and the winkles in his face are
tiny streets leading to the center of some town you wish to escape from, but know you'll keep returning to.
You imagine spending years returning to the same town, only with different names. Birds, you think, have a
tendency to return to places where they were either fed or chased away from.
He plays this game with you. Every time you mention a city, say Moscow, he tells you he's been there before
all the big changes. He mentions a street or a building you never heard of, or don't believe to exist.
In the motel room, he stands stiff in his silly pair of boxer shorts, asks how old are you. What he's really
demanding, you conclude, is to tell him a lie.
Nineteen, you say, do you want I.D.?
Smart-ass, he says.
You notice his wrists, thick, hairy, the big boned hands of men who spend lifetimes trying to wash the smell of
cod oil from them. You hold back a sneeze.
He asks you to massage his back, and then, he falls asleep. You grow claustrophobic in the room, so you take
his money and leave. You return to the city's graffiti walls, its mark-downs in windows, its intersections where
people wait, but for some reason, you never see them crossing. What will you tell the Bird Woman if she asks
you where have you been?
***
In the city park, you sit on a bench before a giant statue of Saint Francis. In his right hand, he holds a dove.
You study this, the exact turn and crease of his garments, the tilt of his head, the gentle smile, the bird with
outstretched wings perched in his palm.
You rise, excited, the way you became when called upon to play a part in a school play, when you were young
enough to believe pretending to be somebody was actually being that somebody. You stand before Saint
Francis, now larger than anything brass or metal, the way statues can come to life in movies or commercials.
With eyes closed, you ask him how is it you get these birds to fly back to you?
It’s second nature, he says.
Recovering your practical self, the self that demands clean sidewalks and safe landings, you think: It's getting
late. I must return to the Bird Woman.
It makes you sad to imagine that someday Garuda will go totally blind. Who will take care of her or her birds?
Why does everything fly back to the sun?
***
She points to an old cot, fold-up, and asks if you brought your clothes. You tell her they're in the knapsack.
It's not much, she concedes, but it's all she can give to a guest. Never once does she use the words, straggler
or runaway or sanctuary.
She says the bathroom is on the right and if you have to get up in the night, whatever you do, for God's sake,
don't disturb the birds. You can tell she is losing her sight by the way she tilts her head at your silence, stares
past your hands that are empty cups. You suspect she has a sixth sense about things, your past, the short
life span of non-indigenous birds.
Then she heads to her own room, no larger than a cubicle, mumbling something about how people never care
for their birds and the world is upon her shoulders.
No radios, she says, her voice growing distant, somewhat muted behind thin walls.
In the middle of the night, you awake. There is a strange growling in your stomach. You haven't had anything
since that stranger bought you ham steak and cheese cake. If only there are some crackers somewhere,
even a crust of bread will do. You begin to tip toe out the room, ever so careful not to wake up the Bird
Woman or her birds. The outer room is pitch black. You imagine the birds, their bodies, the outline of dark
spaces, their deformities, your most intimate secrets.
You stand before the Macaw, the one with the one eye shut, only now, it is both eyes. The thought amuses
you: at least one thing you and this bird have in common is that you are both breathing. And the world
cannot hear either of you.
The grumbling in your stomach is growing louder, demanding to be heard. You turn, your feet barely off the
ground, your thoughts morphing into strange untranslatable frequencies, in this dark space of a room, quiet
as a feather floating behind your eyes.
***
Months pass. One night you step lightly into Garuda’s room. She is lying stiff in a small cot, and you cannot
wake her. Even though you haven’t known her all your life, you want to cry because after all, she’s been your
mother for these past months. You are startled by the sound of flapping wings somewhere behind you.
You creep into the outer room and spot the huge bird, the one that’s been following you for weeks, beautiful
with blue streaks, standing on top of an empty cage. And because you are on the same wave length, you can
hear her thoughts. This bird says she is Garuda. Its eyes glisten a shade of topaz.
She tells you to unhinge all the doors and let the birds fly out from their cages.
You approach this beautiful bird cautiously.
With hands outstretched, you ask, how? They are sick birds.
She tilts her head towards you.
They will follow me, she says, I‘m taking them home.
You do as she says. At first, the birds stumble in their cages, some flitter, but they all fly out. You now open
the door to the store because Garuda has asked you to.
The flock streams out into the jet-ink sky of the night. It’s a miracle. It’s a secret. It’s your secret.
Now you know why you were put on this planet. Now you have a mission. You will continue Garuda’s work.
You will take in the sick birds of strangers. You will nurse them back to health. And when the day comes when
you are too old and wounded, when no one cares whether you’ve been fed, when your vision is too feeble—
Garuda will come back for you. You’ll see. You’ll see.
because you are homeless and where can you go?
The backroom smells of dust and feathers. It is crowded with wire bird cages, feeders and knickknacks,
ceramic or porcelain figures of little girls wearing pinafores, the boys, sailor suits, feeding starlings or carrying
them on their shoulders. You squint. On the far wall, you can't tell if the portrait is of Jesus or St. Francis. But
then, you figure, Jesus didn't wear a monk's robe. We only use organic, she says.
Something about the room makes you sad like the thought of men playing garmoshkas and people throwing
them pellets instead of coins. Across from you, she scribbles fragments of what you give up. The fingers of her
writing hand are dried petals. Occasionally, the old woman peers up and asks, if it's Katherine or Katy. You
shrug and say either will do. You notice she never looks directly at you. You tell her you are good caring for
sick birds, really, all animals, but you hope she doesn't ask for references.
She wanders away, opens the door to a small refrigerator, draws some clear liquid through a dropper. Come
here, she says, and help her find the one-quarter milliliter mark. The birds must be given their medicine twice
a day ,she says, once in the morning and in the evening.
Everything, she says is labeled.
She leads you into the outer room, the one where customers bring their exotic birds, damaged, victims of
mishaps, and points out the Macaw with the one eye that won't open, the Toucan with the broken foot, the
Cockatoo with a torn wing. She has names for all of them, like Millie or Gretchen or Spencer. She turns and
asks how old are you.
You are tempted to say it's on the application because you can't remember what you put down. Nineteen, you
tell her. And that's about as close to the truth as the woman who once beat you and gave you away. At least,
this one doesn't ask for references.
***
You are wandering about because wandering is something you do well. You are happy you landed a job,
found a temporary nest. One of nature’s requirements is that all birds either eat or starve. You look up and
notice a strange bird, bigger than any you’ve seen, one that flies alone. If you knew more about birds, you
would give it a genus, or at least, a name.
In this strange city, you skirt its parameters, the streets becoming narrow and sparse, the voices, low,
speaking in another tongue, and somewhere behind windows, you conjure a thousand unblinking eyes that
can no longer navigate beyond a safe distance. You take in everything as you drift.
In the coffee shop, you negotiate a price with a man wearing a pea coat, who asks you if you'd like another
slice of cheese cake, pineapple or cherry. Anything you want he says with an over-confident smile.
For some reason, he reminds you of the sea, a gray eternity of water, of men with rough-hewn faces,
spending hours knitting their fingers through gigantic nets, dreaming of the bodies of silver and sleek fish that
only dance for a few seconds. His skin is white, whiter than your stepfather's, and the winkles in his face are
tiny streets leading to the center of some town you wish to escape from, but know you'll keep returning to.
You imagine spending years returning to the same town, only with different names. Birds, you think, have a
tendency to return to places where they were either fed or chased away from.
He plays this game with you. Every time you mention a city, say Moscow, he tells you he's been there before
all the big changes. He mentions a street or a building you never heard of, or don't believe to exist.
In the motel room, he stands stiff in his silly pair of boxer shorts, asks how old are you. What he's really
demanding, you conclude, is to tell him a lie.
Nineteen, you say, do you want I.D.?
Smart-ass, he says.
You notice his wrists, thick, hairy, the big boned hands of men who spend lifetimes trying to wash the smell of
cod oil from them. You hold back a sneeze.
He asks you to massage his back, and then, he falls asleep. You grow claustrophobic in the room, so you take
his money and leave. You return to the city's graffiti walls, its mark-downs in windows, its intersections where
people wait, but for some reason, you never see them crossing. What will you tell the Bird Woman if she asks
you where have you been?
***
In the city park, you sit on a bench before a giant statue of Saint Francis. In his right hand, he holds a dove.
You study this, the exact turn and crease of his garments, the tilt of his head, the gentle smile, the bird with
outstretched wings perched in his palm.
You rise, excited, the way you became when called upon to play a part in a school play, when you were young
enough to believe pretending to be somebody was actually being that somebody. You stand before Saint
Francis, now larger than anything brass or metal, the way statues can come to life in movies or commercials.
With eyes closed, you ask him how is it you get these birds to fly back to you?
It’s second nature, he says.
Recovering your practical self, the self that demands clean sidewalks and safe landings, you think: It's getting
late. I must return to the Bird Woman.
It makes you sad to imagine that someday Garuda will go totally blind. Who will take care of her or her birds?
Why does everything fly back to the sun?
***
She points to an old cot, fold-up, and asks if you brought your clothes. You tell her they're in the knapsack.
It's not much, she concedes, but it's all she can give to a guest. Never once does she use the words, straggler
or runaway or sanctuary.
She says the bathroom is on the right and if you have to get up in the night, whatever you do, for God's sake,
don't disturb the birds. You can tell she is losing her sight by the way she tilts her head at your silence, stares
past your hands that are empty cups. You suspect she has a sixth sense about things, your past, the short
life span of non-indigenous birds.
Then she heads to her own room, no larger than a cubicle, mumbling something about how people never care
for their birds and the world is upon her shoulders.
No radios, she says, her voice growing distant, somewhat muted behind thin walls.
In the middle of the night, you awake. There is a strange growling in your stomach. You haven't had anything
since that stranger bought you ham steak and cheese cake. If only there are some crackers somewhere,
even a crust of bread will do. You begin to tip toe out the room, ever so careful not to wake up the Bird
Woman or her birds. The outer room is pitch black. You imagine the birds, their bodies, the outline of dark
spaces, their deformities, your most intimate secrets.
You stand before the Macaw, the one with the one eye shut, only now, it is both eyes. The thought amuses
you: at least one thing you and this bird have in common is that you are both breathing. And the world
cannot hear either of you.
The grumbling in your stomach is growing louder, demanding to be heard. You turn, your feet barely off the
ground, your thoughts morphing into strange untranslatable frequencies, in this dark space of a room, quiet
as a feather floating behind your eyes.
***
Months pass. One night you step lightly into Garuda’s room. She is lying stiff in a small cot, and you cannot
wake her. Even though you haven’t known her all your life, you want to cry because after all, she’s been your
mother for these past months. You are startled by the sound of flapping wings somewhere behind you.
You creep into the outer room and spot the huge bird, the one that’s been following you for weeks, beautiful
with blue streaks, standing on top of an empty cage. And because you are on the same wave length, you can
hear her thoughts. This bird says she is Garuda. Its eyes glisten a shade of topaz.
She tells you to unhinge all the doors and let the birds fly out from their cages.
You approach this beautiful bird cautiously.
With hands outstretched, you ask, how? They are sick birds.
She tilts her head towards you.
They will follow me, she says, I‘m taking them home.
You do as she says. At first, the birds stumble in their cages, some flitter, but they all fly out. You now open
the door to the store because Garuda has asked you to.
The flock streams out into the jet-ink sky of the night. It’s a miracle. It’s a secret. It’s your secret.
Now you know why you were put on this planet. Now you have a mission. You will continue Garuda’s work.
You will take in the sick birds of strangers. You will nurse them back to health. And when the day comes when
you are too old and wounded, when no one cares whether you’ve been fed, when your vision is too feeble—
Garuda will come back for you. You’ll see. You’ll see.
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