Laughter and Calm
The pub had been unusually quiet. The player they had expected had not arrived, most likely he would be in on the morrow having stayed to enjoy a paying crowd at the town ahead. The boyo's were subdued without the benefit o' a bard to stir them up and not a spot o' futbol to argue o'er. Not that Padraig minded much, it made for a steady if not heavy flow of funds and the easy clean was a welcome relief on a Friday night. He cleaned with an efficiency born of practice and pride. The gleaming wood, polished floor and sparkling bottles winked back at him and he smiled broadly. Aye, he loved his little pub, that he truly did.
He gathered his jacket, his pack, his small cooler and the retreiver which he had come to think of as his walking stick and took off in the waning hours of the night to visit the bird. The walk to the cavern was a joyful stroll, one that as of late he had come to look forward to. He and the bird had struck up a friendship of sorts and he often marveled on this change and the strange swell in his chest he felt when he thought of it. 'Twas not as if he understood the bird, that was unlikely to ever come to pass. They had, however, since that time when the bird had first walked, come to find a rhythm in teasing each other and in resting comfortably that made the company quite enjoyable. In fact, truth be told, he dinna half so mind takin' care of the swan, though he wouldna' be tellin' Roary that.
Padraig found his adopted pet settled in his usual spot. He walked over, whistling as he did so, and the bird raised its elegant neck, giving him its usual haughty one-eyed stare. "Och now, none of that or I won't be sharing any of what I've brought with ye, ye naughty bird," laughed Padraig. The bird rose, rocking in a rather ungainly way from side to side as it found its footing, calling out in its strange honking way. "Tis good to see ye too, friend," smiled the barkeep. He opened his pack and pulled out a thermos of clear water, pouring a few drams for the bird and setting it out about ten paces away. The bird cocked its head and looked at him hard, spreading its wings in what might have been an exasperated shrug. Padraig noticed that the right wing lifted to its full height and width, yet the left still rose only partially, but he thought perhaps a bit wider. The bird took a few bumbling steps forward, then gained a bit more stability and seemed to make the last few steps with growing confidence. At the cup he stopped and drank, honking at Padraig and using his beak to flick water at him. "Vera funny. Now if yer highness will wait here, I'll see to yer lunch." laughed Padraig.
Padraig went out to the now familiar ledge with his walking stick, flipped it about in one smooth move and assumed the position bent out over the sea. Moments later he was reeling himself and his catch in. He paused to take in the grace of the bird's two friends diving for their own dinner not far out from where he stood. They no longer complained at his presence; this too made the visits a welcome break in his pattern. He smiled and made his way back into the cavern, picked up his pack and made his way down to the bird.
He laid out the swan's dinner in a fresh bed of ice, poured out some more water and then took out his own meal. It was going on four o'clock in the mornin'. He ate his meal and told the bird about his day, describing the boyo's and their inane chatter, his pleasure in cleaning the bar, the clear night and the walk to the cavern. He waved his hands about as he described the bird's two friends circling and diving into the sea. The bird seemed to listen attentively until its long neck snapped out swiftly and nicked the last bit of crust from his waving fingers. "So ye are after me dinner, are ye?" grinned the man, reaching over to snatch up a bit of the seaweed from its pocket of ice. A furious honk was the response, followed by the man's laughter. He held it just above the long-neck's reach, singing a silly song as he dangled it about. The bird stretched its neck and danced about like a cobra from a basket, suddenly lifting its body in a lunge and snagging its food. He laughed as the bird settled down, taking the time to move closer and check its wing. The wound had healed over but was still raw and red. It looked like it would be painful to move. He took a balm from his pack. He dinna know if it would help, but he used it on his aching joints and he dinna think it would hurt. He eased back and looked the bird in the eye, asking silent permission. The bird stared back, then turned its head, elongating the area where the balm would be applied. Padraig took this as permission, smiled briefly and scooped out a small bit which he rubbed softly into the wounded area. He felt a nip on his ear. It was light, but enough to let him know that the swan had finished with his ministrations. "'Tis enough then?" he crooned. "It's time for a bit o' medicine for yer friend then."
He moved back to his pack, put away the balm and pulled out a blanket and his flask. He puffed up the pack and positioned it as a pillow. "Cheers and g'night to ye my friend," he toasted the bird and took a long sip from his flask. He capped the flask and straightened out the blanket. The swan stared pointedly at the flask. "I've created a bit o'a problem w'ye haven't I? Sorry, boyo, but I'm thinkin' that ye shouldna' be havin' what's in this flask too regular like. Perhaps we'll celebrate when that wing is a bit better, aye?" The swan stared at him a bit more, then tucked his head into his wing and settled down to sleep. Padraig took another draw on the flask, capped it and then tucked it to his chest. He gazed at the bird thoughtfully, then closed his eyes and let the rhythm of the cavern sounds lull him into sleep.
She was a vision with tumbling dark hair and emerald eyes, her lips a deep ruby red, skin like alabaster, the sea-colored dress flowing like silk around her ample curves. She whispered to him in a rich, throaty ancient Gaelic. She moved to her knees next to him, her hair tumbling around his face. He could feel the cool of her breath, taste the salted sea tang that carried a musky lush flavor that made him think of the forest. Her amply endowed form brushed across his chest as she leaned in chanting in the Gaelic he recognized but did not understand, then she kissed his forehead. It felt liike a benediction. Her lips held there as the chant was completed, her fingers tangled in his bit of hair, he felt a slight pull and then she simply melted away leaving only her scent behind her. He fell into a deep untroubled sleep, the kiss still warm on his skin.
A nip at his collar and tugging brought hm to his senses. His eyes slowly opened, gaining focus on the bird that was tugging at him. It appeared that he had overslept, at least according to his feathery roommate. Padraig roused himself as the bird pulled back. He drank from the bottle of clear water and poured some for the bird. Then he made his way to the ledge, cleaned out the retreiver and scooped up a fresh bach of feed for the bird. The two swans were swirling in the air above him. He took the offering in to the bird and laid out a fresh nest of ice from the cooler before putting the new weed into it. He pulled out a wedge of cheese and bit of bread from his pack and joined his friend for breakfast. As he ate he let his dream wash over him. Reaching up he felt his forehead where her lips had been and was surprised to find the spot exuded an intense heat. He withdrew his hand quickly; his mind was playin tricks on him. Perhaps he shouldna be spendin nights here with the bird, it must be makin' him strange. Yet he had found that he slept better here on the rock than he did in his own fine bed. 'Twas an odd thing this kinship he had grown to feel with the cantankerous bird, yet he was grateful for it.
He packed his items, said goodbye to the bird and began to make his way out of the cavern. As he passed through the twisted passage that led from the cavern back to the light of day, he felt the cool breath of the darkened path and the offsetting heat of the kiss that burned on his forehead. When he reached the light he almost stumbled into the welcoming arms of its harsh reality. He emptied his flask into the retreating tide and made his way back to the pub and a life he knew he could predict.
No comments:
Post a Comment