The Lone Robin

Secrets remained an enigma to him. Even after all these years the very thought of secrets excited him. Elevating the concept to the exotic. Sexy spies and the untold wealth of buried treasure. The role of secretary a keeper of secrets. A confidante. Confidence and trust held the most important information safe. The knowledge that held the most power was protected by virtue.

And yet he knew otherwise. Secrets were also the harbingers of the ultimate betrayals. Hiding the truth was a dirty game and in that dirt was an infection of the soul. A corruption that made the world a harsh and cruel place. A secret then was a lie. The real treasure of life had always lain before him in plain sight. He had somehow become the secret when it came to living. He’d hidden himself away. Too afraid to expose the truth of himself to a world he did not trust. Lacking the confidence to be.

He laughed now. A quiet gesture meant only for himself. An expression made in the peace and quiet of his garden. That was when Robin made his appearance. Hearing the gentle sound of the man’s laughter he came forth and reminded the giant that this place was his. The small bird puffed out his chest and stood valiantly on the branch. Singing his song of defiance.

Watching his companion and hearing his song well, he looked upon the wound he carried. Red breast held forth in pride. His admiration for the wee warrior brought forth tears.

“I see you well, little fella,” he managed through sobs that he knew were a self-indulgence. He would not share this moment with anyone other than the bird who grudgingly allowed his presence in his fiercely guarded territory.

The little bird sang all the louder. Then he flew closer and fell to an intense silence. Observed the man. Piercing black eyes reading his truth.

“And you see me well,” whispered the man. Then he nodded and smiled, “you see the secret don’t you?” He was grateful for this moment. Was lighter for it. Felt a breeze within him. A breath of change. A reminder that the world was turning and the heat of this glorious Summer would soon be an impossible memory.

Nineteen seventy six was one such memory. His recollections differed from this popular narrative. But then he was not a collector of dates and names. His memories were painted with the vibrant colours of emotion. There was joy in the Summers of his childhood. Snatches of freedom as he escaped the confines of school and home. Again there was that breeze. He felt it upon his face even now. A fresh caress that spoke to him of better times. Of a future free from pain.

Robin hopped onto the table and took two steps closer. The man grinned at the bravery before him, “I think I was like you once,” he told the bird. He recalled a long lost boy strutting around on the sun-baked earth. Thrusting his chest out at the world as he told his friends of his future plans. Anything was possible back then. Everything lay before them. Even then, he saw the fear and uncertainty reflected in the eyes of his fellow dreamers. A watching darkness patiently stalking its victims. A thief of dreams. The whisperer of words that tethered. Urging its host to play it safe. To listen to tarnished teachers and weary parents. Stay close to home. Do not venture too far from the bland comfort of the fenced-in herd.

“Are you my ally or my gaoler,” he asks the tiny bird before him.

He glances at the glass of ice water. Mostly water already. The glass sweating copiously. Wonders where the Robin drinks. Regrets his moment of inattentiveness which is punished by a withdrawal by the little bird.

“Fair enough,” he says to the bird as it sits on another branch and sings battle songs to him, “neither ally or gaoler. I apologise for my insolence.” He chuckles. Much of his life has been based upon assumptions that were not always wide of the mark, but seldom did they sit squarely with the truth of the matter. Mostly he got away with it. Mostly everyone gets away with it.

Considering reality he wonders how much of it is true. This reality. His reality. And the collective reality that people yearn to share even as they shun it. The secret ingredients of reality helps dilute truth and make life palatable. This he understands now. He smiles at Robin and thinks of the bird’s own fleeting reality. The hardships of a tiny bird defending his family against a world that cares little for him. He wonders whether Robin feels the antagonism of his environment. Hopes that he does not. Envies him an existence with no anxiety. No worries of a misspent youth. There is only now. For him this has been a lesson that has been hard earned.

And he possesses a now that contains a secret that he has kept from everyone.

He sighs and considers telling Robin what the bird already knows. This is sometimes the nature of the telling of secrets. The power of words spoken. Bleeding a truth that sets a person free. The hopeful exhalation that may at least contain some of the poison that has held him a prisoner in his own life for far too long.

“You already know and that is enough,” he says gently. He will not burden the wee warrior with such a thing. There will be no scapegoat. Not this time and not on his account. He cannot expect Robin to hear his confession and remove the ball of sin that is growing within him.

He feels it now. Has felt it since the arrival of a truth of betrayal he struggles with still. He knew it was there before he saw the reality of a life gone bad. This a manifestation of what she wanted for him. And that is why he remains silent.

He will take this secret to the grave. This secret is taking him to the grave. He embraced the darkness when it came forth. Loved in spite of everything. Now he holds this darkness within him. Accommodates the dark cuckoo as it grows and consumes the remainder of his days. Finishing her job for her.

There is no telling. He will not give it a name. And in its obscurity it will never be a part of him. She was never a part of him. A TV show played out on his skin. Everything beyond the surface is all his. Even the growing pain that will not be denied.

But his is no denial. This a reclamation of himself. His narrative. Introducing his unwelcome guest to the world would throw him into the shade of its darkness. He will not bring it into the light. Instead he will smother it. She will not win despite inflicting this upon him.

A clandestine war is being fought. He’s seen others fall this way. Only now recognises the truth of it. Hearts broken by the battering-ram absence of love. Screaming within the prison of the rib cage. Now in his dungeon the results of their union grows in him. A babe heralding his end.

At first he denied the existence of this child of theirs. His rejection of her denial. This only fed the offspring and enriched its existence. He’d thought he’d lost the will to live. The fight gone out of him in the black waters of a treacherous defeat. All he knew was he did not want news of his altered state to ever reach her. That she’d use such knowledge as she had used him.

He was protecting himself. Shielding all those he loved from her opportunistic return. There was no way he could allow her to hold his helpless hand and play the martyr. Sully the ghost of his memory before he ceased to be tangible.

She had a habit of winning victories that made no sense. The sacrifice of her humanity provided her with an impenetrable camouflage. A silent assassin. She had impregnated him with a death that was never meant for him.

As he clutched at his belly he fancied he felt the creature within protest and he belched before he knew what he was doing. A foul stench was the song of her gift to him. Robin flew to a higher branch and looked down upon him. They exchanged a look. The valiant pitying the vanquished.

“I know,” he said, raising a hand in capitulation. The hand fell to his side as a contraction of pain heralded the end of his time in this life, “bugger,” he whispered.

Shutting his eyes, he thought of those he loved and was surprised to see her face in that small final gathering. He smiled to himself. This was the truth of the matter. He’d loved her with his entire being and she’d entrapped his heart in the vacuum of her secret hatred.

Still his heart kept time and still he loved. Opening his eyes he rested them upon the blood red breast of his little friend, “guard me when I am gone?” His voice sounded small to him. As small as his feather clad bodyguard and so very far away. He wanted to say something else with a voice that had faded into a memory that he was becoming.

His battle was won. He’d kept this secret and held her at bay. Now it was over. Peace at last. He felt the pain ebb away and in its place there was only the gentle breeze of love. Sitting back on the garden bench he slipped away and began his next adventure.

Robin watched as the man passed on. Taking to the air, he flew in circles and sang a song he’d never sung before. A song for the man. One that no one would ever hear. But it mattered all the same.

When it was done, he landed on the man’s shoulder and stood sentry in a silence that spoke to the garden and beyond. Nothing disturbed the eternal slumber of the man until his son arrived the following day.

“Dad, the football’s about to start,” said the boy who was about to become a man, “Dad, you…”

The little Robin hopped off the father’s shoulder and onto the table between them. Then he sang. The son listened and somehow he understood. The little bird had stood watch over the man, but there was more here than that. The bird was not done. Robin would never be done. He was always doing far more than guarding his territory.