A Song of My own

She called to me through the trees. I look over my shoulder waiting to hear the echoing trill again. It sounds and I move swiftly, as possible, till the soil and grass turn to wet rock and surf. I walk along the shoreline of a large lake with an islet in the very center of it. And then I hear the sing-song call once more. It’s coming from the islet. A tune I felt like I knew in my bones, but the woman who sang it, I did not know. Our eyes met. I did not stay to hear what she uttered next.

Evening fell, but I did not go home. I paced the skirt of trees with the islet in view. There’s a dwelling with light emitting from within. A silhouette moves inside. Something stirs in me, compels me to move across the still waters, the moon under me a constant eye, until all there is is grass between my toes. Over my shoulder I see the treeline from whence I came and I tip a bit to one side before catching myself, unsure of how I got here. The lake seemed to bear its enormity over me and before waking to question it, the woman called to me from behind. I froze and only hopped away a step when she approached.

“I knew I heard someone moving around out here,” she said. Her voice was a sweet song. I did not move as she inched closer. “You came from across the water?”

I nod.

“Would you like to come in? Are you hungry? Cold?” She reached out and urged me not to leave. Before I noticed my heels were at the water’s edge. “But if you must, I will not stop you.” A sadness stretched itself along her face, pulling her cheeks to the ground. I did not stop her from going back into her home, nor did I leave, not even when the light inside died.

Morning came and I found myself nestled at the foot of her door. It opened and I fell in.

“Good morning,” she beamed. I didn’t notice that I had covers over me. “I hope that could help keep you warm. I didn’t think it wise to carry you inside without your knowing.”

The woman gave me water and food. Her home was modest. A single spacious room with a bed, shelves adorned with rocks and stick sculptures. All signs of someone with maybe much time to doddle.

“Don’t mind my dullness. Though it may be meager, it’s quaint, and it’s mine.”

I recall the islet we were on and I shrink at my judgment of her, hoping to recant my thoughts. She tells me her name: Emry. A song I can’t quite sing in my clumsy tongue, but I try to sing it quietly anyway.

She shows me her trinkets she’s collected or made in her time here: smooth rocks and glinting stones of different colors collected from the shoreline, figures she’s made of sticks ornately decorated with the hulls of seeds that look like the men who often traverse my woods. A few that look like me.

“Some hold power and some are just nice to look at,” she laughs. It is a song that sends me bounding around her burrow. “What a lively thing you are!” She continues to laugh. My chest demands more, but I am calmed by Emry as she tells me her story: how each figure was made and who they represent, where she came from, how she came to be stuck here in the middle of this lake, the curse laid on her and the witch who bound her here. The bouncing in my chest now pulls me to the floor.

Her eyes widened and took hold of me.

“But there is a way you can help me leave.” She grabs a book from under her bed and calls me over. I perch on her shoulder, my wings flutter gently as I land and she turns to smile at me.

So close.

Soil from across the lake.

A gathering of mosses and golden cress.

One large carapace.

Mountain flowers of many colors.

And a song of my own.

She asks me to hunt for these things for her, bring her back each item before the next full moon. She cups me within her hands.

So warm.

“After all this time only you have found me,” she whispers. “I am bound to this island, but you must be fated to free me. Won’t you do this for me?”

I will.

I take flight with all the items becoming a recitation in my head during the days to come. Some items were easy enough to find throughout the surrounding forest. With each piece that I brought back she rewarded me with a gleeful trill, seed for my continued journey, and unknowingly, the reward of returning to her. I soar to the mountain tops for the flowers and scour the beaches for a worn carapace, which I drag all the way and ride as a raft across the lake. The next full moon nears and I am near collapsing. When the last items were gathered she skipped joyfully around me, which lifted my body against its weariness,

“Lastly, you must fly ten rings around the entirety of this lake and sing a song of your own.”

I am too tired and my voice is harsh.

She reassured me and asked for my help one last time and she is free.

I have no song of my own.

“What do you long for?”

I’ve never longed for anything in my days. I was contented with my lot; though lonely, I enjoyed the quiet crawling pace of the seasons as they passed. I recall a melody I once sang when I was younger. I soon stopped when I could not remember the rest of it. Until I heard you call. The solitude I once found comforting now seems barren and to know it once again my bones leaden to absolute stillness. My heart races from the fear that it will stop.

I long to be with you.

I resolved to take her away from this place. I long to show her the mountains I soared, the warmth of the beaches, to fill the space between my lonely trees with her. I push myself up into the night sky and see her fading smile retreat into her home. She is singing.

A song of my own.

I glide circles around the lake singing that old tune and the new song Emry’s name brings to complete it. With each lap I grow heavier and heavier, but my flight does not falter. Feathers strip away from my wings one by one. 

The moon is filled completely now and bears down on me. The last rotation becomes a struggle. My song is coarse, like rock grating on rock, but I completed the final ring like the sun that soon will rise, but still hides behind the mountain range. 

I fall to the ground at Emry’s door. I can feel myself smiling and that I’m both cold and burning. Sweat beads down lips that do not feel like mine. I get up clumsily, my limbs awkward and large. Hair falls across my face. I look down and see hands that look like Emry’s. They take hold of my shoulders as I curl into myself.

Where are my wings?

“Emry?” I croak. I open her door and a large bird rushes out and into the night sky. Across the large moon I can see its feathers are as dark as Emry’s hair. It sings a song I can’t understand, but it sounds sorrowful. The bird fades into the stars. Inside Emry’s house candles are blown out but shed wisps of smoke. There is a strong odor in the air, the carapace was still rocking slightly on the floor, with mulch spilled all around. The room was empty and seemed so much smaller. I sit on the bed and call to the air:

Emry?

Emry.

Emry.