by A. C. Wise
She told me everything I needed to know, Will, but I didn’t know how to listen.
I didn’t know how to listen when you told me you needed help all those years ago. The empty bottles, the needles; I refused to see it because I didn’t want it to be true. I should have listened. I miss you, Will.
Yours, always,
Ray
*
Personal Correspondence
Raymond Barrow
October 20, 1955
Dear Ray,
This is it, our big night. The Secret of Flight opens, and I don’t know what will happen after that. There’s something I’m going to try, Ray, and if it doesn’t work, I might not see you again. So I wanted to say thank you for everything you’ve done for me, and everything you tried to do. You’re a good friend. I don’t have many of those, so believe me when I say our time together meant a lot to me even though I couldn’t tell you everything about me. Instead, I’m giving you this story. It’s the best I can do, Ray. I hope you’ll understand.
Love,
Clara
The Starling and the Fox
Once upon a time, there was a fox, and there was a starling. They weren’t really a fox and a starling, they only looked that way from the outside, but for the purposes of this story, those names will do. This happened far away, in another country, many years ago.
The starling was flying, minding her own business, when she spotted a tree with lovely branches. She landed on one and discovered a fox lying across the tree’s roots, crying piteously.
“Oh, they have killed me,” the fox said. “I shall die if you don’t aid me.”
The starling couldn’t see anything wrong with the fox, but she didn’t see the harm in helping him either.
“What is it you need, sir fox?” she asked him.
“Only a feather from your beautiful wing, and I will be well again,” the fox said.
The starling was doubtful. She looked again and she couldn’t see any blood on the fox’s fine fur, but he continued moaning as she looked him over, and it certainly sounded as if he might die.
The starling chose one of the small feathers near the top of her wing. She didn’t think it would hurt to pull it out, and she didn’t think she would miss it either. As she took hold of it in her beak, the fox cried out again.
“Not that feather! Only the long feather at the tip of your wing will do. The straight and glossy one that shines like a still pool at midnight, even when you think there is no light at all.”
The starling thought the fox sounded a little foolish with his poetic language and the way he carried on, but the fox rolled on his back, weeping, and put a paw over his eyes. His tongue lolled from his mouth, and surely he would die at any moment if she did not help him.
The starling took hold of her longest and straightest feather with her beak, and pulled. It hurt, worse than anything she had ever felt, like the stars and the moon and the sun going out all at once.
“Good. Now bring it down to me, quickly!” the fox said, jumping to all fours, even though he had been at death’s door a moment ago.
Dazed with pain, the starling hopped down to him, half tumbling as she went. She presented the feather to the fox.
“Are you saved now?” she asked him.
“Very much so,” the fox replied, and his eyes were bright.
“Then I will take my leave,” the starling said.
She spread her wings, but when she tried to take flight, she found she could not. Without her longest, straightest feather, she couldn’t fly. She leapt toward the sky again and again, but crashed back to the ground every time.
The fox watched her impassively through all her attempts.
“Help me, sir fox,” she said when she had finally exhausted herself.
“Surely I shall,” he said, and stepped forward, snapped her up in his jaws, and swallowed her whole.
This is the moral of the story: You should never trust a wild animal. A fox cannot change its nature no matter how it dresses itself up, or what fine words it uses. It will always hunger. If you let your guard down, even for a moment, it will devour you whole.
*
iPhone Audio and Video Recording
Raymond Barrow
December 26, 2012
[The image swings, showing the floor, a man’s feet, and a desk cluttered with papers. A starling perches on a corner of the desk, briefly visible before the camera turns to show the face of Raymond Barrow.]
BARROW: There, you see, Will? I’ve been dragged kicking and screaming into the 21st century after all. My great niece, Sarah’s daughter, gave me one of those infernal iPhone things. They were all over for Christmas yesterday, and spent most of the day showing me how to use it. Sarah suggested I might like to record some of my personal recollections of the good old days, something to preserve for generations to come. Ha! If the future is interested in a washed up old has-been who failed at every important thing he ever turned his hand to, then I pity them. But there is something I want to show you, so maybe this thing will be good for something after all.
[The camera turns to face outward again, the image bouncing while Barrow holds the phone in front of him as he walks. The camera catches glimpses of an ornate entryway, a crystal chandelier, a sweeping staircase. Carvings, hangings, sketches, and paintings on the walls depict birds of all kinds. The camera approaches a massive grandfather clock standing next to a door set beneath the curving staircase. The wooden case is chased with mother of pearl, showing a heron standing placidly among a cluster of reeds.]
BARROW: You see, I did all right for myself in the end. Not that I deserved to, but life isn’t fair, is it?
[Barrow reaches for the door, holding the phone steady in his other hand. A flight of stairs leads down. There’s a rustle from behind the camera, and Rackham, the starling, flies past Barrow’s shoulder, disappearing down the stairs. Barrow stumbles, catching himself against the wall, but doesn’t fall.]
BARROW: Damn bird will be the death of me.
[The image is dark as Barrow gropes his way to the bottom of the stairs, and flicks on a light. The camera shows rows of red velvet seats on a raked floor, facing a stage. The curtains are open, the set bare save for a painted screen backdrop, meant to look like a window.]
BARROW: It’s the Victory Theater. I bought up everything they could salvage after the fire, and had it all restored. What they couldn’t restore, I had rebuilt, exact replicas.
[The image wavers again as Barrow moves to a row of seats halfway to the stage. He sits, steadying the camera against the back of the chair in front of him.]
BARROW: I salvaged too much, Will. I was right, all those years ago when I said leading ladies are a disease. I’ve been carrying Clara in my blood for fifty-seven years, and there isn’t any cure. All I ever wanted to do was help her, Will, but I think I know why she chose me. It’s what she said about ghosts, and loss, and sorrow. A man can’t change his own nature, but the world can change it for him if he lets his guard down. I let my guard down. I fell in love with you. I left myself open, and where did it get me?
[Barrow doesn’t move, but the house lights in the theater dim, and the lights begin to rise slowly on the stage. As the lights reach full, they reveal a woman with dark hair, wearing a beaded gown, standing center stage.]
BARROW: That’s her, Will. It’s Clara.
[There’s a faint translucence to Clara’s form, but the starling flies from behind the camera and lands on Clara’s shoulder. She smiles.]
BARROW (softly): That’s what all my love earned me, Will. A ghost, but the wrong one.
[Clara turns toward the camera, and the man behind it. Her expression is sad, but fond. She smiles, but it’s pained. Clara raises her arms. As they reach their full extension, birds pour forth from the spot where she stands. Her dress falls, crumpled, to the floor. Dozens, hundreds of starlings boil up toward the ceiling like a cloud of smoke. When they reach the ceiling, they spread outward.
Barrow til
ts the camera to show the birds as they pull together into a tight formation and fly toward him. He nearly drops the phone, and the view swings to show him in profile as the birds stream around him. Their wings brush his hair, his skin. His cheeks are wet.
The murmuration flows through the theater. The birds make no noise in their flight. Barrow steadies the phone, turning the camera to face him again. The birds are gone. He is alone.]
BARROW: It’s the same thing every night. Every goddamn night for fifty-seven years. I tried to set her free, and she came back. She came back, Will, so why the hell didn’t you?
[Barrow fumbles with the camera for a moment. The rustle of wings sounds and the starling lands on Barrow’s shoulder. The recording ends.]
Crossing
Emma Rose is four years old the first time she enters the ocean alone. All her life, she’s lived with the beach at the end of her street. Her parents carried her into the waves the week she was born. When she learned to stand, they taught her to float. Older still, they showed her how to stretch her body out long, how to reach, and turn her head to breathe, letting the water guide her like a friend.
Now, her parents watch from towels on the shore. Sun reflects off the Dover chalk cliffs so they shine brilliant white. The wind plays with Emma Rose’s curls, and the tide garlands her toes with foam. She steps carefully and the water swirls up to her knees, her waist. There’s a small moment of doubt, but surely the water will keep her safe. She knows it as well as she knows the sound of her father’s voice, the touch of her mother’s hand.
Goose-pimples fade as she adjusts and the water shapes itself around her. Squinting, she pretends she can see all the way to France. Her parents showed her pictures in a book holding frozen moments of their lives before her. Her mother with curls so much like Emma Rose’s, her father with a smudge of flour on his nose, each of them proudly holding up a tray of pastries they made in the cooking class where they met.
Looking toward the land of her parents’ stories, Emma Rose knows she will cross the water one day. Not in a boat; she will swim.
Emma Rose stands on her tippy toes, then lets the water take her. She floats, lying on her stomach, putting her face in the waves. She opens her eyes.
Through the salt sting, the world blurs blue and grey. She lets a few bubbles escape to rise around her like pearls. Just as she’s about to turn her head to breathe, a face appears below her.
The eyes are grey, like Emma Rose’s, the color of waves under a sullen sky. The woman’s hair floats around her head, long and straight, tinted green like she’s been under water a long time. She smiles.
Emma Rose is so startled, she screams, and cold saltwater rushes into her mouth. Panicked, she forgets everything her parents taught her. Her limbs won’t cooperate. She can’t lift her face out of the water. She can’t remember which way is up.
Then hands catch her. Her father lifts her out of the water, and maybe the woman pushes her from below. Her father pats her back and she coughs water.
“Shhh,” her mother whispers. “It’s okay.”
They make a protective circle around her with their bodies, standing knee deep in the waves. Emma Rose cries, shock and fading fear. She clings to her father, her head on his shoulder, while her mother strokes her back. When her sobs turn to hiccupping coughs, her father carries her back to the shore.
“What happened out there, jellyfish?” her father asks.
His eyes are blue, like the water when the sun is bright and borrows pieces of the sky to wear like a gown. Her mother’s eyes are deep brown, like the water under the moon. No one has ever been able to explain to Emma Rose where her grey eyes come from.
Except once, her mother told Emma Rose she dreamed of the ocean the night she was born. Sometimes Emma Rose secretly believes she’s a princess from under the sea. Her parents found her on the shore, curled up in a giant oyster shell. The woman under the water must be a princess, too, a secret one, just like her.
“I…” Emma Rose hesitates. “I saw a fish. It surprised me.”
Emma Rose doesn’t dare peek to see if her parents believe her. The lie fizzes in her stomach, making her feel bad and good at the same time.
“Okay, jellyfish.” Her father smoothes her water-wet curls. “That’s enough for today. We can try again tomorrow.”
Her parents have always taught her not to quit when something is hard, but to keep going until it isn’t scary anymore. Emma Rose takes her father’s hand on one side, and her mother’s on the other. She walks between them up the path leading toward home. Next time, she promises herself she won’t be frightened, no matter what she sees.
*
Emma Rose is eleven years old the next time she sees the woman in the water, even though she swims in the ocean almost every day. Her bones have grown long under her skin, her body stretching like taffy. She wears her curls pulled back now, making herself sleeker.
She’s on the cusp of turning twelve. Tomorrow is her birthday, and she’s celebrating with friends. Her parents sent them to the beach with a hamper stuffed with food. Cold chicken. Home-baked bread. Lemonade in a glass bottle. A cake, layered with sponge and jam and frosted white, topped with the reddest strawberries.
Best of all, the girls are allowed to be alone. No parents to supervise them. They shriek and run, daring the edge of the waves. They splash each other, and pretend to be mad, then make up again. They braid strands of seaweed, making bracelets and necklaces and crowns.
None of the other girls know the water the way Emma Rose does, but she pretends to be like them. Rather than swimming, she stands waist-deep, dunking the other girls under the water and allowing them to dunk her in turn. She plays chicken, Bethany’s legs draped over her shoulders as they charge toward Sara and Maureen.
When they grow tired, they troop to the blanket spread on the shore, falling on the picnic like locusts. Then they lie for a while with their heads in each other’s laps, forming a lopsided circle as their stomachs settle.
Emma Rose ends up with her head in Corinne’s lap. She’s only known Corinne for two years; Corinne’s parents moved from Cornwall and she had to join their class halfway through the year. Sara, Maureen, and Bethany, she’s known since they were all five years old.
“Are you going to cut the cake?” Maureen asks after a few minutes, growing bored and fidgety.
Maureen has red-gold hair that Emma Rose has always admired, and freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose. Her eyes are bluer than Emma Rose’s father’s—like the ocean in pictures where the beaches are white sand and palms trees cast angular shadows on the ground.
Maureen sits up, upsetting the circle. Corinne’s legs twitch under Emma Rose’s head, but Emma Rose doesn’t move for a moment, just to see what happens. Corinne’s shadow falls over her as Corinne sits up, and Emma Rose feels the muscles of Corinne’s legs, imagining what they would feel like stretching and bunching through the water.
Corinne peers down at her. Her eyes are a color Emma Rose can’t quite name. Not brown, but not green either. Like the water when it’s choppy, sand stirred into the waves and catching the light, glinting with flecks of gold. Corinne drapes the seaweed crown she braided over Emma Rose’s brow. It’s damp and cold and smells of salt, but Emma Rose doesn’t shiver.
“Now you look like a fairy queen,” Corinne says.
She doesn’t quite smile, but her lips do something that changes her face, and it brings a fluttering tightness to Emma Rose’s stomach. She sits up too quickly, and the seaweed crown falls into her lap with a wet splat.
Maureen hands Emma Rose the cake knife, and Bethany passes plates around. Corinne touches Emma Rose’s wrist.
“You have to make a wish.”
Emma Rose pretends her face is underwater, seeing how long she can go before she turns her head to breathe. She’s still holding her breath when the last slice of cake is cut, and only then does she let it go.
After the other girls’ parents collect them, Emma Rose stays on
the beach alone. Wind stirs the sea grass and wildflowers dotting the path leading home. Emma Rose thinks about France. She thinks about Corinne. She touches her forehead where the seaweed crown rested, and the skin is warm.
Emma Rose does what she always does when she’s frightened or sad or confused. She swims. She launches herself into the waves, thinking for a moment that perhaps the time is now, she will swim all the way across the Channel. But that’s stupid, and she knows it. Instead she flings her arms out as far as she can and kicks her legs hard, crossing back and forth parallel to the beach.
She isn’t fighting the sea, never that. She’s fighting herself. Exhaustion, that’s what she wants, bone-deep. She’ll sleep through her birthday, sleep for a whole week. It’s what she’s thinking when she sees the woman beneath her, her eyes grey and her hair drifting just the way Emma Rose remembers. Her hair seems a little greener, though, almost black, and the bones of her cheeks are sharper.
This time, Emma Rose doesn’t scream. She stills herself, sculling water to stay in place. The woman flashes pearly teeth, a sheening purple color like the inside of an oyster shell.
Emma Rose’s skin prickles. The woman’s eyes are a mirror for her own, even if everything else about her is different—the length and curves of her body, the dip of her waist, the prominent line of her ribs, the pallor of her skin. After a moment, it strikes Emma Rose that the woman is naked, and her skin flushes so hot she fears the water around her will turn to steam.
Emma Rose reaches down and the woman reaches up at the same time. Their fingertips touch, then their palms. The water keeps Emma Rose from telling whether the woman’s skin is cold.
Their lips meet next, the woman rising, Emma Rose falling. The woman’s mouth tastes of salt, of seaweed, the grit of sand, and the smoothness of a pearl. She tastes of everything but drowning. As long as their lips touch, Emma Rose can hold her breath forever.