Francis Meyrick

I once wrote a story called “The Little Bird off Slea Head “. There is a certain allegory involved, a symbolism, but I’ll let you decide how and where. If you haven’t already read Part 1, I would recommend doing that now, or this second part will not make sense…

The Little Bird off Slea Head

(Part 2)

Did he survive?!?

He peered frantically through the rain battered window panes. Standing on tip toes, he could no longer see the tiny, struggling bird. The rain seemed to beat down only harder. Great gales of wind and moisture rattled and shook the cottage, as if the Gods were enraged that Mortal Man dwelled within. The drumming sound of ten thousand heavy rain drops smashed with fury against the old, once white washed, cottage walls, and he wondered how any creature could survive outside. The urge crossed his mind to run outside and see. But a sensible voice spoke quietly in his mind:
“Steady on! Are you crazy! You’ll get soaked…!”
As if to confirm the wisdom of that inner counsel, forked lightning suddenly stabbed the heavy skies, already struggling under their weight. It was as if even Nature, tired of the struggle, wished to electrocute all living creatures out of their misery. The lightning flash seemed to reverberate eerily around his small room, illuminating his notes, his books and his half finished poem. Tired, he turned around, and resumed his seat. It was a nonsense to even think about going outside. It was just a bird. A stupid bird, flying in weather he shouldn’t. It didn’t matter.
So what…
Not two minutes later, having thrown down his pen with a muttered “Jesus H…Christ!”, and forced open the door against powerful, invisible hands, he stood at the edge of the cliff, staring down. Vaguely, he was aware of the cold, the smell of the Ocean, the angry sound of Nature, and the copious supply of rain water blasting him red raw. He was cold, and becoming colder, but he didn’t care.
Is he all right…?
He peered down at the rocks below. It was a two hundred foot drop. Everywhere there were large boulders, and spray and foam. Seaweed churned, bits of wood bobbed feebly up and down, and small pebbles and larger rocks beat incessantly off one another, whipped mercilessly by unrelenting green waves. Green… waves. The desolate scene had taken on an unreal texture. Daylight, so it seemed, struggled to impose order on Armageddon, and peculiar hues and shades mocked her attempts. The air was heavy with threat, and danger, violence and futility.
No bird…
There was no sign of the little pilgrim. No sign, anywhere. Poor thing hadn’t made it…
He was about to turn back, saturated, shivering, his glasses rain spattered beyond serviceability. Wind blown salt stung his lips and his eyes. Soaked hair lay matted awkwardly across his forehead. Sadly, he took one last searching look, up and down the rocky strand. A small movement caught his eye.
There! I’ll be…damned!

Up… Up…

And away, into the wild, dark sky.

* * * * * *

An hour later, he found himself pondering the day in the cozy glow of a peat fire. He had dried off with a towel, slipped into this dressing gown, and now, gazing into the fire, the glow playing off his face, he found himself marveling at what he had seen. The determination. Such a plucky little fellow. For sure, also tiny, insignificant on any Cosmic scale, a mortal creature, a brief flash in Time. An easy target, a casual plaything for any unkind passer by. Like the many cruel Gulls, supremely confident, strong, well fed, opinionated, and unfeeling. Zero compassion. Like the vicious gusts from the North, Atlantic storms and squalls, stinging salt spray, and bitterly cold temperatures. He didn’t matter to anybody or anything, poor fellow. But there he was, determined to fly, to spread his wings, and to live like the very devil himself.

Such a soul. Indomitable.

My little friend, my Inspiration, my Guide…

Francis Meyrick

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on June 2, 2013, 1:37 pm