THE BIRD PAINTER IN TIME OF WAR










THE BIRD
PAINTER IN TIME OF WAR

by Carol Emshwiller

 

Carol Emshwiller takes a painful look at the collateral
damage sustained by innocents like...

 

I paint birds in enemy territory.
I risk my life to paint them. My people are desert people. They think IÅ‚ve made
the birds upthat IÅ‚m painting fairy tales just so I can sell them to the
gullible. I donłt think I could invent such fancy birds by myself. So far Iłve
only been able to smuggle some feathers to prove to my own people that there
do, indeed, exist birds of a beauty theyłve never even thought of.

 

The enemy farmers know IÅ‚m a
foreigner but they donłt guess where Iłm from. I ask, with some of their words
and with drawings, if such and such a bird is around. I pay them in pictures. I
donłt have any of their kind of money. I donłt even have my own kind. That would
be a sure giveaway.

 

If their soldiers catch me, theyłll
take me for a spy. Theyłll think my paintings full of secret messages. Who
cares about birds? theyłd say. And theyłd be right. Who does? Not very many in
any country.

 

I doubt if IÅ‚d have the energy or
the will to defend myself. I stutter. Even more so when IÅ‚m nervous. The birds
donłt care. I can imitate their calls. I can whistle, squawk, quack and squeak.
IÅ‚m good at those, no problem.

 

I eat what comes to hand but I wonłt
eat birds. I can usually find tree ears or chanterelles and there are roots.
But I wonłt eat quail or duck or sage hen as most do. I do eat fish and
crayfish.

 

I used to photograph wars, but
that was before I looked up, not for the hiss of a mortar but for a different,
exciting sound, and there, in long lines, were the snow geese flying north.

 

That was a long time ago, and an
entirely different war.

 

I prefer the people here where I
donłt talk their language that well. Then not talking is normal. A silent cup
of tea with gestures. A place by the fire on a rainy night. These people are
not great talkers, anyway. I and the farmer can sit and smoke and nod, his wife
and children nearby, happy, or so it seems, for each otherłs silent company.

 

If I see a good barn I may not
even ask. I may just bed down there secretly. Of course therełll be a dog, but
IÅ‚m good with dogs. I always sit a bit before imposing myself on their space.
Sometimes I manage to get out a series of Gs. Guh, guh, ghu, ghu, good dog.

 

Children ask whatłs wrong with me.
I always say, “L, l, l, lots of things."

 

To avoid detection, when I leave
my desert for their mountains, I always cross the border where the cliffs are
steep and the forest thick. Itłs not easy with my folio and sketch books on my
back.

 

After climbing the ridge, IÅ‚ll hit
the road to the village. I never get far. IÅ‚m always looking down at the plants
along the roadside, as much as I look up to see whatłs flying by. I donłt
bother with the names of either birds or plants. Words are my adversaries.
Besides, the names will be different in their language.

 

Itłs the perfect time of year. All
sorts of birds are passing through. Half way up the hills on their side of the
border, I stop, turn around and rest. I can see the tops of the flags that fly
from their fort just below me. IÅ‚m well past their lines. From now on IÅ‚ll just
look like one more farmer with a big bundle.

 

But therełs not a single bird call
nor rustle of ground squirrels. I hold stilljust as everything else does. I
hear the snap of twigs. Somethingłs happening just above the fort.

 

Then I see soldiers in the colors
of my own side, circling past not far below me. Theyłre going to hit from
behind, where the cliffs look down on the fort. Theyłll drop mortars right into
the central courtyard.

 

These days forts arenłt worth
much. I donłt think the enemy uses this one for anything but barracks. Those
cannons along the ramparts are a hundred years old. I heard reveille as I
passed by. The enemy will be there. My side could do a lot of damage.

 

I wonder if I should try to warn
the enemy. What would save the most bloodshed?

 

I climb higher, wondering what to
do.

 

But then I hear a sound from
above. I stop again. Hold still...

 

...and a soldier backs up right
into me. This time a soldier of the enemy, looking down on those skulking
soldiers of my own side. Hełs alone, but loaded down with rifle and grenades.

 

At first I think a boy and I
think, does the enemy use children as its soldiers? But I start to suspect. I
look down at her body.

 

She sees my look. “Yes," she says,
in the enemy language, “I am," and points her gun at my chest. “What are you
doing out here? Trying to sneak across the border?"

 

Exactly what I am doing. Of
course what I answer is my usual. “I, I, I, I, I."

 

“WhatÅ‚s in your bundle?"

 

I hand it to her. She moves away,
tries to keep her gun on me and open the bundle at the same time. Not easy.

 

Then she forgets all about the
gun. She even forgets about me.

 

I have two smaller paintings I
brought with me to trade for a meal, or a bed in case the weather turns bad.
One is of the bird I call a golden wing. The other is of a pair of black and
white longtails with red heads. I tried to capture the luminosity of their
throats. There are flowers in each painting. People like that. In one therełs
dew on the petals and a sunrise in the background. Theyłre not completely
realistic. After all, I was a photographer, I got tired of reality.

 

She canłt stop looking. Ten ...
maybe fifteen minutes. I sit down. Later she turns to me, a look of wonder on
her face. All she says is, “You!"

 

I nod.

 

She sits beside me, the paintings
at our feet. She gives three big sighs in a row, says, “IÅ‚d like to forget all
about the war. IÅ‚d like to run away and never come back."

 

I keep nodding. I donłt want to
have to try to say anything.

 

She looks at me againall
admiration. “Easy to see youÅ‚re not a soldier."

 

Then she looks at the signature.

 

My name will tell her IÅ‚m a
foreigner.

 

“Nor. Nor? WhereÅ‚s that from?"

 

I took that name from the word for
bird in my language.

 

I donÅ‚t lie. “I, IÅ‚m yu, yu, your
... enemy."

 

“Not my enemy."

 

Her eyes are greenish blue.

 

Then, below us, the bombardment
begins. My people against her people.

 

She picks up her rifle. Shełs
about to take off, but I grab her arm.

 

“N, n, n, nothing you can d...."

 

A trumpet sounds down in the fort.

 

“YouÅ‚re trying to save them."

 

“No. S, s, save....you!"

 

But she twists away and off she
goes.

 

I pack up my paintings and head
up. I want to be back where the birds are singing. I need to paint. It calms
me.

 

I donłt stop until the sound is
muffled and distant and until I start to hear birds again and the rustle of
ground creatures.

 

I get out my sketch pad and a crow
quill pen and sit, hardly moving. And soon, here comes a redheaded yellowbeak
with topknot and right behind him his drab but, in her own way, equally
beautiful mate. I start to sketch, then give each drawing a wash of watercolor,
wait a few minutes until they dry and pack up.

 

I was concentrating so hard I didnłt
notice that the distant explosions have stopped, though therełs a volley of
rifle shots now and then.

 

I climb out on a jutting rock. IÅ‚m
almost at the top of the cliff. Behind me is the high flat land of the enemy. I
watch the sun setting across the valley where my people live. I watch a flock
of snow geese fly by. I hear them. Theyłre low, getting ready to land for the
night. I watch until even the stragglers pass. Then I climb below the jutting
rock and lie down.

 

I wonder how things went at the
fort and with the girl. I wonder if shełs still alive or if she rushed in,
threw her grenades and was shot right away. I hope she had more sense.

 

Can a mere bird painter rescue
somebody? Especially a bird painter who can hardly talk?

 

I feel bad that I let myself spend
the afternoon sketchingmaking myself forget while others were in danger and
maybe pain ... of course itłs pain theyłve gotten themselves into. Even she.
But the joy on her face when she looked at my paintings! And then at me! Itłs
enough to make me fall in love. But I donłt ever let myself. How could I say
what needs to be said? With secret signs and hand signals? A wink? A leer?
Maybe with a parrot on my shoulder to talk for me in squawks? I refuse.

 

Besides, I have my birds.

 

But could I rescue?

 

I give up on sleeping.

 

I can at least see if she made it
down to her own people. After I find out, IÅ‚ll escape back to my solitude.

 

* * * *

 

I leave my bundle under the
jutting rock. No moon. Therełs an owl. That reassures me. I disturb things that
skitter away. Then I trip and fall flat. Branches scratch my face. I hit my
chin on a rock and almost knock myself out. Therełs a mini landslide. I make a
terrible racket. I lie still and listen.

 

Nothing.

 

But right after that, my own side
captures me. They donłt treat me very well. Before they ask me anything or try
to find out who I am, they throw me down and kick me a few times. Then bring me
to a bonfire and to a colonel. I stutter more than usual. I donłt make any
sense at all. They take me for a moronitłs not the first timeand chain me to
a tree.

 

IÅ‚m worried about my paintings and
sketchbooks under that overhang (theyłre not well hidden), but Iłm mostly
worried about the girl. I donłt even know her name. I canłt ask about her. But
then I canłt ask about her anyway. They donłt have time to listen to me trying
to get the words out.

 

* * * *

 

In the morning I open my eyes to
white feathers. A fog of white. Tiny bits of down. IÅ‚m hurting and stiff but IÅ‚m
charmed. Enchanted. Itłs as if Iłve found my way into a bird world. I sit up
and then I realize therełs nothing to be enchanted about.

 

Every little group of soldiers has
a campfire with a spit and something cooking. The battle was long over, but
that evening they had nothing else to shoot so they shot the snow geese as they
came down low, looking for a resting place.

 

They eat and then bring me their
leftovers, but, hungry as I am, I wonłt eat snow goose.

 

Finally they unchain me, bring me
down to the ruined fort where theyłve set up headquarters. The outer walls
still stand, but inside itłs a mess. The inner walls are stone, too, but the
roofs were mostly wood and theyłre splintered and broken. Everything in the
rooms is scattered and covered with debris.

 

They have ways of hurting that donłt
leave a mark. If I could think of a secret IÅ‚d try to tell it to them, but I
never pay attention to anything except birds and flowers. And the more I need
to talk, the worse my sputtering gets. I find myself making the bird sounds
that come to me so easily, quacks and screeches and squawks.

 

Afterwards they donłt bother tying
me up. They let me lie in the courtyard. Discarded. Soldiers walk back and
forth around me and donłt pay any attention.

 

* * * *

 

Later I hear somebody calling, “Nor,
Nor. Get up, Nor. Please. Can you get up?"

 

Itłs dusk. The fort is quiet.
Quieter than it should be, not a soldier in sight. It seems the army has left
for some other battle.

 

“Nor."

 

I know who it is.

 

I stand up and hobble over to a
tiny window in a stone wall. She reaches out. I grab her hand. Without thinking
I kiss it and then hold it to my cheek. Then I worry about what IÅ‚ve done, but
she reaches with her other hand and places it over my hand. Perhaps words arenłt
so necessary after all.

 

“Are y, y, you aw...."

 

“What have they done to you? You
look...."

 

IÅ‚m thinking: Nothing you can see,
but then I remember my bruised chin and scratched face from my fall.

 

“TheyÅ‚ve gone," she says. “Can you
let me out?"

 

The door is chained shut, but I
use a piece of debris as a crow bar and pry the hinges out.

 

We run out the broken gates, around
the fort, and start up behind it. IÅ‚m yet again climbing the cliffs at the
hardest place. I know the way well but now IÅ‚m hurting. I wonder if I have a
cracked rib.

 

* * * *

 

Itłs exactly under that jutting
rock where I hid my things that we finally stop, and therełs my bundle,
slashed. Everything scattered. My paintings are not only cut, but shot at. I
suppose the next best thing to shooting real birds is shooting paintings of
them. They burned the sketch books. Just the metal rings are left. They cooked another
snow goose there.

 

I sit down, discouraged. Itłs the
girl that yells, “Oh no! Oh no!" over and over. She runs around gathering up
pieces and trying to fit them back together.

 

I say, “D, d, donÅ‚t."

 

She says, “But I want these. Can I
have them?"

 

I shrug.

 

I sit beside the dead campfire,
while the girl, on her knees, keeps trying to piece together parts of the
paintings and I finally remember to ask her name. Itłs Milla. I think it means
cloud. It fits her.

 

She keeps looking up at me with
the same admiration as before and I realize IÅ‚ve done itIÅ‚ve actually rescued
her. If not for me coming down for her, who would have been there to let her
out?

 

She pieces together about half of
one of my paintings. The middle is full of bullet holes and cuts.

 

“Look. The sunset and the flock of
ducks in the distance is still there. I want it. Please."

 

“C, c, Ä™course."

 

“Except you could sell this as it
is."

 

“No. You c, c."

 

“But what can I do for you that
would be worth as much?"

 

“N, n, no."

 

Then we hear honking way above us.
Another batch of geese, but high. You can just barely hear them.

 

Then therełs gunfire below us.
None of the geese fall, theyłre way too high. Somebody is shooting just for the
fun of it. It stops after the geese pass, but the shooters are so near, we
think wełd better get out of there.

 

But theyłve heard us. They start
shooting in our direction before they know which side we are, or we them. We
flop down flat.

 

But it might be my own side.

 

I stand up. I shout, “S, s, stop,"
in my own language.

 

Behind me Milla shouts, “Stop," in
her language.

 

Good. We have both languages
going. Then one of them says, “Stop," in the enemyÅ‚s language. ItÅ‚s MillaÅ‚s
people.

 

Right in front of me, and in
flower, is the bush the hummingbirds love best, and there, the hummingbird. How
can it be? Right between shots? I still have a red feather in my button hole. I
donłt know how it lasted here through all this. The bird hovers over it. I
stand still. It hovers over my face. Checking, am I food or not? Perhaps my
scratches are red enough to tempt it.

 

I come to, to someone crying. IÅ‚m
comfortable. Therełs a pillow. Therełs a feather bed. I think: Some day there
will be nothing to cry about. Or at least therełll be no shooting and plenty of
feather beds. Then I think: Hummingbird!

 

I open my eyes and sit up.

 

The crying stops.

 

Therełs a little girl standing in
the doorway. She says, “Oh!" And then, in the enemy language, “I thought you
were dead."

 

Iłm not a good judge of childrenłs
ages, but she canłt be more than six or seven.

 

I say, “N, n, not yet."

 

She says, “You had blood."

 

“D, did I?"

 

“You stayed in bed all day. I
wouldnłt like that."

 

“I, I, I...."

 

“You talk funny."

 

“I, I ... Yup."

 

“They didnÅ‚t want me to see you
but I did anyway. Lots of times. Like now. Youłre a secret. But how come you
get all these nice things?"

 

“Wh, what? N, nice?"

 

Then I see, beside the bed, there
are sketch books, pens, and paints, and a large tablet of watercolor paper.

 

“I wish I could have them.
Or even just one little bitty thing."

 

“Which?"

 

“Paints."

 

“I ... IÅ‚ll ... share."

 

Then Milla comes in, carrying a
tray.

 

“Sassuna! What are you doing here?"

 

Shełs wearing slacks and a flowery
blouse. Everything much more revealing than her uniform.

 

“He said heÅ‚d share."

 

“Go!"

 

The girl is so happy she actually
skips out.

 

“I hope she didnÅ‚t wake you."

 

“I ... l ... like...."

 

She puts the tray on a little
table by the bed.

 

I try to get up and fall flat.
Bang my chin yet again, knock over the traythe tea, the breadin a great
clatter.

 

But shełs kneeling beside me. Iłm
in her arms.

 

Again IÅ‚m thinking: Maybe words
arenłt that important.

 

Sassuna must have heard everything
crashing down. SheÅ‚s back. As before she says, “Oh!" Stands in the doorway
watching us.

 

Milla kisses my forehead and then
my cheeks. I reach up to hold her head so I can kiss her lips.

 

Sassuna keeps on looking. We keep
right on kissing.

 

* * * *

 

Milla tells me the soldiers of my
side are entering houses hunting for soldiers of their side. Theyłre killing
animals to eat and killing animals for fun. The place is overrun by us.
So far they havenłt come here. This farm is set well back from the main road
and hidden in trees.

 

I was shot in the thigh. Another
shot creased my ribs under my arm. When I fell I fell hard and hit my head.

 

After they shot me, Millałs side
apologized to her. They even helped carry me out to the road, but refused to do
more. They thought my side was right behind them. Milla found an old man with a
cart and had him haul me here.

 

Therełs an old lady here (Sassunałs
grandmother) and a boy who sleeps in the barn and helps out. They know I
rescued Milla and she showed them the pieces of my paintings. Boasted about me.
Only Sassuna doesnłt look at me as if I was special. She says she can draw and
paint just as well as I can. I say wełll go out and paint as soon as Iłm well
enough. Of course I donłt say it as easily as that but Sassuna waits for me to
sputter it out.

 

* * * *

 

Later they wheel me into the yard
to paint and soon we hike the fields and orchard. Milla comes, too. She likes
to sit behind my left shoulder and watch my paintings grow, little by little by
little.

 

Everything we paint is hung up in
the main room right away, mine and Sassunałs side by side.

 

Now, to everybodyłs exasperation,
Sassuna limps and stutters as much as I do. Nobody can stop her.

 

Sassuna says, if she was a bird,
shełd like to be the red and blue one with the topknot. I say Iłd like to be a
crow or raven because theyłre clever and tricky.

 

And Milla and I....

 

Sassunałs grandmother lets us do as
we do without disapproval.

 

Neither of us talk much. Touch is
how we love each other.

 

* * * *

 

But they come. My side. In the
middle of the night, of course. They take me and Milla.

 

I canłt explain anything, even in
my own language, but I donłt want to. I want to go with Milla. Milla tells them
Iłm on their side, but they donłt believe her.

 

IÅ‚m still wearing my shirt and
pants with bullet holes. Bullet holes in civilian clothes means to them IÅ‚m
worse than a soldier, IÅ‚m a spy. They think my stuttering is a ruse. Or, they
think, I was picked to be a spy because I couldnłt divulge secrets when
tortured.

 

They tie us up and throw us in a
truck bed and drive us back to the old fort. I have a kind of fit. I will
not let this happen. I refuse. I struggle. Milla keeps yelling for me to stop. “It
wonłt do any good." At the end of twenty minutes Iłm exhausted.

 

They lock the others near the gate
but they take me to a cell on the far side of the fort. IÅ‚m in a room with
hardly space enough for a cot. And therełs no cot. In fact therełs nothing.
Therełs a barred window in the door just big enough for somebody to look in and
see if IÅ‚m still here.

 

There are ravens all over the
yard. Perhaps the bombing scattered garbage.

 

One comes to my tiny window, pecks
at the bars. “Hello," he says. And then, “Fire in the hole. Boom."

 

I caw and then coo. IÅ‚m thinking:
Go tell my love I love her. I say, “I, I ... t, t, tell her l, l...." And shoo
him away. He says, “Goodbye," and does a barrel roll before flying off. It
cheers me up.

 

I kick aside chunks of plaster and
pieces of a beam and lie down on the earth floor and look at the half ruined
ceiling. Could I pull it apart even more and escape? Therełs nothing to stand
on to reach it. Maybe at the door, perching on the lintel? I leap up the wall
but fall flat. I do it again.

 

When I was young I took needless
risks in order to test myself. Perhaps it was because I couldnłt talk. I had to
prove myself some way. IÅ‚d stay out in a cold rain without a raincoat. IÅ‚d
climb the hardest cliffs, and climb higher and longer than anybody else. I was
a pacifist, but I went to photograph wars to prove myself as brave as any
soldier. I thought I had gotten over that need.

 

But I leap up the wall yet again
and fall flat, as if hurting myself proved something.

 

IÅ‚m about ready to have another
fit.

 

I calm myself by imagining Milla
yelling, Stop. I lie down, and study the ceiling again. Finally I doze.

 

Evening comes. No one brings food
or water.

 

I watch out my little window.
Therełs a mortar launcher set up in the yard, but nobody near it. Soldiers are
walking about now and then, though not as many as youłd think if theyłre
serious about holding the fort. Just enough to look after the prisonerswhich
theyłre not doing, at least as far as food and drink is concerned. I wonder if
Milla got fed.

 

I call out a couple of times but
nobody pays attention. Crazy man, stuttering out consonants. “P, p, p, p,
please," like a motorboat that wonłt start.

 

* * * *

 

At dark the bombing begins. This
time it will be Millałs people trying to get their fort back. Whatłs the sense
of all this back and forth? This fort isnłt worth much to either side. When
they win it what will they have won?

 

At the next volley my roof collapses.
Thank goodness there wasnłt much of it left to fall on me. One of the beams
lies wedged, half way down, and at an angle. I can reach it and climb out.

 

Mortars are falling everywhere. As
I watch, the mortar launcher in the yard is blasted apart.

 

And then her side does an
old-fashioned thing. They shoot arrows wrapped with burning rags into the
broken wooden roofs. It only takes a minute for smoke to cover everything.
Soldiers run around choking and yelling.

 

All I think about is Milla. I run
through the smoke to where she was locked up but when I get there, the door is
lying on its side burning. I try to go in but I canłt walk over the fallen and
burning ceiling and I canłt see in all the smoke. I call out. Nobody answers.

 

But IÅ‚m the only one they thought
was a spy. Maybe they let her go. Or could she have knocked the door down, or
maybe got out through the roof as I did before it burned?

 

Would she have left without me?
She might. She might have been thinking of Sassuna and Grandma.

 

I head for the gate.

 

But their side is picking off the
soldiers as they run out. No questions askedas usual.

 

I pull my shirt up around my face
and turn back into the smoke.

 

I get lost right away. I fall.
Then I hear, “Hello. Hello."

 

I caw.

 

“Hello there. Fire in the hole.
Boom."

 

IÅ‚ve always trusted birds.

 

I get up and run, following that
crazy, raucous voice.

 

“Hello. Hello there."

 

Just when I think I canłt take one
more smoky breath, there I am, bumping into the back wall of the fort,
suffocating and nowhere to go. But thereÅ‚s an impatient, “craw, craw, craw,"
from somewhere near me. I turn towards the crawing and feel a gust of fresh
air. Therełs a narrow stone doorway and a stone stairway just inside. Itłs not
smoky in there. The air is cool and smells of mold. I climb the steps for what
seems like three stories and end up high on the ancient battlements. The wind
is blowing in the other direction. The rest of the fort is completely hidden in
smoke but IÅ‚m in the clear.

 

Back here, the battlements are
right against the cliff. The ancient cannons canłt have been of any use at all,
and yet therełs one every ten or twelve steps. For Heavenłs sake, facing the
cliff ! As if to follow some military rule that said, in all forts, it must be
so.

 

The raven is perched on one of the
cannons.

 

Then the fire hits the arsenal.
The whole front of the fort blows up.

 

Weraven and Iare far enough back
and high enough not to be hurt by debris, but wełre both knocked down. Iłm on
my back and the raven ... at first I think hełs dead, splayed out flat,
feathers every which way, but he gets up and flutters to shake his feathers
back in place.

 

“Fire in the hole. Boom."

 

“Ex, ex ... actly."

 

He starts to preen, trying to put
himself back together.

 

This section of the fort is all
thatłs left. Not much use now, even as a prison.

 

I hear a squawking and look in the
mouth of the cannon and therełs a nest and three baby ravens in there. Theyłre
not even dusty. When they see me peering in, they squawk louder. All you can
see are three wide open red mouths.

 

I make a fluttering sound in the
back of my throat. “Rroo, rroo, rroo," trying to imitate the sounds parents
make to their chicks. I sit down beside the cannon.

 

Some things, even fragile things,
still live and thrive. But Milla? Is she part of this dust billowing around us?
Am I breathing her?

 

What if I hadnłt made it this far
before that blast? What if I...? Blown to bits, too, flying, as maybe Milla is
flying around me right now.

 

I have wished I could fly.

 

I donłt want to be birds made of a
hundred little bits. Unless Milla....

 

The raven hops up on the side of
the cliff.

 

“Hello. Boom! Hello. Boom!" As if
telling me to follow.

 

But only fingerholds and toeholds
here. If that. Does he think IÅ‚m a mountain goat? Or does he think I, too, can
fly?

 

But IÅ‚ve lost all fear for my own
safety. I have nothing else to lose and nothing to do but trust my raven.

 

Now hełs even higher.

 

“Crox. Creeks. Crow. Boom!"

 

I find a tiny fingerhold. I begin.

 

* * * *

 

Without my ravenłs repertoire of
caws and cricks and buzzes and booms, IÅ‚d not have had the guts to do it. He
gives me confidence and, even in the midst of all this, amuses me. If such a
creature still talks and crows his way through life, his chicks on the very
edge of disasterif he tries to help me for no reason whatsoever, it must be
worth hanging on ... and literally hanging on.

 

I thought maybe with my wounded
leg I wouldnłt be able to do it ... that Iłd end up flat out beside the chicks.
Good food for carrion crows. At least IÅ‚d end up of some use.

 

It gets easier. In a few minutes IÅ‚m
back on the wooded pathways I usually travel. Cinders fly up around me, some as
white and magical as the feathers of the snow geese. I grab at them but theyłre
as elusive as down.

 

I turn around. I want to circle to
the gates of the fort and try to find out what happened to Milla.

 

My raven calls, “Hello. Hello.
Hello."

 

I keep going.

 

He flies into my face.

 

In spite of a face full of
feathers, I keep going back.

 

He dive bombs my head.

 

“Aw, r, r, right," and turn
around. “D, d, d, damn!"

 

I donłt believe this. Birds are
smart in their own way, but not in our ways.

 

He leads me up my usual pathway.
We donłt go far when I see a small bundle wrapped in red cloth and partly
covered in leaves and brush.

 

The raven coosas if to his chicks.

 

It isnłt! But it is!

 

I squat beside her. “S, s, s, Sa,
suna!"

 

She sits up and grabs me so hard
she knocks me over.

 

I never saw such a sad, pale,
dirty, tear-streaked face. Ever.

 

“I couldnÅ‚t find you. I couldnÅ‚t
find Milla."

 

Has she been out here all night?

 

“H ... how? How long?"

 

She starts to cry. By the looks of
her I wouldnłt have thought she had the energy.

 

“And then I couldnÅ‚t get back
home."

 

“Fire in the hole. Boom! Hello."

 

“It, it, Ä™s all right n, now."

 

“DonÅ‚t go."

 

“Ä™C, Ä™course not."

 

When I look up to see where the
ravenłs got to, hełs gone.

 

Wełll have to hurry back. The
night will be cold. Sassuna only has her jacket and I have nothing but my
shirt. I take it off and wrap it around her, tie it on by the sleeves. I put her
piggyback and start on up. My body will help to warm her.

 

IÅ‚ve climbed up and down here so
often, and with a big bundle of paper and paints. Sassuna isnłt much heavier.

 

What a dangly age she is, nothing
but arms and legs.

 

“Nor."

 

“Mmm hmm."

 

“I love you."

 

As I was following the raven up
the cliff, I had thought to find a way to get myself blown to bits or burned to
ashesanything that would take wing, but I guess not. At least not yet.

 

She falls asleep there on my back
and drools on my shoulder. As evening comes it does get cold and me with no
shirt. Itłll take another couple of hours before I can find my way back to
Grandmałs.

 

But my leg wound and lack of food
catches up with me. I stop under the overhanging rock. Just one more short
climb and wełll be up where itłs flat and easy, but I have to rest. I put
Sassuna down next to the dead fire where Milla and I sat side by side and she
tried to put my paintings back together.

 

IÅ‚m freezing. I gather up wood and
brush, make a small fire and lie down beside it.

 

I think of those raven chicks,
right on the edge of war, and the hummingbird there, practically between shots.
Why canłt some of us resign from all sides? Fly over it. Not even be bothered?
Build our nests above it all?

 

I wake to shooting. Sassuna and I
are caught between it. She cries out in panic.

 

“Shhh. Shhh. B, b, b, be a bird."

 

“How?"

 

And now my words come out
perfectly. No hesitation.

 

“Remember the shiny red and blue
one you wanted to be? Be it."

 

Shots are all around from both
above us and below. A grenade lands next to us, right where the cinders
still....

 

* * * *

 

I rise, a shiny red and blue bird
beside me. Therełs a great rush of wings as a flock of ravens rises up with us.

 

“Hello. Hello. Hello."

 

 

 

 








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