Bluebird: A Song of Sin and Sadness
by Michael Roach
“If they should come up much before you
I would not ever try to capture you
Bluebird, where you gonna go now?
Scenes change
Before they are over
Before they are over”
— “Bluebird”, Beach House
She was born in the dead of winter, but she was a summer child thru and thru. She was one of four, the last to hatch but the first to fly. For 40 days and 40 nights she remained near her family, and by the start of spring she was on her own.
...
It was early summer when the hunter first set his sights upon her. He had heard her song as he was passing thru the woods with his trusty bow and quiver full of arrows. The sound had stopped him in his tracks, made him look here and made him look there, nearly touched his tainted heart and brought a tear to his wayward eye before he realized what it was. He gazed up into the leaves shadowing the clearing in which he stood, and that is when he saw her. Their eyes met and her song suddenly stopped, as if caught in her throat. For a moment neither made a move, each unsure of the other's intention. The hunter was stricken, his mouth agape. For the first time in many years he felt something in his soul, a certain flame that had long ago been extinguished by a devilish hand. The feeling nearly made him forget his reason for coming to these woods on this day, but then, as quickly as it had slipped away, his true purpose returned into focus. As he reached a hand back to pull an arrow from his quiver, however, the bluebird leapt from her branch and spun around to face away from him. She shook her little tail feathers and flapped her little wings, and she was gone, whistling her tune as she flew out of sight. If he was not who he was, it might have been sadness that washed over him in that moment; but he was who he was, and so it was something much more sinister that possessed him then and refused to let go. As her song left his ears and he was left with nothing but the wind in the trees and the groans of their limbs, only one thing echoed in the recesses of his mind: “She belongs to me.”
...
She could not quite place a feather on it, but something about that man and his curved stick unnerved the bluebird as she flew away. She sang her song now not to amuse herself but to comfort herself, and for many days after that encounter she could not shake the fear that had crept into her heart. What had he been about to do? What would have happened if she had not flown away? She had learned, personally, of snakes and cats but heard only whispers of a creature such as that. She decided that she would never again take such a chance. The next time she saw a man, she would fly away as fast as she could.
...
The hunter returned to that clearing every day for many weeks in the hope of crossing paths again with that bluebird, but he could not find her. Some days he thought he could hear her song, ever so faintly, somewhere in those woods, but the sound was swept away with the passing wind. It was maddening. He was certain that she was taunting him, teasing him for having been unable to catch her, and this only fueled that wicked urge that had embedded itself deep within him. As summer died and the leaves began to fall from their branches, his search continued still. Gripping his bow so tightly that his knuckles turned white, he muttered hotly under his breath, “Mark my words: That bird is mine.”
...
It had been many months since the bluebird last saw the hunter. She could hear his stomping, so angry and distinct, but she did not see him again that summer. As much as the company of her friends gave her comfort, she found that she preferred much more to be alone with the sound of her song. Her friends provided her with a distraction from the fear she could not shake, but they were just that: a distraction; for as long as she was in their midst, she was distracted, and that meant she could not listen out for the stomping of the man. All alone she would sit on her perch and sing her little song, and only then would she be able to hear him coming. She had to be able to hear him coming.
The coming of fall only served to sadden the bluebird even more. She wished it could be summer forever. Altho the man and his curved stick had haunted her the whole time, there was something about the summertime sun that brightened her mood. Her song had been prettier, she felt, her feathers lovelier, under the glow of that radiant thing. Now it was so often hidden behind clouds of gray; now the leaves were dead and gone, the branches on which she perched bare and broken. She felt exposed in a way she had never felt before, and this added to the fear in her little heart. If ever there was the chance that the man would see her before she saw him, it was during these days of fall.
One day the bluebird was perched upon a branch overlooking a clearing, a different clearing from the one in which she had first crossed paths with the hunter. She herself had been hunting for food for several hours but to no avail, and now she was tired, almost falling asleep where she sat in the tree. As the sun was setting somewhere in the distance, casting a few lonely rays her way, a strange feeling washed over her. She had the unshakable feeling that she was being watched, but she had not heard anyone approach. Jolting completely awake, she peered down into the clearing over which she had been keeping guard, and that is when she saw him.
It was a man. No, not the man that had so frightened her that day many months ago, but a man nonetheless, only the second she had ever seen in her short time on this earth. He was standing there at the edge of the clearing, peering back up at her with a look of innocent curiosity. He held nothing in his hands, no curved stick or any other thing that could conceivably do her harm. He only stood there and watched, watched as he had, it seemed, for some time already. How long had he been watching her? She could not be sure, but it had to have been for longer than she had known he was there. And yet, to her immense surprise, he had made no move toward her.
Their eyes met from across the clearing, and just like that a smile spread across the man’s face. She had never seen a man smile before — the hunter had only gaped at her like a fish out of water — but there was something about the expression that put her at ease. Her instinct told her to flee, but she chose not to. Could this man truly mean her no harm? It was a compelling thought, one she had believed she could never have about such a creature, and yet it seemed to be true: He truly meant her no harm. For the first time in her life, the thought of a man did not fill her with fear. For the first time in her life, the thought in fact filled her with joy.
At this point she wondered what the standard procedure was. If there was one thing she knew, it was that there was no way that they could speak to each other. She could speak to other birds, but it seemed, no matter how hard she tried, she was unable to speak to any creature so different from her. Still, she had to try. Such an opportunity might never arise again. She thoroughly enjoyed the sound of her own song and wondered if it might be pleasing for him to hear as well. And so, in an effort of good faith, she began to sing. She huffed and she puffed, and that sweet music poured from her beak, pregnant with a passion that she had never felt before. And the man’s smile broadened, and she knew she was doing something right.
She continued her song for several minutes until she had reached a suitable climax, a crescendo of that novel passion, and concluded with a satisfying coda. For the time that she sang, the man made no move toward her, only watched her from across the clearing. By the time she had finished, something else was streaming across his face. Tears were falling down his cheeks. Was it sadness he was feeling? She truly hoped not. It had not been her intent to sadden him. Despite the tears, he was still smiling, and so she took it to be a good thing. With a few final chirps down at the watching man, she flapped her wings and took flight, exhilarated in a way she had not thought was possible.
...
The man stood frozen there in the clearing for several minutes after the bluebird had departed. He wept for several minutes after she had finished her song. Never before had he heard such beauty from the mouth of any creature. He wished she had not stopped, tho he was content to let her go on her way. After some time he gathered his feelings from the puddle they had made all around him and departed from that clearing to which fate had carried him that day.
The watcher returned to that clearing every day in the hope of crossing paths again with that bluebird. Every day he prayed he would see her again, and lo, some days, he did. He could tell she was not quite sure about him, and so when they did cross paths, on that off chance, he stopped dead in his tracks and only smiled up at her. By the sound of her song during these moments of fate, he judged this to be acceptable. Every encounter they had with each other, he grew more and more resolute in the vow he had made to himself after their first one: He would never give her reason to fear him.
One day as he was passing thru the woods on his way to that clearing, the watcher crossed paths with someone else. It was a man, evidently a hunter, with a bow in his hand, a quiver on his back, and a silly little hat atop his head. A feather stuck out of the brim of the cap, and the watcher immediately grew uneasy in the presence of the other man. When the hunter caught sight of him, he sneered, as tho the watcher were the last person he wanted to see. The hunter was about to continue on his way before the watcher opened his mouth.
“What are you doing?” asked the watcher.
“I am hunting,” said the hunter.
“Hunting for what?”
“A bluebird. I saw her once many months ago and decided then that I had to have her.”
The watcher’s stomach turned at that. Could this man be referring to the same little bird that he himself had befriended?
“You have been hunting her since then?” the watcher inquired.
“Every day. Her song is like nothing I have ever heard before. I hear it often, but I’ve not seen her since that day. I think she is taunting me.”
Now the watcher sneered at the hunter. “I think she is afraid of you. I’ve not had any trouble finding her since first I saw her.”
“You know that little bird?” the hunter said, the sneer giving way to surprise. “What is your secret?”
“I am not hunting her,” stated the watcher simply. “I merely watch her from afar, and she sings her song for me. Tell me, Hunter, do you not tire of chasing that bird all day?”
“It tires me, but I shall rest when I am finished with her. Are you truly content with merely watching her from afar, Watcher?”
“It contents me to see her true and free.”
“True and free? And what do you get out of that?”
“It gives me happiness. And you, if you were to catch her, what would you get out of that?”
“It would give me pleasure.”
“Pleasure,” repeated the watcher. His voice now dripped with utter disdain. “And what of her pleasure? Her happiness?”
“What should that matter to me? I am a hunter, and she is but a little bird. She belongs to me. Such is the way of the woods, dear Watcher. You would do well to remember that.”
“I will remember that, Hunter. Do not mistake me. Now, will you allow me to leave?”
“Allow you? It was you who stopped me, Watcher, not the other way around. I have no interest in you. There is but one object of my interest these days.”
And the hunter went on his way, turning his nose up at the watcher as he went. The watcher stood there for some time, fuming. The enormity of that man! The depravity! Had he no shame, no heart? The watcher decided then and there that he hated that man. They had had but one conversation, and yet he hated him. He prayed they would never cross paths again; more than that, he prayed that villain would never cross paths again with that impeccable little bird.
...
What an arrogant little man, the hunter thought to himself as he walked away. What authority did that watcher have, what right, to speak to him in such a way? Did he truly consider himself above reproach, simply because the bird revealed herself to him voluntarily? Did he truly consider himself without sin, simply because he watched rather than hunted? No man is without sin. The hunter and the watcher are but two sides of the same coin; it is only that one is not afraid to take what he wants. “I ought to hunt him, if he truly believes himself superior to me.”
The idea came to him as he walked deeper into the woods in his search for the bluebird. If the man spoke true, if it was true that he could find the bird without trouble, then all the hunter would have to do was follow him until the bird revealed herself to him as she apparently so willingly did. Then the hunter would have her all to himself. What a stupid little man, thought the hunter; his arrogance would be the downfall of that pretty little bird.
Altho it had taken but a few minutes for the idea to strike him, it took several days after their first encounter for the hunter to happen across the watcher again. Fall was drawing to a close, and the chill of winter was rapidly filling the air. The first frost had not yet come, but the cold hardness of the forest floor made it easier to track the watcher’s path thru the fallen leaves. After several hours of following delicately in the man’s wake, the hunter at last spotted him not far ahead. He was approaching a clearing in the wood, not very unlike the one in which the hunter had first come across the bluebird. As the watcher entered the clearing, a sweet sound rang out as if to greet him, a sound the hunter had not heard so clearly for months, a sound that nearly stopped him in his tracks and almost, almost made him think twice about what he was about to do. The bluebird’s song almost made the hunter reconsider the sin he was about to commit. But he was not, in the end, swayed. His pace, instead, quickened as he neared the clearing and the sound grew louder. Nothing was going to stop him from what he desired so desperately to do.
...
The watcher smiled as he heard the song and laid eyes upon its lovely source. The bluebird whistled joyfully as she laid eyes upon the watcher, watching as he came to stop beside the jagged stump of a fallen tree. What a beautiful coincidence it had been that they had found each other; what a beautiful time they had had sharing each other’s company those past several weeks. So intimately had the watcher come to know the bluebird; so profoundly had he come to understand her. That hunter would never know anything so gentle, so pure. He would never know what it was like to love anything other than himself.
A terrible thing happened then: The bluebird faltered in her song and fell silent. The sweet sound dissipated and died like the leaves on the ground. Her eyes had broken away from his and widened at something he could not see. As if possessed by something frightful, she began to flap her wings wildly from up on her perch, and a noise such as the watcher had never heard escaped her beak, a noise of utmost distress, a most heartbreaking noise. The watcher turned on his heel, and his broken heart in that moment broke all the more.
The hunter was entering the clearing, an arrow already nocked on his bow and a wicked determination on his face that frightened even the watcher. He drew back the arrow as he stopped near the other man. The wood of the bow creaked as it gave way to its holder’s will. The hunter breathed in as he took aim at his target.
“No!” cried the watcher. “What are you doing?”
"You know what I want," muttered the hunter, not taking his eyes off the bluebird. Letting out his breath as he uttered the words, he took in another as he set his sights again.
“You cannot! You shall not!”
The watcher stepped in front of the hunter and raised his arms. He took a step closer and dropped his arms upon the hunter’s. The hunter stumbled back, his eyes filled with a fear he so rarely felt. As he fell back, he loosed the arrow in his bow. The arrow skewered the watcher thru the heart and he collapsed to the ground. The hunter, unable to regain his footing, dropped onto the jagged stump, which pierced him thru the back. The men, together, groaned in agony where they now lay, and theirs were now the only sounds that filled the air of that clearing. Their song of pain and sorrow was the only one that rang out from that clearing in the wood.
...
The bluebird watched all this in a most abject horror. The only two men she had ever known lay dying before her. For a long time she sat motionless up on her perch, unable even to think of moving. It was only when the watcher had turned his head to look in her direction that she at least gathered the courage to leap from her branch and soar down toward her failing friend.
Blood seeped from the corner of his mouth. When she landed on his chest, she could see that tears too were sliding down his face. She let out a few pitiful chirps, in the hope that maybe he would smile at her, as he always did, but he did not. Slowly, as if even the slight movement added greatly to his pain, he turned his head back to look down at her standing on his chest. Their eyes met, more closely than they ever had before. The bluebird considered him, tilting her little head from side to side as she tried to hold onto the light that was quickly fading from his eyes. Without even thinking, she opened her mouth and let out a gentle lament. As her friend slipped away before her very eyes, she sang to him a final time.
One last plume of ragged breath billowed past his lips before he fell very still. Behind her, the hunter was making no more noise. She did not know whether this meant that he too had gone, but she refused to look. She refused to take her eyes off her friend. As she watched him, flakes began to speckle his expressionless face. Only then did she look away from him to see snow falling from the sky. As tho this sight spoke to something deep within her, she took flight without a second thought, and she was alone in the world again.