The Seeker and the Bird

The setting sun cast glowing embers in the sky, as if stretching its magnificent yellow rays to capture the expanse one last time before dying, if only for the night.

Thomas, lying on his back, extended his hand as far as it allowed, and it wasn’t much, to touch the sky. To feel the warmth of the sinking sun. But all he felt was the cold on the back of a mule cart, where he had been since this morning and three before.

“How much further?” He asked the old man in the front. Talking to the back of his head, which looked like a white furry carpet worn down and thinning from being walked on too long.

“Not much furtherin’ now.” He said chirpily, drinking from an old, worn-out flask that reflected the fading light of the sky, a brief homage to its glory days. It smelled sweet and gently explained the unwavering cheerful disposition of the old man. The kind found in people who have nothing and yet yearn for nothing. His tattered clothes hung loose on his lanky body, patched up in different places with multicolored fabrics; an elephant, a bird with a yellow beak, and two beetles on his back.

Thomas turned his head forward, listening to the steady, rhythmic tread of the mule’s hooves hitting the dirt road and echoing in the wilderness, trying to feel the consoling vibration of the movement in his legs. But he felt nothing. He hadn’t felt anything in his legs since he was 7 years old, and while playing with his friends, he had fallen in a trapping pit meant for the fox that had been dining on the chickens at night. He remembered screaming in pain and he remembered being carried to the village healer. An old woman with inked skin and colored jars filled with funny-smelling things. He remembered her soothing voice, “Go to sleep, child. When you wake up, the pain will be nothing.” And so it was - nothing.

He remembered that moment imprinted on his brain, yet he struggled to conjure up his mother. It’s like you glide through life in a blur, all out of focus - and then somewhere in that unchanging monotony, images get stuck. These certain images have the innately irritating quality of staying there in the back of your head, like an invisible weight you can't seem to shake. They may occasionally dull in their roar and sink to a hum, but they stay. These images, these self-selected creations of damage, they define you.

That moment had destined Thomas for this day and his quest. He was on a journey to find a magical healer. A man said to hold extraordinary powers, capable of returning sight to the blind, voice to the silenced, and men from the cusp of death. Surely, he would be able to make him walk. Or else, he had just sold all that he owned, which wasn’t much, and given most of it to the old man for a pipe dream.

Thomas had grown up with stories of magical healers and good witches. “The cunning folk”, the villagers called them. “You stay away from ‘em, Thomas. They’ll cut ya and eat yer liver”, the elders told him. That’s why they killed them and drove the rest away. People don’t trust those who are different. Like he was, he was a cripple, and that’s what he had been called his whole life. He never really fit in with the rest. Maybe that’s why he felt an affinity to the magic folk. He wanted them to exist so that he could exist.

The magical healer, nicknamed by the people as the Mynah - a bird known for its uncanny ability to speak human language and believed to be the missing link between man and magic. Stories of the Mynah had traveled to Thomas’s village, cushioned on the wild imaginations of travelers, and made a home on the locals’ tongues. His curative feats were told in great detail around the fire, a new “fact” appearing with each occurrence.

Thomas was jerked out of his meandering reveries with the halt of the cart, and the old man said, “Whoa, steady now, old gal,” and then turned to him. “We’ll be spendin’ the night here, sonny”. Thomas looked around and saw the still, beautiful lake, colored liquid gold from the sun. The old man got off, led the mule towards the meadow of lush green grass surrounding the lake, and parked under a tree. Thomas managed to nudge himself off with the help of his crutches, clumsily, pitifully as the old man watched.

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A sea shanty was being half hummed and half sung in the chilly forest air as the old man gathered kindling to light a fire. Thomas watched him, counting the crevices left by time, etched across his face and dancing in the light of the fire, telling stories, memories and… songs.

Soon may the Wellerman come

To bring us sugar and tea and rum

Mmm…Mhmmm…Hmm

Thomas felt the warmth of the crackling fire prickle his skin, sending a shiver down his spine. He remembered his mother saying it meant a fairy was nearby. He looked up to see the old man watching him patiently across the fire, his eyes as deep as the lake and blue as the skies. He had stopped singing. The silence that followed was filled with the crackling of the fire, the chirping of the grasshoppers, and then, a question.

“Tell me, sonny. Why do ya wanna walk so bad?” the old man asked.

Not expecting the question, Thomas paused and said, “I want to see the world”. He continued hesitantly, “My father wanted to be an adventurer. It’s all he talked about. But between taking care of me after my mother passed and putting food on the table, he never got the chance. He was a good man. Never complained about how he didn’t get to live his dream because of me.” He looked up at the sky, as if asking for his forgiveness for being a burden. “I want to walk because I want to fight fate, I want to know what it is like to win for once. To look in someone’s eyes and feel whole.”

 The old man nodded, took out the flask from his pocket and casually took a deep swig. “Say, those are some fancy boots ya got there,” the old man admired.

Thomas looked down at his feet and shrugged. “They were my father’s. He bought them for his travels.” Thomas had found them tucked away neatly at the back of his cupboard, unused. “But I doubt I will be doing any walking in them.” He sighed. “Just like he never did.”

Fairies, magical healers, here he was, putting his faith in something nobody had ever seen. They were just stories his mother had told him to get him to sleep and after she had died, his father neither had the time nor the imagination to indulge him. He suddenly felt like a fool. Homeless, almost penniless, here in the middle of a forest with this old man.

“Here, you have them,” he said, taking off his shoes and putting them to the side, looking at the old man’s bare, cracked feet. “It’s not much,” he thought to himself.

“It’s enough”, the old man answered. “Here, ya can have the rest of this.” He flung over his flask. Confused if he had said the words out loud, Thomas caught it and felt the smooth silver against his skin warmed from the fire. There were faded markings on both sides, swirls and loops like writing, but nothing he could read. He opened the lid and took a careful gulp. It tasted sweet and comforting as he drank the rest.

“Ya know where we are, boy?” He asked. Thomas looked around and shook his head. “We’re at the home of the Fairies. Ya see this lake? They say you can see them Fairies dance on the still waters after nightfall. Beautiful creatures. But if ya stare too long, ya fall into their spell and never leave”, he said in all seriousness.

“Have you ever met one?” Thomas asked indulgently.

“One or two, but their spells don’t work on me”, the old man winked, and his wizened face cracked into a red-mouthed grin, which Thomas couldn’t help but reciprocate. Feeling a warm wave tingling his whole body, he suddenly realized how tired and sleepy he was. He lay beside the fire and watched the lake reflect the sinking sun. As he closed his eyes, he swore he could see a pair of golden eyes watching him from beneath the surface of the water.

Thomas awoke to the sound of birds chirping and the sun shining once more. Opening his eyes, he saw the fire burnt out and no sign of the old man or the cart. His heart sank. He sat up and realized he was all alone. The old man had run off with his money but had left his boots as a cruel joke. He feels a wetness in his eyes and realizes he’s crying, desperation trickling down his face. He buries it in his hands and sobs, “I should’ve known better”. Shaking his head, feeling simultaneously stupid and angry, he sniffs and tries to come to terms with the reality, his hands touching a rock that he throws, accidentally hitting his leg.

“Ow!” He yells involuntarily and then pauses, quickly looking for another small stone that he throws at his other leg. “Oww!” he shouts more voluntarily this time. He wiggles his toes and laughs, half expecting this to be a dream, and pinches himself for good measure. “Owwh!” He screams joyfully. Holding the bark of the tree, he lifts himself and takes his first step, like a baby goat, legs trembling, feet unsure, and then finding their bearing, sinking deeper into the lush, green grass, feeling the earth stretched beneath them, sturdy, soft and endless.

Sounds of glee echo across the meadow as a man runs, skips and jumps around a lake, unaware of the golden eyes that watch him from the water.