Hush Lil Birdie

The Sun was low in the air basking the park in a golden glow; the pond shone like honey and trees began to look like dark silhouettes with an orange backdrop. A footpath surrounded the honey pond with benches at regular intervals. Moa sat cross-legged in the corner of a bench with a hardback book open in one hand and a tuna sandwich in the other. She turned her full attention to the sandwich, placing her open book on the bench, its white pages like oil in the setting Sunlight. The clouds were decorated with different autumnal hues and the fiery sky mesmirised Moa. A figure from the distance grew as it loomed closer, hiding the colours in the sky; the closer it grew to her, the clearer she could make of its features. It was a short but wide man with a can in hand - his gait was off, not only did he limp on his right side but also seemed to be battling his way over as if he was partially dragging himself rather than simply walking. Without wasting time, Moa held the sandwich in her mouth to free her hands so she could bookmark the page and bag the book. Before shouldering her bag and taking the sandwich out of her mouth, she looked up to realise why she was completely in shadow - he was here.

He grinned at her, displaying

a set of yellowed and browning teeth with the occasional gap. She could smell the overpowering wheat-y smell of beer and his skin was flushed a reddish-pink.

A layer of sweat covered his forehead and his breathing was a loud, like the repeating sound of ocean waves hitting and retreating from the shoreline. Moa feigned a smile from a place of dread, feeling vulnerable and cornered - his smile and display of rotting teeth seemed as insincere as hers. His clothes were unremarkable, a grey t-shirt with yellow stains at the stomach that left little to the imagination, and black baggy trousers, and old brown leather

boots. The one item that seemed entirely out of place was a pearlescent necklace which looked like an expensive, purple-y dreamcatcher. The big round centre-piece contained a genuine gold web-like mesh; although Moa felt intimidated and her throat was warm and uncomfortable as if her food wanted to jump out and escape as much as she should, a small part of her questioned how such a remarkable accessory ended up with a man she concluded to be a good-for-nothing creep. After a few seconds, an invasion of sickly warmth filled the air as he opened his mouth and spoke.

"I could smell ya from the other side of the park!" As he managed to groan this odd sentence, he turned away from Moa and took a raspy growl-like inhale and a thick ball of mucus flung in the air and stuck to a tree with a slapping sound.

Moa instantly scrunched her nose upward and turned her lower lip inward in disgust and let out a sarcastic ha to emphasise the irony. To further display her repulsion and confusion she retorted with: "I don't think it was me you were smelling - I've got to go -"

As she started to speak, he let out a sequence of croaky coughs which resembled an impatient yet persistent individual trying to start a failing engine. Before she could finish her dire wish to leave, he managed to cough the word "No!". He extended his heavy arm in front of her and again cleared his throat. "I know ya got a war in yer mind."

Moa seemed stunned, momentarily frozen, before she regained her wits and knocked the can out of the stranger’s pink hand. The half-empty can rolled along the footpath leaving a trail of bubbling liquid as it made its way to the pond. Splash, the can's contents emptied and polluted the honey pond, muddying the waters.

She then flung her sandwich at him, hitting his nose which cause him to cower away and turn his body towards the pond. With pain coursing through his nose, his face also spelled a look of loss and desperation as if he lost something as valuable as his necklace. Pulling himself up, he made his way towards the pond and huddled over the edge where his can fell. He maintained his balance with

one arm and used the other to try to collect as much of his drink in his cupped hand. Desperately drinking part pond-water part beer, he muttered to himself: "Bloody ungrateful... She'll come runnin' back anyways...". With a suitable distraction, Moa hurried away from the bench and the man and the darkness of the approaching night.

Speeding through the dark night, what passes as seconds feels like hours for Moa and she runs and runs from potential danger. Did he have the cheek to say I’d go back to him? This was one of the questions that ran through her head, but there was no time to think about what had just happened in detail. She focussed on her breathing and inhaled deeply as she ran to attempt to provide enough oxygen for her muscles. Her legs started to ache and running in jeans was restricting – the lactic acid built up yet she fought the discomfort with adrenaline and the will to survive. Minutes later, her breaths become shallower and her form begins to decline due to fatigue and the uneven balancing of her shoulder-bag. Wrestling with her bag’s zip mid-run, she manages to open her bag and fight through her purse and book and phone to get to her keys. Holding our key out, she reached for her door and rushed inside to lock it. Safety she thought, finally! Calling for her mum, she follows a response in the living room. Her mother could sense the stress in Moa’s voice and upon seeing her asked: “What’s wrong honey?!”

In response, she threw her bag onto the sofa and jumped into her mother’s arms clinging on as if her mum was safety itself. Battling against shallow breaths and the urge to cry, she managed to say: “I don’t know if he’s following me… I don’t know what he wants, mum!” before erupting into tears, her skin reddening and eyelids tightening shut. All her mother could do is hold on tight.

After ten minutes of comfort and exchanging of funny stories to lighten the mood, darkness began to consume the outdoors. Sunset had happened when Moa was approached by the man, but her street was getting even darker. Accompanying the incoming darkness was a mumble, almost melodic yet deep and croaky – like the intermittent sound of nails scraping against concrete.

Peeking out of their living room window, they kept out of sight whilst trying to work out what was going on. Their lights were off to avoid any unwanted attention, but it appeared that the streetlights in the distance were also going off. Every few seconds the next light would go off and as the darkness got closer, the melodic groaning also got louder. It was him, and he was singing a nursery rhyme. A children’s song, of all things – or a version of one!

Hush lil birdie, gimmie some gold;

Daddy’s gonna tell ya how your life will unfold.

Upon hearing the second line, Moa fearfully yet with perplexed turns to her mum and breathes out: “No…Mum is it him?” Her mother, with rage and contempt at the man who comes closer every second, dismisses this question with a definite no.

And if ya don’t like the fate of the cards,

There’s nufin’ I can do ‘cos life is ‘ard.

At the last word of this rhyme, the streetlight in front of their house flickered and then darkness was upon them. A gentle laughter erupted from the man outside and then he took all his frustration from earlier, from when Moa embarrassed him, out on the door.

The violent pounding began and the door chain rattled with each thud.

But if ya pay yer fate can be swayed;

That’s ‘ow the game of life is played.

Moa’s mother’s contempt switched the moment she heard the word pay. “Moa, my dear, I’m so sorry…” Hiding by the window, Moa felt her mother’s hands hold her own and, in a moment, slowly felt her letting go. I love you; those were the last words her mother ever said to her.

No force was exerted on the door, yet Moa who stood confused and alone in the dark, began to panic as she heard the chain rattle and the door open. The front door was open and he could come inside.

But after hearing the door slam shut and all the streetlights buzz and flicker on, she felt slightly safer, less defenceless. Her panic began to subside and then she connected her mother’s I love you with the abrupt end of terror inflicted by the man. And that song… Something about that song seemed to toy with her mum. Her mother was with her and together they were strong, but then they could hear the singing and it was as if she became apologetic. It was as if she was being arrested for a crime she knew she’d have to plead guilty for.

After rushing to the front door and flinging it open and running to the street, Moa walked back indoors in defeat and do the only thing she could to try and get her mum back. She phoned the police.

She couldn’t sleep. Who would have been able to? Not only did he know where they lived but he took her mother.

When the phoned for help she was hysterical. She couldn’t put the events that had just transpired into words. It all happened so very quickly, there wasn’t a lot that she was able to retain. All she could recall was that she had been harassed and he followed her home. And then he took the only person that has ever been there for her. Mum, she thought. Memories began to flood back as if she knew that her mother was lost forever. Part of her had already accepted that she would never see her again.

The police were not going to be able to do anything. The park didn’t have any cameras and neither do they. Although there was something that she thought may have been a lead, just from the tone of voice of the operator. When she mentioned and described the necklace, she could feel a sudden pause as if there was an element of recognition on the other end. That was the moment she began to feel helpless as the rest of the call seemed to orientate around the odd ornament he wore. It felt, to Moa, that she was no longer reporting a crime but was attempting to describe something to a jeweller in order to get a replica made. It all got too much for her and she hung up. There was nothing she could do, she was powerless.

Moa was unsure if she had managed to sleep, her body eventually succumbing to tiredness, or if she had dissociated and found herself at her computer. Mechanical whirring and clicking was going on and she realised she had sent hundreds of copies of something to print.

MISSING, read the top of the document. She had made a poster and was ready to cover every lamppost, every tree, and every shop window. Someone must know. Someone must have seen them. Despite that small nagging voice in her head that has already given up, hope and desire fuelled her – she will see her mum again, she thought.

Hours were spent covering anything she could with the poster. Every shop in town was covered, every lamppost, and even car windows. Everyone will know about her mum and someone will be able to help. The Sun was almost at the horizon, again embracing the world in a glorious hue. The Golden Hour was no longer gorgeous for Moa, for it reminded her of the centre of his medallion. And of course, there was one more area she needed to cover in posters: The park.

After covering the play area, the trees, and benches with posters, Moa found herself drawn back to the bench where it all began. Perhaps she would see him again. And then she could make him pay. Then she could get her mum back.

Again unsure if she had over-worked herself into a nap or if she had dissociated, she found herself again on the bench but the Sun had set. Golden Hour didn’t seem so bad now that she was in complete darkness, especially since she knew she wasn’t alone at the bench anymore.

There it was again, that excruciating smell. It smelled like beer mixed with bile and acid and food that had been regurgitated. No one else was sat with her but she could sense him. That thing is back, she thought. “If you don’t give her back to me, I’ll make sure you rot in jail!”

The threat felt strong, yet it was received as if it was a mere feather tapping against a brick wall. “Uniforms ‘ave been after me for centuries… Yer ain’t the first to make empty threats, and yer won’t be the last.”

She could feel her own blood pumping with force, anger and adrenaline fuelling her. “She wasn’t the first… I’ll make sure she’s the last. Face me!” Last time she fled, now she would fight. “Why me? Why her?” Sorrow coursed through her but it translated into fury and her boiling hatred for this man made her feel invincible. She could say anything, do anything and he would be at her mercy. If only that was the reality of the situation. Tucked away by her rage was fear, and he knew how to take advantage of it. As he said, he has been doing this for centuries.

She kept turning and looking around to find the man in the darkness, and she noticed a tiny glint. The necklace. She couldn’t see him, he was hidden in the darkness – but the necklace glowed ever so slightly, as if on command. She could see him because he wanted her to.

That’s the deal we made. She couldn’t hear his voice; this was coming from the voice in her head. The minute voice of dread, of hopelessness. Somehow, he was using it to speak to her. A life for a life. A card for a card.

“What are you talking about?! How are you inside my head? Get out!” Clenching her fists, she banged against her temples as if she was able to knock the voice out of her head.

Let me show you rang the voice in her head.

Then she found herself falling.

Falling through a pitch-black void, being sucked into something by the man, being pulled into a black hole.

The more she fell, the more she lost sensation of touch and smell and sight and taste and sound. But she could still feel the falling.

Suddenly she felt a jolt, as if her very being quaked and then the falling was no more. Her vision grew to be dark and blurry. Lights that weren’t there before now danced as she fought through watery eyes. The smell of petrichor, dust after rain, seemed to echo around the room. Such a naturally subtle smell managed to crawl and wriggle and force its way up her nose and to her brain as if it was a worm itself.

Trapped. She was trapped inside a room with round, clear walls. No, a transparent globe. Everything outside was huge, and two giants sat at either end of a table chatting. Surveying her surrounds, she realised that she was in some sort of decorative ornament atop a table. There she is thought Moa, but it wasn’t quite her mum. She looked different: a house with no doors; a museum without art. She was younger.

Then the voice in her head began to speak outside her head. Him. He sounded complete, like a bag full of marbles. Whatever happened to him over the years? He definitely lost all of his marbles. His voice went into song:

Jack and Jill went up the ‘ill to fetch each other, naughty!

Jack ran away, Jill had a daughter;

‘Tis early, it seems, that death has caught her.

Her younger mother was paralysed with shock. Wouldn’t you be if you knew how your children were to die? And if they were to die before you?

Someone’s gonna cut her with a knife;

Mumma can buy her a longer life.

That’s the only time Moa heard her mother scream: “ANYTHING! I will pay anything to make sure that she will live a long life!”

“I ain’t askin’ for money, for I can’t do nufin’ with it. A life for a life, that’s how it goes…” growled the younger, thinner, kidnapper.

Moa screamed and called out in attempt to intervene. She would rather give her life for her mum’s. Then a voice in her head spoke: Deals can’t be reversed.

Slowly, Moa felt all of her senses fade, yet again. This would be the return journey. Back to a world without her mum. Back to the bench in the night.

She came to and drowsily looked around, still able to see nothing in the park. Still pitch-black. She tried to move, but her legs felt heavy. That was the only feeling she was capable of, heavy. Her eyelids also became heavy; the rest of her felt numb, for what emotion mattered now that her mum was gone forever?

Heavier and heavier her eyelids became until she fell asleep to words of a song, the very song she heard when her mum disappeared:

Hush lil birdie, dream of ma,

For dream is all ya got, for she is gone.