Arrow

In the purple and gray morning, I release the small leather ball from my

slingshot into the brisk breeze above my head. Fine hairs waft around my eyelashes as I watch it climb to almost disappear from view, trailing its cargo of sewn-on feathers and tiny little bell.
A bullet of black and white and brown streaks from the sky above and grabs the ball, makes a wide circle and settles, fluffed and agitated, on my wrist. I stroke the feathers beneath her dark amber eye with the knuckle of my index finger, crooning words of praise and beauty. I bend my face to the crown of her head and inhale her wild, dusty smell. She is fierce, she is hungry, she is Peregrine, and she is mine.

On these exercise mornings I think about how, long ago, I came across her path and saved her life. She came into Wind Over Wings damaged and emaciated, wounded by some collision or perhaps a projectile, a carelessly thrown rock. I doubt that, she is too fast … perhaps in pursuit of a smaller bird, she did not see the approaching car? I'll never know. On the long days of healing, her wing splinted and her feathers dirty with her own filth, I would peer into her eyes and will her to speak. Tell me, tell me what it was.

As she mended and we began our rehabilitation work together, a trust grew that has us in its tethers now, bound to one another inextricably. She cannot be released to the wild; this would surely be a death sentence, as she is hobbled on the one side and too accustomed to people to keep herself safe from them and their ignorant impulses. Besides, I could not bear to let a day pass without the guidance of her bird wisdom. She is self-reliant, noble, wild at heart, unapologetic. She is everything that I would like to be.

I prepare the lure for another flight, reflecting upon the illness that courses through my own bloodstream, threatening to consume my body from the inside out. Two treatments left and then maybe a clean bill of health? There’s no way of knowing. I cling to the hope that these outings of fresh air and exercise will imbue my body with just enough positivity to tip the scales in my favor. Maybe if I hang my soul from the talons of this little beast, she can carry my hopes towards the heavens and release them, there to diffuse and to shower life down upon me.

I chuckle at my sad attempts to bring poetic meaning to this ritual, the morning flight-runs that keep my bird strong and allow me to breathe the cold, new air. Still, perhaps there is just a little magic in this bond and in these moments. Enough to keep me happy, surely, and perhaps enough to heal me.

The target prepared and my falcon circling above my head, I pull the band of my slingshot back once more, aiming for the rising sun. I stretch the band to its limit, holding the ball in its leather cup as I glance at the bird, climbing in her anticipation. Pulling the band just a bit further I release, and watch as she pursues her quarry. Ah, beautiful, beautiful. Beautiful, beautiful bird, my mind whispers.

The light in the east fills out the horizon just as she dives, a feathered arrow of hope, into the blue and silent sunrise.

In this Flash Fiction Friday, the task was to write a story beginning with "In the purple and gray morning..."

Thirsty

If only I had been able to retrieve the third water bottle from the truck! Before that awful trek to the bottom of the canyon, Neil and I had filled our existing bottles and shouldered our backpacks. We had five Golden Eagle nests to locate, and three hours of daylight left in which to do it. I was dusty and sticky, my eyes tired from peering at birds through my binoculars. Neil was vigorous as ever, bounding from boulder to boulder, with his camera in one hand and a clipboard in the other. I can’t believe he does this every day. I wish I could do this every day … but first, I wish I could breathe in this scarce high-desert air.

Neil gives up on me keeping up with him and springs away. I wave him off, telling him that I’ll catch up slowly; I’m still not used to the altitude. I watch him go. His hair, brown at the root, has been scorched to the color and consistency of old wheat; tied back with a strip of leather, it bounces on his back as he runs off to search for the first nest. He is doing just what he loves to do, and he doesn’t need anybody. I envy him. I pity him. By the time this three-week field study is over, I will have to force myself to forget him.

As Neil disappears into the sagebrush I wonder just how I am going to get out of this canyon; we’ve walked several miles to get here, and slid halfway down loose rock on the way down. As I was half-falling, I didn’t think about climbing back up and out. With Neil around, I felt safe. He knows every contour of these lands, sees them in his mind the way they appear on the map. But I see only the two-dimensional squiggles, the big ink X’s where the nests have been marked. I wish I loved this job.

I can see the truck from where I stand, so I head off in that direction. Tor stays with me a little while, obediently keeping pace and sniffing at the occasional antelope jaw. He’s panting heavily, so I give him a little bit of water from my bottle. I’d better conserve, although I don’t have that far to go. Yet I can’t seem to walk any faster than this; I’m gaining about 30 feet with each minute that passes. It’s dreadfully hot, and the air down here just doesn’t move. My hat affords me the tiniest circle of shade, and I can feel the skin on my arms crackling. After a while, even Tor can’t bear my slow pace and trots off to look for rabbits or interesting smells. He’ll probably find Neil and the two of them will meet me back at the truck. I’m starting not to care about how they get back.

Isn’t it kind of selfish of him just to run off like that? Yeah, I know I told him to go. But shouldn’t he stay and make sure I’m doing all right out here? I can’t believe that anybody can be so free. He hardly even owns anything. He lives in a teepee most of the time, for crying out loud! Why I think he would ever let me tame him, I don’t know. Ohhhhh, I don’t even care anymore. My head hurts so much. It feels like I have a balloon in the middle of my skull that is being slowly inflated with hot air. It’s pressing my brain out to all edges and clouding my vision, closing my nasal passages. I soothe my throat with the last of the water and plod on.

Soon I begin to realize that I might be in danger. Neil is no longer anywhere to be seen; a little while ago, I saw him far away on a cliff, a tiny speck of grey moving among the rocks, the blackish shadow of Tor climbing to meet him. I hear a hawk cry once above, but there is no other sound. Not a whistle, bark, drip of water, nor any rustle of breeze … only the rushing flow of blood inside my eyeballs, and the hitching rasp of my own breath. This is how people die, I think. Those fools who set off to cross Death Valley unprepared, laughing at the warning signs. Their bodies now lie mummified in nature’s relentless thirst.

I hope I don’t mummify.

But god damn, I’m thirsty. To comfort myself I pretend I am Frodo, crossing Gorgoroth on that last terrible day in his quest. He did it, so can I. I would laugh at my own silliness, if I wasn’t so scared and so dry.

I’ve finally reached the bottom of the hill that we slid down so long ago, and I begin to climb up. I can’t believe how slowly I am moving. Through a haze before my eyes I see that man and dog are already back at the truck. They are drinking water. Oh, water. Oh, life. I try to lick my lips as I struggle for a foothold on the sliding pebbles, but there is no moisture in my tongue. I wonder if I will ever have saliva again. How will I eat? I don’t care if I ever eat again, as long as I can have just a little sip of water.

Miraculously, I reach the top of the hill and walk to the truck. I take the water bottle from Neil and tilt it to my mouth. It is cool liquid silver pouring into my mouth, down my throat, into my veins. I would weep if I had tears. Oh, Heavenly Sweetness, I will never take you for granted again, I whisper inside my head. I drink and drink and drink and drink until the bottle is dry.

Neil tells me that he saw me taking small steps; that was really smart, he says. He asks me how I am.

I think about how alone I felt down there; how abandoned, thirsty, thin-blooded, out of shape, ordinary; how ill-equipped to survive in this harsh environment. How afraid to ask him for help and to show him my weakness. I think about how knowing this man is changing me in a way I’m only beginning to understand.

I tell him I am fine.

The assignment in this Flash Fiction Friday was to begin a story with "If only I had been able to retrieve the ___ before that awful ..." I took some liberties with punctuation, and this story grew like a wildfire. It is one of my favorites.