. . . . . entries for 18.6.02 . . . . .
More Redwing. ^.^() How do you like it? Are you even reading it?
The Redwing Blackbird
Two
Margie ended up staying the night.
She stayed in my room, on the bed where I usually let my cat sleep.
I love my cat. Her name is Kitty Raven.
She isn’t entirely black. She actually just loves chasing birds. The first one she caught, from the moment of her birth, was a great black raven twice her size.
Raven is a lazy cat otherwise. She’s a big, fluffy type, with black and white patched fur. Her eyes are bright, peridot green, and her nose is pink.
Of course her nose is pink. That can only be expected from a fat cat like Kitty Raven.
When we were about to go to sleep, Margie sat up sleepily.
“Merle?” she said in a small voice.
“Yes, Margie?”
“Can we go to the locust grove tomorrow?”
“Now, why would we want to do that?”
She fidgeted with her bedspread. “I don’t know. I’ve never been there before, but I’ve always wanted to go.”
“That’s where the phoenixes live.”
She nodded. “I want to see one.”
“Alright then. We’ll go early tomorrow, just the two of us.”
She paused. “Errr. . . Can Corvus come too?”
I sniggered evilly. “You really like him, don’t you?”
Marguerite scowled. “Why do you care if I like Corvus or not?”
“Because he’s my brother, and you’re my friend.”
“Well, then, yes, I like him. He’s smart and alert and caring. Corvus is a good person, when it boils down, and. . . err. . . well,” she blushed and fidgeted, “he seems to care about me too.”
“Life isn’t a fairy tale, Margie. Corvus may be smart and caring and all of that, but he’s also a slick little devil. You’ve got him wrapped around your finger, though,” I said with a grin. “He’s fallen for your simple charm.”
“I’m not charming at all. I’m just a boring, normal girl.”
“Exactly,” I said promptly. “We’re opposites. You’re normal, I’m not. I like dark things, you like cheerful things. And my brother is, sadly, a lot like me. Opposites attract, and there you have it; a fairy tale couple like you two.”
Margie lay back in her bed and stared at the ceiling.
“D’you think you’ll ever find someone like Corvus for yourself?”
“No,” I grumbled, “because no one likes a solemn, hawkeyed little girl like me.”
“You’ll find someone.”
“No, I won’t. Above all, no one else likes blackbirds and ravens. Not even you, not even my brother. Did you see the way he hesitated to touch that one back on the moor? He’s afraid of them.”
“Then why aren’t you? They’re creepy, Merle.”
I smiled roguishly. “Yes indeed. Creepy, just like yours truly.”
“Maybe you’re a blackbird at heart.”
“Maybe? No. I am. Cunning, frightening and graceful. Sounds like me.”
“. . . Go to sleep, Merle.”
I pulled my comforter over my head and dozed off.
* * *
The next morning, I awoke quite early. The sun had barely begun to show over the horizon, and there was no sound from outside my little dome of blankets.
I sat up and glanced over at Margie’s bed. It was empty, and upon further inspection a short note was scribbled upon a torn bit of parchment on the pillow.
Merle,
Catch us if you can! You know the way. See you at Phoenix Grove,
Margie and Corvus
I took that opportunity to groan. I had almost known that Corvus would leave me behind; especially if it meant that he could be alone with Margie. I got up and pulled on a dark blue play dress, brushed my hair, and shoved my feet into the big, bulky romping boots.
I left my room and closed the door quietly behind me. My cloak was hung by the door; I threw it on and flipped the cowl up, over my head. Then, without a sound, I crept out of the house into the chill morning air. The village was sleeping, and the blackbirds were only just beginning to sing.
I walked through the empty cobblestone streets. The smell of night, refusing to perish, hovered in the air. The sky was lavender, clouded and illuminated with early dawn light.
I slipped into the moor, and began the trek to the locust grove on the far side.
As I walked, two redwing blackbirds swooped down and landed on my shoulders. I smiled and trudged along, the two perched nonchalantly around my neck.
The first locust tree was small, just a bush, really. Then they began to get larger and larger, to the point at which they were fifty feet high and three feet wide. I stopped and took a deep breath, and turned to the blackbird on my left side.
“Where have they gone?” I asked it.
At the time, I almost expected an answer. But I was astounded when the bird swooped off of my shoulder, onto a locust branch, and seemed to beckon me with its wing.
So I followed. What better could I do?
Lo and behold, I came to a place where the blackbird stopped and alighted on a thorny bough, and held out a wing for silence. The other redwing, still on my shoulder, was silent all the while. I carefully lowered my cowl so as not to knock it down.
I saw them, sitting together on a rocky shale crag, backs facing me. Their clothes were dirty, and I saw that Corvus had torn his cloak. Mum wouldn’t be happy about that.
I don’t know exactly what I felt just then. I couldn’t explain it then, and I still can’t describe it now. So I call it a kind of quiet rage, boiling up in my heart and clawing, slashing me up with it’s pain. I winced and held my hand over my heart, but I stayed as silent as I could manage.
My two redwing blackbirds cawed loudly. A chorus of all of the ravens, crows, magpies and blackbirds watching in the canopy followed. The unearthly screech sounded over Phoenix Grove, unpunctured by any other noise.
Margie and Corvus turned around, and saw me standing with the bird on my shoulder. Marguerite was deep red, and my brother probably wished dearly he could be the same.
The blackbird on the branch flew back to my shoulder. The two of them ruffled their feathers and watched my friend and my brother with gleaming, beady eyes.
Marguerite smiled weakly. “You found us.”
“I didn’t find you. My friends did.”
I could have swore that the redwing on my left shoulder smiled, if only for a few moments.
Corvus looked around. Black wings and blacker eyes were all around us. “Did you call them all up? Or are they here of their own will?”
“I didn’t call any bird. They came to me. They always come to me.” I crossed my arms, suddenly just a girl again, not someone who controls birds. “So, did you see your phoenix or what?”
“No. . .” Margie said in a hesitant tone.
“Then come on! We’ve got to find one!”
The blackbird on my right chirped and flew out to a high locust limb. It seemed to look around for a moment, before turning back to me. It did something that, strange as it may sound, looked a lot like a nod, and cawed once to the locust grove.
The sound that came next was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard. It was an ethereal melody, tainted with both sorrow and joy. Margie stood up and looked around. In fact, we were all turning about, stumbling over roots, searching in vain for the source of the music.
The music stopped. A bright white flare caught the corner of my vision, and I turned.
The phoenix was there.
She was bright, burning white, and she glowed with flickering blue flame. Its wingspan reached about four feet, and her long tail trailed fiery indigo. Her talons were sharp and black, and her eyes were sharper still. She had the main form of a small, graceful swan.
And there she stood, on a locust branch, preening her feathers like any other bird!
The phoenix glanced up at these three humans in her grove. Her tail flickered around the uncharred wood, and her gaze slowly returned to me, with the redwing blackbird on my shoulder.
In a few moments, she turned back to preen her wing again. However, instead of smoothing her feathers, she pulled one out and held it out to the blackbird on my shoulder. The little redwing accepted the pearled, fiery feather and set it down in my hand.
The fire didn’t burn. In fact, it was cold, colder than the breeze and colder than ice. It almost froze my hand on contact. Margie shook her head.
“That’s not a phoenix. . .” she said uncertainly.
“It is,” I said. “It’s just. . . A different kind than what we were expecting.”
I held up the white feather, glowing with a frightened blue fire.
“I think. . . I think there are different phoenixes. There’s the fire one, like we’re all used to. . .”
“Which is gold with red fire,” Corvus piped.
“The ice phoenix, which is what she is. . .”
“With white feathers and blue fire,” Margie finished.
“And probably a few others for different elements, like lightning and earth.”
“And wind and water!” Margie added.
“Gravity and poison, too,” Corvus said.
“All the magics,” I mused, “each in a different bird. It’s a clever thing. I wonder who came up with it?”
The phoenix’s bright glow flared and subsided.
I turned to her.
“How do you burn up? Do you just freeze to death instead?”
She closed her eyes and sat still.
We watched. We all watched, and wondered what she was doing.
A thin layer of ice covered her feathers. It became thicker and thicker, until it shattered. . .
The phoenix shattered with it, as if she were part of the ice.
I stared at the feather in my hand. The shattered, glassy phoenix lay on the forest floor. Soon the ice melted, but an egg was in its place.
A raven swooped down, then another, then another. They lifted the delicate egg up into a tree, and into a nest.
“They’re going to raise her up again. . .” I whispered.
“It would appear so,” Corvus said.
Margie shivered. “C’mon. We should go back to Sedagé, before your mum notices that we’re not there.”
“I guess so.”
With that, we began the trudge back through the forest, to the line where trees meet tall grass.
When we reached the edge of the forest, the two blackbirds on my shoulders screamed.
. . . . . entries for 17.6.02 . . . . .
It is officially the last week of the school year! Great to be almost done. Tomorrow is our last gym day, and we are blissfully doing ABSOLUTELY NOTHING!! Ahaha. Well. In any case, more Redwing for ya--enjoy. It's the beginning of the actual plot, sort of.
And while I'm thinking about it--what happened to my comments? What happened to them!!? TELL ME! o.o()
The Redwing Blackbird
One
The first drop of rain fell, as it would, upon Margie’s hair. It wasn’t hard to see there.
“C’mon, we had better head back home,” I said as I trampled through the thistles in my heavy, leather boots.
Margie, who never wore thick boots like us (“They look so clumsy!”), needed Corvus’ help getting through the briars.
It’s always loads of fun watching them. They’re absolutely perfect for each other. Furthermore, I can always tease Corvus about it when Marguerite isn’t around.
We trudged through the moorland, rain falling more heavily all the time. A crackle of lightning shot down through a black cloud behind us, which just made me walk a tad bit faster.
Margie, on the other hand, is afraid of lightning. She was holding onto Corvus as if he would save her from a horrible death.
It’s so cute, watching those two together. They’re fairy tale material. They’ll probably get married and live happily ever after someday.
My skirt and blouse were starting to stick to my skin from all of the rain. I walked faster, until I was running. Corvus and Margie had no hope of keeping up. I left them behind as I ran back to Sedagé. I considered taking off my cloak and leaving it behind, but I knew that Mum had spent weeks sewing together all the bits of velvet. It was more of a dress cloak, really, but I wore it everywhere. Mum’s very proud of it.
I arrived at the village when the first rip of thunder tore across the sky. Cold and soaking, I rushed into my cottage, where Mum was wringing her hands, looking out the window.
It’s really hard to believe she’s a royal guard sometimes. She acts so. . . So much like a mother.
When she saw me, a look of relief washed over her. “Thank goodness you’re home! Is your brother coming in?”
“. . . I left Corvus and Margie behind in the moor.”
Mum sighed. “But they’re coming in?”
“They’re coming. Don’t worry, Mum, they’ll be here in two flaps of a magpie’s wing.”
I strolled into my room and loosened my cloak. It was weighed down with the rainwater, same as by clothes and my hair. The velvet dropped to the wooden floor about my feet. I stepped out of the dark heap daintily, unbuckled my boots and laid them carefully by the door.
From there, I proceeded to change into my favorite dress; a black, lacy frock with a red shawl. It made me look just like a redwing blackbird.
Just for fun, I slipped on my black dress gloves and boots. I knew that Mum disapproved of dress up games, but I couldn’t help it. I looked down at myself, the lacy frock and the knit shawl, the graceful, black gloves and the tall, black leather boots.
I looked pretty. I looked dark, and poisonous, and lithe.
Like a redwing blackbird.
I heard the door open and shut outside my room, and I quickly pulled off the gloves and boots and shoved them back in their drawer. Marguerite and Corvus were laughing when I came out, sitting next to each other in the big, fluffy armchair by the fire. They were both soaked through and red as possible, Margie still holding onto Corvus tightly. Her head was on his shoulder as they laughed together.
I wished I had someone to love like Margie did. . .
I wished I had a caring father like Margie did. . .
I found myself almost wishing I WAS Margie, after watching them for a bit.
Corvus finally had something to brag about. . . HE had someone he loved, and he had left me behind. . .
I sniggered behind them.
“Awww, aren’t you two cute,” I said mockingly.
Marguerite blushed. Corvus probably really wanted to blush, but Blackbirds typically just CAN’T blush, no matter how embarrassed they are. Instead he just looked horribly sheepish, something he’s very talented at.
I smiled. “Margie, you ought to change out of that wet dress. You too, Corvy. Up, now, go to your room. Come on, Margie, you can borrow one of my outfits.”
They stood up reluctantly. Corvus trudged off to his room, while Marguerite followed me into mine. I showed her my closet, full of dresses, blouses, gowns, skirts and frocks. She chose a cream colored blouse and a green wrap-around skirt. I looked horrible in the outfit; it made Margie look quite pretty.
I wished I could look like a normal country girl like Margie could. . .
We walked back out into the hall, and into the parlor with the big fluffy chair and the warm fireplace.
My brother was sitting in the armchair, watching the fire.
She sat down next to him and set her head on his shoulder, and they looked at the bright plumes of fire together. The flame crackled and shot a sparkling ember up, into the darkness.
I walked back to my room alone, and wished I had a mirror to look into. My reflection might keep me company.
Somewhere in the storm, a redwing blackbird crowed to the darkness.
. . . . . entries for 14.6.02 . . . . .
The Redwing Blackbird
By Erin Sherman
The Verse
Our name is Blackbird.
Its our last name. We never asked for such a silly name. Mum told us that we were to go by the name of our father. . .
We never knew him. Why should we go by his name?
My name is Merle, and my brother is Corvus. We’re twins, eleven years old, both with black hair, pale skin and the strangest eyes. . .
“Your poppy,” Mum always tells us, “had beautiful eyes just like yours!”
They’re hawkeyes. That’s what I call them, anyway. They look cunning and sharp and intense. And yellow. Very, very yellow.
I’ve never seen my own eyes. . .
There are no mirrors in my house. Mum says that mirrors are sinful, used only by the vain, and you only need other people to see your face. She says all the time how pretty the eyes are and all of that. . . All the other girls I know think that they’re strange.
One of them, Marguerite Lyons, says that I look like a vampire. . .
She’s also one of my friends. It’s really just a teasing thing, I guess.
Marguerite doesn’t look at all like me. She’s got long, brown hair that falls in ringlets and soft, green eyes. She’s a tomboy, meant in the best possible way; she doesn’t care what other people think, and she never does anything just because everyone else likes it.
Her mum and dad work for the palace. Her poppy’s a gate guard, and her mum is a handmaiden of the king and queen’s youngest daughter, Kathryn.
My mum also works for the palace, in the way you’d never, ever expect. She’s a member of the Jey Family Guard, the royal family’s personal bodyguards. She has a saber, a long steel one that she never lets me even touch.
Sedagé, the town I live in, is a little town in the kingdom of Kalth, but the palace is only a few miles to the east, set in the Raptwor Gap.
It begins here. . .
I was out one day, playing with Corvus and Marguerite (Corvus rather likes Marguerite, and vice versa, if you know what I mean) like I always do. We were in the little stretch of moor just south of the village, when Corvus stopped dead, about to lunge for me in a game of tag.
“Shh!” he hissed. “Look!” Corvus pointed silently at a lone locust tree in the moor.
There was a blackbird perched on the top, preening its feathers in a way that suggested that it didn’t have a care in the world. It turned to us with a look of mild interest.
At further inspection, a smudge of scarlet showed through its black feathers.
“Is it bleeding?” Margie asked softly.
“No,” I replied automatically. “It’s a redwing blackbird. They’re rare around here. . .”
It stopped preening and glided to the grass closer to us. With a few awkward hops, the redwing blackbird made its way over to me and fluttered up to my hand. I held it out gently.
“Pretty little blackbird,” I said, stroking its wings gently. My tattered, cotton blouse sleeve brushed against the scarlet and ebony feathers.
The birds around Sedagé always liked me a lot. They’re all ravens and blackbirds, crows and magpies. And the odd phoenix, of course, but they were horribly rare. I had never seen one, although Corvus claimed he had once.
I don’t know if I believe him or not. I’m older than him, although only by two hours. He would say that sort of thing, just to brag about it.
He doesn’t have much to brag about.
Corvus walked up and, quite hesitantly, ran a finger down its pearled back.
Margie stayed back. She didn’t like birds that much; only pretty little songbirds, which had supposedly existed back in her old town. Sedagé just wasn’t the place for them.
“There’s a poem about the redwing blackbird,” I said conversationally to Marguerite.
“Is there?” she said stiffly. She obviously thought they were rather creepy.
“Yes. I believe Corvus knows it?”
My brother blushed. “I really just made it up,” he said modestly. “It’s a lot like the magpie rhyme.”
Margie smiled. “One for sorrow, two for joy. . .”
“Three for a girl, four for a boy,” he finished. “That’s the idea. But it’s different. Listen.” Corvus cleared his throat and recited the verse.
“One for blushing, childish love,
Two for coldest cringing flame,
Three for fresh, murdered blood,
Four for the palace’s blame,
Five for the sly, tawny fox,
Six for scarlet shame,
Seven for a forbidden kiss,
No two redwings are the same.
“Eight for starry midnight,
Nine for shade in a gale,
Ten for shadow next to light,
Eleven for a torn seaman’s sail,
Twelve for horror in his eyes,
Thirteen for his face pale,
Fourteen for the Reaper dark,
All blackbirds share the same tale.”
“I don’t get it,” Margie piped inquisitively.
“You’re not supposed to,” he said brightly. “It’s one of those things you only understand at the right time.”
I rolled my eyes. “I like the magpie one better. . .”
The redwing blackbird on my hand flew away, into the dark, stormy sky.
I have decided that I shall post Redwing Blackbird up here. This is mostly due to the fact that Billy's email on Yahoo can't get it because of all of the non-period punctuation. It's absolutely unreadable. In any case, look for daily Redwing each weekend.
What is Redwing, you ask?
Well, it's this silly little story about silly people that I'm writing. It consists mainly of a made-up world in which I make up a lot of new vampire traits and demolish old ones, and overall make myself look like a fool. I'll probably post the introduction tonight. Be watchful.
Today was fun--the German kids wrought holy havoc upon the school and were, largely, the only kids in a great deal of the classes. It kicked all ass. When I return on Monday, it will be the last week of school. I got into Wind Band and Jazz Band. I'm second chair in both, because another French Horn player happens to be Mrs. Lamb's--a band teacher--daughter. Life is annoying like that.
Ciao. For now.
. . . . . entries for 10.6.02 . . . . .
Ahaha. AHAHAHA! Someone took a decent picture of me! SOMEONE TOOK A DECENT PICTURE OF ME! MWAHAHAHA! I SO HAPPY! ::continues to cackle maniacally for a bit, then coughs and stops being uncivilized::
Madskillz' mum says I look like M. J. from the Spiderman flick. Isn't that weird? Looking at this picture, though, I sort of get it.
Two more weeks. Two more weeks. Two more damned weeks. . . ::bangs her head on the desk:: This might be the end of me! I don't want to fail my bug project! I want to PASS science! I want to find my purple memory card! Cassie, do you have my memory card for PSX? It went POOF and I can't find it. And I actually *have* a PSX game I want to play.
Any which way. Who wants to see the aforementioned photototograph? I'll scan it. Eventually. If anyone cares.
Ciao!
come home?
.:people:.
{ting}
she looks like the real thing
{mari}
out and about
[kelsey]
THIS IS AMERICA
{yianni}
stop being depressed
{alisa}
other
[shannon]
close and far
{frank}
islands where no islands should go
[cassie]
eating knowledge
{colin}
my dm
[emily]
shoulder to the wheel
[brian]
nostalgic for fantasy
[nicole]
industry insider
{elle}
angry enviro
[matt]
never heard of miyazaki
[pirate dan]
are you reading this?
[olga]
distracted
[messiah dan]
messiah/believer
{max}
approach focus
[natalie]
wait a minute
[susan]
solitude
{greg}
manbeargreg
.:past:.
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.:skin:.
turtles! turtles! by araglas
(heavily modified by yours truly)