Feathers

                              Feathers

Whenever anybody ever mentions little Scott Mitchell, I always find it hard to recall his face. It’s baffling, really; less than four years have passed since I last saw him- or is it five? Sitting here now, I can’t decide. At the time I was nine years old and still in the embrace of blissful ignorance; when such a momentous story like Scottie’s manages to become forgotten amongst the delights of pudding, cartoons and the pile of fallen leaves in the garden that are begging to be jumped in. Maybe that’s why I’m struggling so much to remember, to grasp hold of details that are trickling away before my eyes- water held futilely in a cupped hand. At least, that’s what I’m trying to tell myself.
But, see, there’s a niggling- there, hidden away in the back of my head- that’s insisting that four years is not long enough to account for the clouded spot in my brain. Its adamance is overpowering, incessant and rather annoying, if I’m honest. But I do, despite myself, agree. Even in the weeks and the months that passed- and with it, the effects of the story fading like the pain of a graze- even after so much time (after all, when you’re young the years are so unbearably long, and you can’t help but wish the time away with a rigor that you’ll regret later on, when time is something you never have enough of) I should be able to remember something.

Scottie’s face still eludes me.
His outline looms out of the darkness, taunting me, laughing at my feeble attempts to fill in the gaps. Why can I not recollect a boy’s face? Especially a boy of such significance, a boy with such a story trailing behind his name; why is it that other, less important children refuse to leave me, and yet he is skipping just a few too many steps ahead? I can but wonder, lying here in bed, hoping for a sleep that refuses to come. 
Lamplight casts a soft glow over me; absently, frustrated, my eyes follow the cliffs and undulations my body makes underneath the printed sheets; rivers and caverns and gorges meander aimlessly before my eyes, flitting between lucid orange to the darkest shadow. Normally such sights would encourage slumber, but tonight I am unable to grasp the beckoning hand of unconsciousness. There is a little boy’s silhouette tugging me back into reality. 
Abandoning all hope of sleep, I throw back the covers with a twinge of regret- December is imminent, and the whisper of winter is almost tangible in the air around me as what heat I had accumulated is lost by the movement- and stand, my toes curling in the carpet as if my some miracle this will keep me warm. Still, I shake myself; no rest for the undeserving. After everything that happened those years ago-
My thoughts careen to a halt. What things? I wonder. Obviously, the knowledge is there, somewhere in my head- so why does my brain insist on playing this game with me? What have I deemed so explicit I must not be allowed to recollect it?

Puzzled, my fingers bunch in the curtains as I draw one, pulling it away to stare at the darkened glass beyond. My reflection makes me shiver. Within a cocoon of black, a ghostly mirage looms- an ethereal doll of a girl with eyes wider than the moon staring back at me. The material is coarse and thick under my flesh, printed to match the bedcovers; all at once I am struck by the distance I feel with both things. The curtains, the covers, the bed- everything in the room is mine in name only. Why these feeling now, when I have slept in this alien room for almost a decade? I can see echoes of my childhood; the stain of ice cream on the carpet, the dusty shadow on the wall where a poster was taped; a smattering of those peculiar white beans that you get in teddy bears. All of it is tangible proof of my ownership, but right now it seems implausible, a weak effort easily brushed aside. The disconcertion sweeps over my head like a wave, and the prick of eyes on the back of my neck makes my arms tingle. Why, I ask again. Why now and not before? Why has everything suddenly become so foreign to me?
Movement beyond the window draw my attention- snowflakes, fluttering from black clouds far above my head, splashes of pure, brilliant white amidst a deep, impenetrable darkness. Several drift, inches from my glass barrier, falling like the lightest of feathers to the sill beyond my bedroom- the tips tinged orange by the light at my back, the rest receding into white, then grey and finally black.
Feathers, I muse. At the thought, memories stir restlessly- I persist, the harder I try, the slipperier they seem to become- but finally, my efforts snag a flailing strand. I latch on, eyes scrunched up in concentration, fingers worrying at the seams of my luxurious curtains that were never mine, until it yields, and I’m tossed unceremoniously into remembrance.

It was cold that day, I remembered, much like now but even more so; we were bundled up like Christmas puddings in huge, immobilising duffle coats- boots, gloves, and garlands of scarves topped with woollen hats. We were explosions of ever colour imaginable; rainbow flowers scattered over the white expanse of the snow-covered ground. The excitement of so much snow had had us scratching at the closed back doors, pining for freedom with such unrelenting stubbornness until set free by our harried mothers. Outside, the wonders intensified- a once boring garden had been captured by a white wilderness, and here we were given free access- to run, to play, to do what we liked.
Tamira had wanted to go to the duck pond, to see the crystallised water and the bubbles trapped motionless underneath, to explore the snow-dusted ground for more of the pearly pebbles she loved. Her collection had grown over the year I’d known her- shelves and shelves were covered with them back at her house; her own private beach, she called it. The boy Scott scoffed at her, of course- everything Tamira did was ridiculous to him- she could do that any time, he said. No, today was for something special; to do something we could only do when every parent we had was indoors, occupied with the demands that New Year’s brought. The others had agreed, every one of them- especially that other boy I knew from school, with the skin the colour of hazelnut milk, and eyes like the green jelly tots my grandpa always brought me whenever I went to stay. Amir was by far the nicest of the boys I knew- he didn’t tease me about my glasses that had been dropped far too many times and bore bandages of cello tape to prove it, and never once did he join in with Scott’s teasing. Perhaps he had wisdom above that of a nine year old boy, and could recognize the difference between freckles and the plague (according to some of the others, I was diseased and would be dead within a week) or maybe he just didn’t want to taunt me. I never did find out which one it was.
It had been decided then, chiefly by Scott and the rest, that we were to embark on a Quest through the woods to where the old wizard lived. This decision was reached in voices with slight tremors underlying them- it was a well known fact that the wizard didn’t like trespassers, and would smite any who ventured too close with his powerful lightening-tipped staff. The rumours circulating him were strengthened by the fact we had all been sternly forbidden by our respective parents never to wander past the near edges of the woods, for fear of punishment of the severest kind.
But given that the punishers were all crowded round fireplaces, nibbling cheese and biscuits, mince pies and leftover Christmas cake and doing whatever else the alien world of adulthood entailed, fears were low and our courage was stoked. If there was any time to disobey and visit the Wizard, it was now.

Although tales of visits and sightings were common (everyone, it seemed, bore the scars of the Wizard’s wrath) that day even the most boastful of the boys in our group had grown less talkative the closer we drew to the forest. All conversation had ceased when we reached the fringes of the trees, as we stood in silent awe of the towering pines, necks craned upwards at impossible angles and mouths hanging wider than train tunnels.
There had always been an element of dark forbidding about the trail of forest that marked the west side of town- in the summer it was common to see farmers disappearing amongst the leaves and returning hours later, the lifeless fuzz of countless rodents swinging from their belts. Townsfolk grew hushed whenever the subjects arose, and nobody ever went there for an aimless walk like they did with the other forest. Perhaps if we’d remembered this, we might’ve been more inclined to listen to the threats of our fathers, but right then the fact that no-one ever entered the woods without a grim frown on their face and a rifle in their grasp seemed not to matter. The woods were a place of mystery and rumours, of dark fairytales conjured up when games grew dull by the most imaginative of the children. The trees were a place that both enticed and repelled with its terrible majesty, and to every child in town is was the one area that they never wanted to go to, but longed to see the heart of.
And now, for the first time, some of us would.
I cannot describe the excitement, and sheer terror, that those first few steps brought. Adrenaline made my veins sing as my boots crunched through the snow- real, unblemished snow, the only undisturbed snow for miles- every step growing lighter and more carefree as I passed into the shadows of the sentinel pines. I was almost numb with fear, but the feeling was electric- here we were, really, honestly in the woods! The knowledge that the group of us were making history, the first ever children courageous enough to venture into the dreaded forest, was rapture. With this, our unified fright was pushed aside and we began to run, flitting in between darkened trunks thicker than our own bodies, dancing and twirling and relishing the feel of ecstatic rebellion. Funny, I reflect in the darkness; how now I can remember everything and all I want is for the memories to stop coming.

I ran- forwards, backwards, looping in crazed circles, watching as my movement were recorded in the white beneath me- until my knees began to shake and I could remain upright no longer, I stumbled and fell, whooping with manic glee, and landing in a haphazard heap. Sending flurries of powder gushing upwards like ashes in a fire, I contented myself with sweeping my arms and feet wide, creating random patterns while the raucous laughter of the other children swirled around my head amongst the snow drifts. The freedom of the moment had captured us all; every one of us had given no thought to whether we were being missed back home, if our names were being called in for afternoon tea and biscuits; if absent summonings were turning to worried calling. Instead our heads were full of accomplishment, of rebellious pride and fresh delight as more snow began to fall. The trees around us were so tall they blocked most of the light, and it was hard to tell whether these new flakes were falling from the clouds or were just settled drifts dislodged from the highest tree tops. None of us cared.
I don’t know how much time passed- I was nine, and time was an adult concept, unless it was followed by the mention of food or play- but it seemed to be slightly darker when Amelia, the only other girl of our group, cried out. Her voice rang through the trees, echoing like the resonating chime of a grandfather clock, and at once I stilled. The silence shook with the absence of our laughter, and as one we turned to her.
Through the gaps- yes, it was definitely darker, almost like twilight with the weak sun and the shade of the trees- her red coat shone, and I neared the vibrant beacon warily. My fear, banished by play, returned, and the realisation of where we were seemed to descend upon us all once more.
Amelia had been standing with her back to me as I’d neared her, and I could only see her red coat- her feet were partially obscured by the mist that had begun to roll down from the mountains and swarm around our knees. Her cry hadn’t been one of fear then- just a startled curiosity- and it was then that I found out why.
At her feet was a chaos of churned earth, soiled snow and feathers. The broken body of a swan lay in an almost perfect halo of dirt and melted snow. Standing above the beautiful creature, a feeling of remorse- so intense and painful it had left me breathless- had stabbed me in the chest. The bird had been snatched from the air, it seemed, by something, and ravaged; the shredded plumage feathers were blushed an alien pink. They were scattered in a flurry around its torso, its body was curled protectively around itself; like a child sleeping on its side, with one beautiful wing stretched awkwardly from its body. The longer feathers of the wings had been ripped from the muscles with horrendous brutality, and cast aside- they surrounded the lifeless form like a halo in the snow. I remember struggling for breath, gasping around the huge steel ball clogging my throat- I met Amelia’s eyes then, and deep within the green I saw the same emotions.
But it seemed these sensations had affected only us- moments later, exclamations of delight and freshly awakened excitement reached us as we were joined by the boys. They seemed to look beyond the tragedy the bird was, and saw instead the wonder that such feathers offered.
Scott had immediately whooped with amusement and swept up the biggest of the feathers in his meaty fists. Holding them proudly aloft like disjointed wings, several in each hand, he’d cawed manically to the laughter of the others.
“Look! I’m a swaaan!” He’d squawked, and made mad jumping motions where he stood, flapping his haphazard wings excitedly as if to lift himself off the ground. Spurred by his actions, the others had followed- grabbing fistfuls of the ruined feathers and breaking into running once more, flapping and cawing like an army of horrendous half-birds. Amelia and I had watched silently as the swan’s broken body was pillaged until few of the wing feathers remained, and the body looked even more sorrowful than before.
Looking back, I think that was the first time I realised the dangers the forest, when I was confronted first-hand with the vicious cruelty it could deliver to something so pure, so innocent and undeserving. But that’s with four (five?) years hindsight; I paid no attention then.

Our spirits significantly diminished, and Amelia and I had trailed behind, swathed in a companionable silence that spoke of a mutual understanding none of the others possessed. It was only us that seemed to comprehend that the feathers in our friend’s hand were the remains of a creature from the sky, that the game that they played now- flapping and whooping and flying through the trees- was an act that the swan had recently performed without a second thought. The experience had humbled us, to say the least.
Still, we were young and the distractions of the forest were abundant. Our attention was soon drawn from such thoughts- the frozen droplets in a spider’s web, the iced bulb of a snowdrop, poking through the snow- and gradually, our mood lightened until we were running alongside our friends again, our sorrow discarded.

It had been then that we’d broken through an edge of the trees and onto a narrow lip of rock, and the full view of the gorge our town was named after was revealed to us. Strands of serpentine trickled through the grey rocks, beginning a sharp descent out of view a few metres from where we stood, falling into a steep incline that would have been, had we dared move forwards to look, formidable.
The gorge was a tourist attraction, mainly- there was only so many times a family from the town could walk along it edge in their lifetime, especially when the mountains offered so much more in terms of trails and views. I hardly ever came to it anymore, and never before had I seen it from this angle; metres away stretched the other side, the side with the tourist signs and the safety railing. Where we were then, however, was unguarded, there was no need for it to be- the forest was restricted to poachers and hunters mainly; not exactly the type of folk who wanted to walk along the edge of a ravine. There was no railing here, just a sheer edge tumbling away from us, into the depths of the gorge.
Beside me, the others had voiced their wonderment in hoarse voices. The soft, hushed voice of Tamira spoke up; “Do you think… does the Wizard live here?”
“Must do.” Scott decided, tiptoeing nearer to the edge. Indeed, with its grey rocks and mist curling eerily from its depths, the gorge seemed then to be an ideal place for a wizard to live- why, I mused, the mist could easily be smoke from the nostrils of his dragons, or steam from his big, black cauldron.
Scott turned back to us then, his eyes unusually bright. Let’s call him, he’d said. Let’s get the Wizard to come out and say hi.
I’d protested, just like everybody else- but Scott’s mind was full of fireworks, insatiable ideas that roamed behind his eyes, and he didn’t listen. Undeterred by our reluctance, he cried out- impossibly loud, the sound echoing all around- channelling all his strength into that once prolonged note. What had begun as a shout stretched so loudly and for so long that the sound dwindled into indiscernible noise. We begged him to stop, but Scott kept on regardless- face scrunched, flapping his feathers with excitement- 
“Wizard! Wizard, wizard, wizard, come on, come on!”-
We’d turned away by then, hoping that our disinterest would persuade him where our words could not. All of us were walking away at that moment, so when we asked each other later, none of us could say exactly what happened next.
“Come on! I’m gonna fly down to meet you, I’m gonna! I’m gonna fly down”-
But he broke off mid-sentence, the rest of his words lost in the warbled mass of sound that closely resembled a scream. His scream made us turn then, all of us- I felt the rustle of people’s coats against my skin as we swivelled- to see mist billowing upwards from the precipice, swallowing the spot where Scottie had stood. It was like a huge claw, closing around the spot. The Wizard was reaching up from his lair beneath us, pulling Scott away-
My own fingers clench in the curtains- I ran, we all did, an adrenaline of a rather different kind spurring our limbs now. I pelted blindly through the trees, squealing uncontrollably as I did so, visions of wizards and dragons breathing ice and lightening coloured my vision; urging me faster, faster, faster-the blurs of colours on the periphery, coats and hats barely noticed-

Later, when I was hunched over a steaming mug of tea- the normalcy of the gesture making me feel safe and comforted- in front of our fire, watching the wood spit and crackle, I heard the voice stalking in the kitchen; of the forest, of our exploits, of a fall… The words were discarded; I paid no attention to them. Beside me, the fire spat and our cat yawned in response to my caress. Later, whenever I heard about the day, the faces of the people always looked sad and regretful when they spoke about it. Later, I was forbidden to ever set foot near the forest again, under even worse punishment than before.
I was scolded when I ran back home, arms flailing in my coat, yelling in panic of wizards and misty claws- but the shouts of my father were accompanied by my mother clutching at me with undisguised gratitude. It was the first time I saw my mother cry, and it seemed to be in terrified relief- the same expression was on my father’s face, too. I didn’t understand for a very long time afterwards- maybe, even, until now, standing as I am silhouetted by the window, silent and deeper in thought than I really feel comfortable with.
Leaving the curtain to fall back into position, I steal through the darkness to the welcoming warmth of my bed. Lying on my back, the certainty that sleep is now an impossibility washes over me- with the realisations the memories have brought me, I couldn’t be further from unconsciousness. Odd, how sleep evaded me before when I knew nothing, and yet the terrible knowledge of that day brought it no closer. The memories of five years ago, the details of a day I should have forgotten; they fail to bring me the solace I need. I am further now from peace than I have ever been.
After all, the boy may have a face now, but he still won’t let me go- he remains, the boy with the deathly feathers in his hands, to taunt me through my every waking moment.