Of Feathers and Mist

The feather was a lucky find. Not that feathers were hard to come by. But this one, the very one she now possessed, was exactly what a girl on the cusp of womanhood might want: both elegant and practical. Mr. Anderson had sent her for kindling, and he would notice how long she'd been gone. His instructions were always clear in the way that the edge of a knife is clear, but the feather pulled her off the path before she could help it.

"Why such a rush?" she asked.

The squirrel paused for a breath and then fled. The girl pressed on through the underbrush, clutching her prize, until she dropped into a bare patch of earth and began scratching at the dirt. The lines scrambled and twisted, smiling up at her in the shape of a stick figure.

"Nice to meet you, little dirt man," she chirped.

"Top of the morning, Miss," the little dirt man responded, and she quickly scratched a top hat onto his head, because one must be properly dressed to offer a 'top of the morning.' But then his head jerked up, and all at once he dove under a pile of leaves and was gone without a trace. Churlish little brute. She ought to have realized that no matter the accessory, a dirt man could never aspire to be more than simply that, a man of dirt.

She was off again before the disappointment could fully settle. But it nipped at her heels nonetheless, reminding her of what was left behind. Roots wound their way across the forest floor forming trails with no end, and once again, there was Mother. Always the same: not her auburn hair or reddened eyes, but the trails of tears that had carved through her dusty face, like calligraphy on a weathered manuscript, like roots beneath her feet. She had stood on the platform until the dirty grayness of London enveloped her and she was just another smudge against the city landscape. The girl had pressed her face against the window pane until her cheek bone was peppered with bruises from the lurching train and desperation to hold on tight.

Each stop brought the same: the children were lined up, picked through, swept away or returned to the crowded train compartment. The girls with shining curls and sweet smiles were taken one by one, and the Pied Piper who had promised her somewhere clean and safe and magical had not thought through the particulars. A final stop, few other children remaining, she was once again herded out to the platform. A heavy-set man with a pronounced limp and a crooked smirk took her hand.

I'll take that one.

She had obediently trailed after him, a few steps behind the lumbering figure.

The first days in the thatched cottage were awkward. He was mostly silent and she was mostly confused. In the attic, there was a doll, but no child. By the door, a woman's wool hat hung from a hook, but no woman. She began to prepare small meals before his nightly return. He ate. Grunted. Once, he patted her hand.

Then he began to watch her.

She moved faster and faster through the thick wood now, venturing further than she had before. The twigs caught on her sleeves and cut into her flesh, yet all she felt were his fingers tracing her skin. She pressed on until, quite suddenly, the dark manor stood before her; she did not remember approaching it. She knew only that it was suddenly there. The stone entryway loomed above. Without pausing to reconsider, she pulled open the door and slipped inside.

A marble hall stretched before her — she could tell, not by its appearance, but by the hollow clicking underneath her muddy heels. Slowing before the celestial pathway, a bridge between worlds, she squared her shoulders and curtseyed. "Well yes, kind sir, if you insist." And then she made sure to take small, delicate steps, foodptints like breadcrumbs in the dust behind her.

There was much to see. A whirlwind of servants fluttered about, threatening to sweep her away in their frenzied current. The men wore crisply starched liveries, the women black wool dresses with white linen caps and lace-trimmed aprons. But the flowers, oh the flowers. The girl couldn't imagine where such blooms came from at this time of year. She breathed deeply, but she didn't dare close her eyes. One by one, each member of the house staff quieted and faded into the heavy fabric draped over heavy forms: a table, a chair, a settee, and she pushed open a heavy door.

She still had her feather, her elegant quill. With a dramatic yank of her arm, the drapery flew off, sending up a plume of soft white dust and revealing the supple desk before her. She wanted to pause, to look over her shoulder, but she knew she mustn't. Adventures were only in store for those with the courage to face them head-on. Taking account of her surroundings, she suspected she was in the study, the workplace of the master of the manor, rich with oiled leather and dark mahogany.

No. That was incorrect. It was her study. Her work-place. Her mahogany. Indeed, it was dusty, but the most brilliant of masterpieces were often completed in dusty corners of large estates. When one was composing works of genius, groundbreaking manuscripts, visionary compositions, details like maintaining house staff were often overlooked. She would see to that later.

"Pish posh, a little dust only feeds my creativity." And she began her work. The tip of the feather gliding across the browned parchment was delicious. But no, it wasn't parchment at all. It was soft and buttery. Vellum, naturally — made from calves who had lived brief, pampered lives before offering themselves to her work. It was an honor to be in her dusty office, to be a part of the process, even if it was a minor part. "Silly dirt man," she muttered, "you should have realized as much."

The feather began to flit across the vellum, ink trailing obediently behind.

Lonely shmonely, she thought. And just like with the little dirt man, the lines began to scramble and twist, but this time they wove together to form a wing, and then a small, beady eye, and then a clawed little foot. And then something quite unexpected happened. The finch let out an undignified squeak as it wiggled itself free from the confines of the ink and vellum and took its first breath. Despite its newness, it noticed its own squeak and cocked its head to the side as it stared at the girl, waiting.

"No matter," the girl said. "You don't really know about being a finch yet. You'll learn."

And as if to show that it did, in fact, know a great deal about being a finch, and about the girl, and about the world in general, it twisted its head back and plucked a brown feather from beneath its wing. Deftly dipping the tip into the ink and tapping off the excess, the finch proceeded to put quill to vellum. Its feet hopped and pattered about, its neck twisted oddly to and fro, and the black lines once again snaked out from the tip of the quill and filled the paper. The small creature worked furiously for a minute or two, then abruptly dropped the feather and twittered contentedly. Nothing happened. It chirped a little louder, more aggressively, and stomped its foot to punctuate its demand.

Persistence won out and once again the lines squirmed and coiled and pulled themselves right off the paper and into the form of yet another winged creature: a large, black raven.

"Well, aren't you proud of yourself?" the girl asked, and she once again poured her attention into the now blank stretch of vellum before her. The finch was a distraction, but the edges of her lips crept upward despite herself.

The girl and the finch worked. The raven worked. They were joined by others, and together the crew hummed and hawed and tweeted and cawed as their masterpieces unfolded. The girl knew her worth. And the loneliness — actually, the loneliness held no significance at all. She was surrounded by distractions and obnoxiously proud little buggers and perhaps even wished for a little peace and quiet.

A door creaked open. Voices crept down the hall.

"We must flee."

The birds dropped their quills and were gone — through the window, perhaps, though the window was shut. She shoved her feather into her pocket, bending it in the process, and slipped out through the back garden.

Back to the woods.

Her stomach ached, hollow and insistent. Her pockets were empty save the feather, and the feather would not satiate the gnawing hunger. It was colder than when she had entered the house, so she pulled the jacket tight and moved deeper into the dense forest.

The farther south she travelled, the more her pace slowed. Atop a steep knoll, she gazed behind her and saw curling tendrils of smoke reaching into the sky. Beneath, she knew, Mr. Anderson sat before the hearth, prodding the dying flames with an iron poker. Only then did she note the meager bundle over her shoulder. Her cheekbone smarted in anticipation. She had scant kindling and would suffer accordingly. The sun had sunk far below its apex.

"There is invariably a means by which to resolve such a quandary," a voice called up at her. The dirt man had reappeared at her feet, now sporting a stick cane in addition to his top hat. She approved of the acquisition.

"And what do you know of my quandaries?"

"I know nothing," he admitted. "I am but a dirt man who aspires to rise above his station. But you — you underestimate yourself."

She had once been underestimated by no one. Her father — a civil servant, meticulous and attentive — had listened to everything she said over morning tea, had asked questions, had made her feel seen and cherished. He was conscripted when she was twelve, and by thirteen her mother had given herself over to the VAD — her days swallowed by other people's wounds, her evenings too tired for much else. The girl's world shrank to the walls of her home, where fear took root amidst the relentless shelling. It was then that the Pied Piper called: Operation Pied Piper. One night her mother wrapped her arms tightly around her small frame and whispered a vow — somewhere clean and safe and magical. When her father returned a war hero, they would come for her, and the three of them would move to the countryside and tend a small farm with chickens and goats and a pony just for her.

"I love you, Mabel," she whispered.

"I love you, Mum."

The girl thought about his words while the dirt man looked up at her and tapped his foot impatiently. Nonetheless, I'll take that one ran laps through her mind, making her dizzy enough to seek refuge on a fallen oak trunk. The foot continued to tap.

I'll take that one.

I'll take that one.

I'll take that one.

And lo, in that moment, the finch, the raven, and even the squirrel were back and stood as witnesses, their unwavering gazes fixed upon her. The weight on her shoulders grew ever heavier: the pressure was too great, her thoughts too loud, the solution too unsettling. She reached into the deep pocket and yes, the feather was still there. It was a little bent at the end, but that small defect only gave it character.

She smoothed away the litter of leaves before her, revealing a smooth, dark canvas. Upon its surface, she traced graceful arcs and intricate loops. At first, the lines lay still, and her audience held their breath. Her gaze narrowed, her heart pulsated with a rhythmic intensity, yet she never faltered. The space in front of her filled with elaborate markings, and then she expanded her canvas to extend her work.

At last, she stepped back, and, perhaps a tad too casually, pronounced, "Complete." The animals leaned in, and the dirt man nodded in approval.

"Well, it's about time," he huffed, and rather than wait to see the results, he dove into the rotting foliage and was gone.

The markings twisted and coiled and rose from the ground in an opaque, impenetrable mist. The girl stood a little taller and looked toward the cottage, toward the hearth smoke, toward Mr. Anderson and his calloused hands and sharp whiskers and hard black eyes. The mist swirled around her ankles and lapped at the hem of her skirt — only for a moment. Her gaze was set, and the mist understood. It flowed through the wood, leaving a trail of charred gray vegetation in its wake.

Chin high, eyebrows slightly raised, Mabel stood frozen in place.

The wood fell silent.

A choking scream reached her ears, but it too was swept away by the autumnal breeze.

"Shall we have tea?" the girl asked, tossing her near-empty bundle aside.

The birds chirped in agreement and hopped down from the branches above to join their friend.