The Green Heron

Even the gentle breeze from the train’s window caused her cheek to pulse. The air from outside tiptoed across her bruised face and dried her cracked lip, but makeup and lipstick could hide almost anything. 

Glorious pinks and blues splattered the morning sky while the sun pulled itself from behind the mountains in the far distance. The sunrise was beautiful, but that is not what caught her attention. Geese flew over the purple lavender fields in an echelon shape. 

“I wonder why they fly like that.”

A young man sitting across from her smiled. His blonde hair flopped across his forehead and he held a notepad in one hand while clicking a pen in the other. She smiled back politely and winced. Her lip had cracked wider, the blood blending in with her bright red lipstick.

“In a ‘V’ shape, I mean,” the young man continued. 

She picked at the dirt beneath her nails and looked at the callouses on her hands, dry like cracks on a desert plain. The smell of lavender was replaced with the hint of freshly cut grass as they passed a green field. It wafted in through the window and mixed with the steam propelled from the train. 

The young man waited in patience, a curious smile across his face. 

“It allows for the geese to fly for longer without tiring,” she said, giving in. “The leader creates a vortex of air which is pushed beneath the geese behind them. This allows each geese in succession to save energy and fly for longer.”

The young man raised his eyebrows, his jaw dropping slightly. 

“You seem to know a lot about geese.”

“Birds in general,” she said, staring out the window. The geese were almost out of sight. The young man paused for a moment and scratched his head with his pen. 

“Seems like a mighty selfless act for the bird in front.”

“Yes, but they do switch places when the leader gets tired. This way they can travel much further than flying alone.” 

“I guess that makes sense. I don’t know though. If I were a bird I might just fly off on my own, explore the world for myself.”

“Traveling in groups also protects the geese from predators.” 

The rumbling noise of the train echoed in through the open window. The way she said predator, almost as if she hated the word. The young man fidgeted in his seat. 

“Where are you headed?” he asked.

“Away.”  

“My name’s Jeremy.” he said awkwardly, extending his arm across the aisle between them. 

She flinched, tearing a piece of dead skin that she picked from her palm. Jeremy lowered his hand, clicked his pen, and raised his notepad. 

“If you’re into birds, I could draw one for you. What’s your favorite?”

She furled her brow, but humored the young man. If there was one thing she knew, it was birds.  

“I do have a favorite, it's the…”

“Wait, don’t tell me! Describe it to me,” he said. The tip of his tongue pushed out the side of his mouth. He bit down in concentration, lowering his face within inches of the blank paper. 

“It’s a relatively small bird with a greenish-black cap. It’s back tends to be gray and as the color progresses toward the tail, it brightens to a bluish, greenish hue. Though females tend to have a duller plumage.”

The young woman lifted her hands while she described the bird’s physical characteristics, acting as if she held it in her hand. Jeremy pulled colors from his backpack causing a few pencils to tumble toward the ground. He sketched the outline of the bird quickly, not wanting to miss any detail the young woman mentioned. 

“They have bright yellow legs, but sometimes they're legs are a mixture of both yellow and green.”

The young woman had turned toward Jeremy, lost in her own description. He noticed how at peace she was describing the bird and how happy it made her compared to minutes before. The light from the sun reflected off the window and across the left side of her face. Jeremy could see subtle discoloration beneath one of her eyes and light marks gripping her cheek bone. 

““But I think they’re my favorite not because of the way they look, but because of the way they hunt.” 

“Interesting,” he said, shading in the tail feathers. “How do they hunt?”  

“Well for one, It’s not the strongest bird, or the fastest. But, it is smarter than most. Much more patient.”

The voice of the young woman became steady, more controlled than before. Her wording became precise and her tone severe, each syllable spoken with purpose as if from a memory. 

“They use bait to catch fish. Anything from leaves, twigs, or even feathers. When a fish swims toward the bait, the bird uses its long beak to strike.” 

The smile faded from her face and she turned back toward the window. Jeremy noticed the geese were gone. 

He outlined a long beak with his darker colored pencil and dusted off the shavings of color toward the floor. He didn’t notice the young woman had stopped speaking until the chugging of the train slowed and came to a halt. A deep whistle of steam echoed across the outdoor train station. 

“This is my stop,” the young woman said as she stood from her seat. 

Jeremy scribbled faster, outlining the bird’s torso with rough strokes. “I’m sorry, it’s not quite finished yet.” 

The young woman walked past him toward the back of the train. 

“Wait!” he said looking up from his sheet. “What’s your name?” 

“Green Heron,” she said. 

The whistle of the train signaled the departure from the train station. Jeremy watched as the young woman walked away from him until he could not see her anymore, her figure fading into the distance. 

He continued to draw the bird, poised for attack, using its own feather as bait for a fish beneath the surface of water. Its bright green cap and back illuminated from the page and Jeremy smiled as he signed the portrait. The train slowed and pulled toward his stop. 

He looked out the window, hoping by chance to see the young woman and give her his finished piece, but instead saw two men in uniform. One, taller than the other, was speaking to what looked to be the conductor of the train. Both uniformed officers entered the train carrying long pieces of paper.  The officers made their way down the train’s aisle, speaking to the people on each side and showing them the papers they held.

“Have you seen this woman?” one officer said, holding a portrait in front of Jeremy's face. 

“What is going on, are we in danger?” Jeremy asked.

The portrait was that of the young woman on the train. The same woman who described the Green Heron with such grace. The lover of birds who understood the flying patterns of geese. The same woman with a bruised face and cracked lips who looked toward the horizon like geese in an echelon. 

“A woman who fits this description is under investigation for the murder of her husband.”  

“How’d he die?”

“Premeditated. Seems he fell into a hole twenty feet deep just outside his property.”

“Sounds like an accident to me.”

“Well he was drunk,” the officer said, then frowned. It was obvious he gave more information away then he should have. “But, we found the shovel and no sign of the wife. We have reason to believe this was not an accident and that she’d be on this train.”

“I haven’t seen anyone, only the birds in the sky,” the young man said, pointing toward the window. 

Jeremy exited. His fingertips buzzed and his head bobbed with each step he took through the train station. The portrait he had drawn shook in his hand as adrenaline pumped through his body. Then, a weary peace. 

Finding a notice board near the entrance of the station, Jeremy tacked the portrait to the worn corkboard and stepped back, critiquing his work. The words of the young woman cycled through his brain: It’s not the strongest bird, or the fastest. But, it is smarter than most. Much more patient.

“You're free now,” he whispered to himself. “Birds were never meant to be in cages anyway.”