Common Ground

Awoken by a most frightening sound I turn over in bed and open my eyes. It’s what I imagined the banshees in my grandfather’s folk tales would sound like. I wonder if he sounded the shrieks of the nightmarish creatures as he passed on the stories to dad. Not knowing the sound of my grand dad’s voice, I try to imagine his accent. Did he try to hide it to fit into his new home? Again I hear the hisses and the screeches, this time closer than before. Out my window a flash of white swoops through the midnight black. Our local owls which frightened me as a child were considered noble by that man I never knew. The same one who built this home and fed so many mouths that have all moved on now. The swift white beacon circles around again. It draws me up and out of bed. It’s shriek sends shivers down my spine as it passes.

Though growing distant the high pitched noise continues. It’s different now. Not the sound of a masterful hunter but the whimpering of fear. A sound I recognize all too well. Scanning the moonlit landscape everything looks still and calm. Still the sound persists. There! On top of the hill something thrashing around in the oak tree. The one living thing on this land still holding on, well besides me of course. It’s like watching someone twist apart a cotton ball, I know this thing is in trouble. I dashed out of the bedroom stuffing my shoelaces in my boots, not wasting any time to tie them. I stumble over the unkempt stone pathway out the front gate. This is the fastest I moved in some time now. My bones remind me at every step.

At the top of the hill I recognize the beast of my childhood nightmares is trapped in vines that have wrapped their way around the tree. Those damn vines I said I’ll get around to trimming for what must be have been years now. Cursing myself I shake the vines to loosen the bird. It’s own fear only entangles it further. The lowest hanging branch feels sturdy as I reach up and drag myself up onto it. Up another and another and I’m within reach of the bird. I take my shirt off to wrap around my hands after eyeing it’s dagger like talons that point out in my direction. It’s panting, something that I thought only dogs did. When I reach for it I see it has nearly no fight left in it. It’s a mix of relief and worry that washes over me. Unraveling the vines I’m overwhelmed with guilt. The creature’s rich black eyes gaze into my own. Working feverishly I feel the weight of the bird now slip into my hand. It’s shocking how light it is. The wings are so delicate, I instinctively maintain a gentle grip as I move it away from the vines and towards the open branch. As I release it, the bird effortlessly reaches for the branch I’m sitting on. Like a pilot checking the plane before a flight, first it ruffles it’s wings systematically before moving on to the tail. Only for a moment it shifts it’s head gazing at me then snaps it back forward. It hops into the air and flaps a few times and lets out a shriek once again. However this time it fills me with delight as it flies off out of sight.

The rest of the night I hack away at all the vines around the tree. With an old shovel I painstakingly uproot every last vine. My hands are now calloused and sore but I go on to remove the final pieces of vine still clasping to the tree. The sun peaks it’s head over the horizon hitting the top of the hill and I enjoy the warmth it offers. A sparkling golden reflection catches my eye. I reach into a hollow in the tree I had never noticed before. The gold is the nearly faded paint of a tobacco tin. The kind I’ve found all over the house over the years, the remnants of my grandfather’s smoking habit. Finding one here surprises me. Pulling open the now rusted hinges nearly snaps the lid off. Inside I find a tightly folded letter. It’s addressed “To those I’ll never know.”