The Falconry, A Short Story
Copyright 2013 Angela Castillo
Dear Great-Aunt Saffy,
You often called my moodier childhood moments ‘The Dribbles’ and I have been in this state since you moved to the assisted-living apartments. I miss the ability to hop on a bus for Chicago downtown and land, almost by magic, on your comfy couch with a cup of peppermint tea in my hand.
We both knew the distance would limit my visits, but I didn’t think I would feel so sad. You always loved my hair. What if it falls out in long, red clumps because of you? Of course, I’m joking. I know you didn’t have a choice.
Mother is worried sick about you. “Why won’t she get a phone?” she says. “Who in all this world doesn’t have a phone?” But you know I understand, and I enjoy the excuse to write letters.
Ever since my promotion, I’ve been crazy. My predecessor left quite a mess for me to clean up after I accepted the position. The higher-ups scrutinize every decision, waiting for me to ruin something so they can fire me and hire some other poor soul.
When I come home, I flip channels on TV and stare at the screen, unable to register what I see. I lie in bed and study the ceiling while the worries of the day scramble over each other to fight for my attention. Morning comes and I head to work again, exhausted.
I don’t like doctors but I finally went to the clinic down the street. The doctor assured me the pills he prescribed would help me sleep.
“Will they affect my work?” I asked.
“No, no,” he promised through his walrus moustache. “These are harmless.”
“All right,” I agreed. All the way home, I turned the bottle over and over in my hands, listening to the pills as they clattered against the sides. Would they cause similar chaos in my mind?
Friday started with a phone call from an irate client and continued to descend downhill from there. I slipped farther down into a chasm of hopelessness.
When I slumped past Marjorie’s cubicle, she reached out and grabbed me with her purple-polished fingernails. “Evangeline, you have to come with Ann and me! We met some cute guys at the club and they want to us to come for drinks, tonight.”
Though descriptions of my social life could fit on a two-minute voice mail, I agreed to come. Maybe a girl’s night out would be the distraction I needed. I promised Marjorie I would come.
I went home to get ready. The bottle of pills was in the pocket of my jacket and I decided to take one before I left. Medication always takes hours to work for me so hopefully I would be sleepy by the time I got home. I swallowed the recommended dose and sank down on the couch to check my purse for keys and wallet.
My eyes blinked in a sudden light. Walls of stone curved in towards me, and wooden beams jutted out over my head. Windows spilled sunlight over crude, carved benches, to reveal what appeared to be piles of cloth, placed a few feet apart from each other. Though this enclosure was roughly the size of my living room, I had never been here. My thoughts raced to the night before. What had I done? This didn’t look like a jail or hospital. I couldn’t even remember leaving the house!
One bundle moved, and a wild eye stared at me. The bundles surrounding me did not consist of cloth, but feathers attached to birds of prey. Golds, reds and browns of autumn fanned themselves before me while they stretched and cleaned themselves. Some had spotted breasts, some black-tipped wings. Many regal heads sported hoods that only revealed dangerous, curved beaks.
Memories from college History bubbled up in my mind. A falconry? In Chicago? How did I ever...
I uncurled my fingers, clinched to my purse strap. The dream was so real, so tangible. I still caught the musty scent of the falconry and the leavings from the birds. My apartment décor, so familiar to me, seemed strange and out of place.
Pink and orange hues announced morning had come, so I pulled myself together and prepared for work. My friends would be worried. How would I explain my absence?
The dream slipped from my mind and three nights later, I reached for the pills again.
Once more, I awoke in the rounded room. The birds were restless, some gave their hollow, haunted cries while others picked nervously at their feet, where leather straps kept them bound.
Hollow footsteps rang on the stone floor, and a man stepped through the doorway, stooping to avoid the low brace.
His shoulders were broad and sturdy, his gait one of assurance. The earth-colored tunic and pants he wore were simple, but finely made and dusted with small gold-embroidered patterns.
He paid me no heed, and when I opened my mouth in greeting, words would not come.
The man carried a plate of raw diced meat. He crossed the room and stood next to me, where he proceeded to measure the meat into small portions, weighing each pile on a scale. One of the birds reached out and pecked at his belt with impatience.
A boyish smile brightened the man’s square jaw, and at once he looked much younger than my first impression, despite the silver streak running through his dark hair. “Hungry, my beauty?” he asked the falcon. “You will get yours in a moment.”
Hands mapped with scars in testimony to years of working with birds, doled out portions for each eager fowl.
Bells attached to talons jingled when birds moved forward to gobble down their meals. The man fed the hooded birds by hand, fearless before the raking beaks. He spoke kind words, promises of days filled with sunlight again, soon to come.
Could it be possible to fall in love with a dream?
I jerked awake again in my apartment, this time in bed. I lay there for hours, thinking of the man from my dreams. What past experience conjured this specter into being?
Night before last, the third dream held me in a now-familiar grasp. The man was already in the room and the birds pecked at the last scraps of their meal. A boy, perhaps twelve, stood by the man. From their conversation I learned the man’s name was Valor and the boy was called Tom. Valor patiently explained the care and feeding of the birds to Tom, his apprentice.
Man and boy’s eyes shone while they discussed aspects of their craft. The falconry’s sponsor was the ruler of a small kingdom who hunted with the birds and used them for trade with dignitaries from other lands. The raptors were also placed into service in the watchtowers and acted as sentries during times of war.
After a few moments of discussion, Valor handed Tom a rag and a bucket and showed him how to clean under the bird’s perches. When they came over to my part of the room, Tom looked up and gave a low whistle.
Valor’s smile made my heart beat faster every time it presented itself. He nodded at the boy’s reaction. “She is a wonder. She was acquired from a ruler in a southern kingdom. The king paid double the price of any other bird he owns.”
I turned to look for the object of their admiration, but could only see darkness. Turned back to Valor’s handsome face, but the room rippled away again.
I will end this letter for now. Please don’t mention this story to my mother, she has enough to worry about. I will write again when I can.
Yours Truly,
Evangeline Miller