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| Tweet Topic Started: Fri Aug 14, 2015 11:51 pm (147 Views) | |
| Wendall | Fri Aug 14, 2015 11:51 pm Post #1 |
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In the months since the fire, Wendall tried to keep himself occupied. Not happy—every smile and every laugh was a sort of accident, a rush in his heart followed by an acute, chastising loneliness—but occupied. Without the farm, he didn't have a home anymore, and so he found himself relying on the kindness of family friends to provide a roof over his head. He'd been quick to take up a trade so as to prevent himself from further becoming a burden to those kind enough to aid him; there wasn't much money in carpentry, but there was enough to keep him afloat. There wasn't much money in art, either, but this was not something he did for coin. Wendall lay on the ground, nestled under the large crook of a giant root. It was enough space for a boy as small as he to lay, and the root covered him so that he felt both well-hidden and clever. He had left Daisy and Myrtle at the home of his caregiver's, not wanting to drag a hatchling drake and an old mare along with him into the rough terrain of the woods. Though having Myrtle along would have been a great comfort—and a great deal easier, traveling wise, what with his leg the way it was—she was too big to maneuver through the roots, too clumsy to keep her balance on the rough terrain, and too easily spooked for the task at hand. Perched on a high limb sat a bird that, to an untrained eye, might have seemed like any other bird. It was about the size of a pileated woodpecker, and looked a bit like one, too, except for its violet plumage that shimmered under what little sunlight pierced through the canopy of leaves. Long, iridescent tail feathers hung from over the branch. Wendall had seen it once before, but it had flown away before he could capture it—this time, in his little hollow, he was ready. When it landed, he opened his leather-bound journal and flipped to the page marked with a solid triangle. Being unable to read or write, he had no idea how to spell blue crested singer, so he notated it with the symbol instead. He began drawing the creature at once with a stub of charcoal, careful to capture the details of its lengthy tail feathers, the shape of its beak, the lifted, blue crest on its head. His heart felt like it was about to burst in his chest. The longer the bird sat still, posing unbeknownst for this portrait, the more Wendall felt quite incredibly blessed. Blue crested singers were rarer than rare—his father had once told him that there were no more in the land of Imythess, their feathers so pretty that they were prized. The impractical birds were hunted down until there were no more pretty feathers to decorate the hats and dresses of those who could afford such luxuries. Maybe it was true. Maybe they were all gone, all except this one. The blue crested singer hopped on the branch so that it was facing Wendall, now, instead of facing away. The beak was stubby, not at all long and lean like a woodpecker's. Wendall's brows came together, and he wondered what sort of things it ate. He sketched an outline of it, and at that moment, it spread its wings and descended to a nearby root, where it stuck its neck out and peered at him with a cocked head and eyes like black beads. "Oh." The word left Wendall in a faint whisper. "Oh, c'mere, pretty bird, c'mere…" With very slow, very careful movements, Wendall slipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out sunflower seeds, which he had planned to save for himself but now saw had a far greater purpose. The bird hopped to the ground and came toward him. It was no wonder there were so few left. They were too trusting. Or maybe it was just lonely, being the only one of its kind. Wendall knew what that felt like. He did not want the money its feathers were sure to bring; the thought did not even cross his mind. And as it pecked the first seed out of his hand, he thought that maybe, just this once, he could have good fortune instead of the other way around. |
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8:19 AM Jul 11

