The Tale of The Songbirds

She ran toward the bush and smiled.

“Here, I’ve never seen a flower in so long!”

“Spring has come once again!” the voice said.

“What was it again, miss?”

A loud clank was heard from the bar when its keeper finally caught the attention of the newcomer.

The unfamiliar young woman winced as she accidentally knocked down an empty mug behind her arm, drawing more attention to herself with the noise.

She unknowingly fell asleep and was dreaming.

The regulars of the pub have been whispering ever since she stepped in its doors and seemingly stomped her way inside for a drink.

Who is she? they wondered.

Every inhabitant of the old town knew who lived and treaded on its hellish roads and scratched on its lifeless dirt with grave hopes—

and this girl was no local.

No one bothered to approach her, as her bulky bag of unknown possessions and dark patched overcoat were all enough to drive the onlookers away, and the barman was the only one who was obligated enough to do so.

“I’m sorry, what?” she answered.

“Your order, miss. I did not get what you said,” the colossal smiling man reminded.

His locks were tied up in a neat bun, with shade as dark as burnt coal and curls coiled like springs.

Just like every other person in the pub, and even if you walked down the frontier to hopefully locate an innkeeper who would accept you at three in the morning, everyone’s hair was as dark as hardwood or ebony.

On the other hand, the maiden’s hair was as fiery as the flames used to ignite the coal itself. And on that night, she was the only person in town to have locks that red.

“Oh,” she realized. “I said, what is the cheapest thing you sell?”

“Our house special. The best beer you’ll find here in Brimstone.”

She scrunched up her nose.

“Brimstone?”

“You’re in Brimstone, miss,” the barman smiled. His gigantic hands carefully cleaned the mug she knocked over earlier. One would think he could smash it with his fist, yet he handled it delicately.

Straightforwardly, she asked again.

“How much is your beer?”

“One silver.”

“One silver?” she frowned.

“Don’t you have anything for like, five coppers? What about water?”

The gentle giant finished wiping the mug in his hand before responding again.

“Sadly, miss, we have no water left tonight. Beer’s the cheapest I can give you.”

She grunted to herself and kicked the knapsack resting by her feet. She felt parched to the core after carrying the immense backpack on her shoulders for so long. It only composed of clothes, a pen and notebook, and a thick blanket, with its pockets keeping a few stale biscuits, an empty bottle, and a dagger.

To her, her most prized possession was her notebook, for it contained a few notes and sketches of her journeys. It had some details of how her jobs used to be, but in a few of its leaves contained songs of her pain— melodies and poems— that she merely sang and whistled to the wind as her only audience.

If one flew over the lands and asked about where she’s been, nobody would be able to identify this. She was Eve to Bellwood, Estelle to Travis, and Erla to Emberville.

The only thing you’d find on her card was “E. Still”, and there existed a ton of E. Stills on the land.

Years of bending her back, lifting goods, and carrying the knapsack during her travels made her look like a tramp carrying a weight that hunched her back forward.

It was true though. For one who has only breathed for two decades on earth, she has walked distances and has settled in places she no longer kept track of. Twenty years of not having any bit of familiarity turned her into the harshness that’s scarred her, the coldness that nearly froze her to death during winter, and the dryness of every drought she tearlessly cried her way through.

She has been out in the heat and the cold her entire life, and the only direction she knew was where the wind and seasons pointed her towards. It’s been long since she’s seen a flower bloom, and Brimstone was no springtime paradise.

After taking a deep breath, she stood up from her chair to leave the pub. The barman lifted his hand and called,

“Wait, miss. I have a question.”

She lifted her knapsack on the stool and sighed.

“What is it?”

“You are not from here, I’m sure.”

The girl snorted as she adjusted her bag straps.

“I’m not from anywhere.”

“How old are you, miss?” he questioned.

She was appalled by his inquiry.

“Excuse me? I’m a full-grown and independent adult, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Don’t get me wrong. You just look young. You’re thin, quite-”

The customers of the pub had their attention diverted again toward the red-haired girl they were talking about only a few minutes ago. She loudly pounded the wooden counter with her boot before swiftly pointing her dagger to the man’s chin.

Two regulars from afar stood up to defend the pacific barman, who waved them away with his callused right hand.

“Please, miss-”

“Don’t you ever call me miss again,” she threatened. She looked straight into the man’s confused eyes, already attacked sharply by her deadly glare.

“I’ll stab your hands repeatedly, and you will no longer be able to serve those little expensive drinks of yours.”

The man swallowed before responding. He was quivering deep inside, but he had to explain himself. She had misunderstood his intentions, but he didn’t want to blame her. She looked like she’s been alone her whole life, and it’s possible that he just tugged on the wrong string.

“Please. I was asking because I don’t serve liquor to young fellas. The sheriff might take me out, you know? Although I think you’re more likely to do more to me than him.”

She narrowed her eyes, as if observing him thoroughly, before lowering the dagger to her pocket.

The girl has never really stabbed anyone, yet she’s scratched and wounded a few. Some men just don’t know how to leave women alone— 

except when they’re already bleeding.

“Alright,” she said.

The barman immediately grabbed the nearest mug and turned to his keg.

“Hey. Beer’s on me, on the house. I have some pulled pork here as well.”

She raised an eyebrow at him.

Without saying a word, she went back to her seat. The kind giant slid a mug of his specialty beer alongside a small bowl of dry pulled pork.

Before taking a sip, the girl commented.

“No one has ever given me this much for free.”

“Really?”

She picked up a chunk of pulled pork and nodded.

Poor woman, he thought.

Girls with such disposition as hers looked to be more likely to work as an innkeeper or somewhere by the alleys. Hell, she would do great in the army.

However, she was this thin unhealthy woman with tanned skin heavily covered by covers of coats and jackets and unevenly cut hair that would’ve been beautiful if it were groomed.

The barman pitifully smiled at her before speaking again.

“Well in case someone does again, it be best to thank them. No need to thank me, though.”

She took a sip of the beer.

The apparent best in Brimstone, but probably the best one she’s had in her life.

As she stood up to transfer to a table on the corner, she shyly smiled graciously to him.

“Thank you.”

From the back corner, a young man wearing a stained old apron over a checkered shirt came stumbling into the pub.

His face had a little bit of dirt, yet his bright eyes and white teeth made him quite radiant; it was easy to ignore the mess that he was. The chestnut hair on his head was all over the place, with his cheeky and innocent nature that all the customers knew well and enjoyed.

They loved it when he served them drinks or greeted them good night before leaving. He found joy in interacting with the same people every day, then tending to Lou’s pony at dusk.

About ten people would attend his monthly music performances to his little crowd, and that was what gave him life and enrichment.

One would say he had the voice of an angel; some described that he was blessed by the heavens or gods themselves, if such divinities existed.

“Hey, Lou! I’m done organizing the back room,” he exclaimed.

He ran toward the gentle giant tending the bar, Lou, who flipped a silver on his hand and patted the young man on the shoulder.

“Thanks, my boy.”

Lou had been caring for the young man for quite some time now, for nearly two decades already. The boy’s father was his best friend, who died from the pox epidemic one summer. The saintly child was merely a weakling, whose mother abandoned him right after the father’s demise.

At 20, he has grown into an epitome of optimism, and that somehow, hope can still thrive even on the driest of lands.

“Lou, who is that?”

The boy pointed to the farthest corner of a room. His eyes twinkled at the sight of such a woman from afar, who he immediately found enchanting.

Lou chuckled.

“Not sure who she is, but a newcomer. She had no silvers so I gave her a beer and some of our pork.”

The young man enticingly smiled.

Sure, he’s seen the wonder of puppies being born near the alleys and the distant memory of green butterflies by the farmland, yet he has never seen such wonder unlike the red-haired woman quietly sipping on her mug of beer.

Her locks were dry, but to him they were lustrous.

Her subtle smiles after each sip were stellar to him.

The way she looked around the room made him want her to gaze onto him as well.

The entire pub of drinkers found her intriguing, yet to the young man quite dumbstruck next to Lou, she looks like someone he’s seen in a dream.

As if, she was someone he’s already known.

“Do you wanna talk to her?” Lou asked him.

The captivated young boy nodded enthusiastically and grabbed a napkin from his apron pocket. He only knew how to fold two things: a cube and a bird, which he learned from Ol’ Gretla’s.

Only the bird seemed most acceptable, so he hurriedly turned and folded on the soft paper for a makeshift gift.

“My boy, are you sure? She’s…feisty.”

“Yeah,” he answered.

“I’m sure. For some reason, I really am.”

After finishing the folded bird, he took a deep breath and nodded at Lou.

Here it goes, he thought.

He felt his brown shoes drum on the floors with each step, discordant with his heartbeat growing faster. Some of the customers greeted him as he passed by, yet he didn’t notice them. A woman gasped when she noticed him walking toward the redhead, as if they were waiting for hell to break loose.

“Do you like to, uhm, I mean…do you like the pork?”

The young girl’s curious dark eyes met the boy's, who handed her a paper bird. Her eyebrows furrowed, but something about his voice was calming.

“Who are you?” she questioned.

“The pork! I mean, I know the man, who gave the pork. He, uh. He takes care of me.”

“Oh.”

The girl sipped on her mug in silence. She didn’t know why the man approached her about the pork, but something about his nature made her smile.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

She put her mug down as she replied.

“I don’t give my name to some random bar waiter.”

“I’m no random man. I assure you. It’s just that-”

“Just what?”

The young man found himself finally staring into her eyes deeply. He was breathless; he felt lost in them yet it somehow looked like comfort. Like home.

“When I first saw you, I felt like something was drawing me to you.”

The girl raised an eyebrow while he continued to speak.

“I know we’ve never met, but I feel like I’ve known you my entire life.”

 At that moment, she felt something echo in her ears.

Some sweet sound of strings.

The room was steady and windless and she hasn’t heard music in months, yet something about it felt so new and familiar.

Perhaps I was imagining it, she thought.

“Alright. I’m E.”

The young man lit up upon her introduction, but realized it was only a letter.

“E? Like the letter?”

“Yes,” she affirmed. “I’m E.”

“Is that your real name?”

“Maybe.”

He laughed in response and decided to play along.

“In that case, my name’s O. Can I sit with you?”

The two of them talked for more than an hour, until the lights that were left lit in the pub was the incandescent bulb shining from above them.

A warm glow emanated on the lovebirds— which was what Lou whispered to himself while gazing at them from a distance as he cleaned up the place.

“So, you’ve been lonely your whole life then,” O commented.

“No,” E defended. “I’m alone. Just because I’m alone doesn’t mean I’m lonely. I’m perfectly happy on my own.”

“Do you like being on your own?”

E hesitated upon hearing O’s inquiry. She was never totally alone in her life, yet never did she settle in one space or walk one direction.

Something about her instinct felt to never trust anyone.

No matter what they offered her. No matter the flair.

“Maybe. Something about myself never trusted the world around me. But I try to be happy.”

O nodded silently and contemplated to himself.

Never trusted the world? It was a familiar thought of his to feel some kind of betrayal.

The world was unkind, indeed, but he always tried to be happy for Lou. But somehow, he understood completely.

He decided to ask.

“When was the last time that you felt a bit of happiness?”

“That’s easy,” E beamed. “When I saw a nest of wrens on the way here.”

“That made you happy?”

She flicked a stray rice grain to his face.

“Hey, if you still want me to stay, don’t judge what makes me happy.”

O apologized and spontaneously, a thought crossed his mind.

“Hey, do you wanna know what makes me happy? I can show it to you.”

E caressed her fingers on the dusty mirror next to his bed.

“So, this is where you sleep?”

O nodded. He was briskly clearing out his place, quite embarrassed over the mess.

However, E did not care at all, as she was fascinated to find one have a decent room all to himself.

“What were you gonna show me, O?”

Just as she asked the question, O pulled out his surprise from behind his cupboard:

his guitar.

He strummed it once, checking if it was in tune.

E stared at him in awe. She had always loved the sound of strings, despite rarely hearing its sound. During those occasions she did, she was often listening from afar, drowning the music in her ears, hoping they would play in her head forever.

There was something about the hum of strings that felt intimate.

Whenever she heard a song, she knew of a distinct tune. However, never has she ever heard that melody play.

“Will you play me a song?” E requested.

O nervously looked up at her and cleared his throat.

“Well, sure. Uhm, can we go outside? I’m more comfortable playing there.”

The creaks of the porch disturbed the silence of the approaching dawn. One could see the sky starting to lose its darkness, yet E and O— strangers about three hours ago— somehow felt connected.

“I like playing outside. I feel the wind come when I sing here.”

O strummed a chord as he took a deep breath.

“It’s like the air speaks to me, and I always hope that it brings the sound of my song to anyone who needs to hear it.”

E slowly closed her eyes to drown out her senses and listen to O play his guitar. She felt a chill down her spine— a spark inside her— revive as he started to sing a wordless song.

It was it: the song she’s always wanted to hear—

the melody that only existed in her head,

existed in someone else’s.

As O continued humming and singing, E joined in, harmoniously.

It left him astonished.

He thought only he knew the song he repeatedly whistled and hummed out to the silence.

They were one with the notes, and little did they know,

they were bringing the world back into tune—

like two little songbirds.

The two of them were already resting on each other as they sang, when E felt a cold drop fall on her knee.

“Rain…” she mumbled.

O grinned widely.

“Rain! Oh heavens, it hasn’t rained in so long!”

The two of them enthusiastically cheered between themselves.

They haven’t felt this much water in a long time, and it was a miraculous blessing.

E ran toward the end of the street, relishing the downpour that seeped through her hair. As she skipped around, a wonderful sight rendered her with amazement.

“O! Come here!”

O ran on the path and followed intently.

They were both looking at a bush,

with a beautiful fresh carnation red bud sprouting from it.

“Here, I’ve never seen a flower in so long!” E exclaimed.

O looked up to the sky and screamed.

“Spring has come once again!”

E gasped.

It was as if she knew this would happen.

And it all felt right.

“Hey,” she called O.

“My name’s Eurydice.”

“Your name sounds beautiful. Reminds me of a melody.”

Wonderstruck, Eurydice took his hand and walked down the rain with him.

“I’m Orpheus, by the way.”