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The Birdman

Emerald and Scarlet Dreams

By Ricardo Da RochaPublished 10 months ago 7 min read
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Coline Hasle on Unsplash

I had searched so long and hard for this place that when I finally found it I felt as if I had stumbled into a dream. A vivid living dream about an amazing crazy place.

Crazy because it felt half way between real and imaginary.

Unreal because it seemed too beautiful to be real, at least in comparison to what I was accustomed to.

Those in the village had spoken about it for as long as I could remember. Now I had reached it and the locals in the vicinity whom I questioned confirmed I had found what I had come in search of.

"It's Makak's place”, they whispered, almost as if they were afraid they would be overheard, making me feel as if maybe I didn’t want to go inside.

But why wouldn’t I? It was my sole reason for travelling so far, the reason the village had sent me, even though, ashamed as I was to even think it, I never fully believed existed. So of course, I went inside anyway.

An old ornate wooden door, Islamic in design, the kind of door you might find at the entrance to a locals home in Stonetown, grand in its day but now worn down and made less so by the passage of time.

It opened onto a bare and dusty entry way, small mosaic tiles covering the floor and walls, impressive perhaps, if not covered and dulled by dust and the sparseness of the room itself. Portuguese design, heavy with Arabic influence, no furniture, just an exit , it's opening concealed in shadow.

I stepped down, one step, broad and worn smooth by the passing of many feet. I made for the exit, passed into a short narrow passage and entered a scene that left me stunned.

Some things can be described as beautiful , awe inspiring, beyond the scope of the minds limitless imagination. What I saw was all of this and more, much more.

If this was Makaks place then he was someone special, uniquely, grandly special. The one who they had promised would teach me to fly.

Deep blues, aquamarine blues, silver pale blues, turquoise bands capped in white - such was the varied scope of the sea that lay before me.

And that was just the sea. All of this dazzling blue was framed in brilliant greens, whites and blacks. The greens made up of rolling lush forest, heavy dense foliage plump with massive palm leaves, great hard wood trunks just barely visible beneath a thick green blanket. The fearsomely white trim of a beach below, thin like a necklace of fine silver beads framing the azure neck of some fanciful Greek god.

Black hard angled granite cliffs anchored this scene like the stout solid frame does for a painting.

A faint breeze, barely perceptible, drifted in off the stunning vista. It gently caressed hidden wind chimes, like crystal shards of water breaking on far away rocks.

An extensive patio fashioned from a polished black volcanic rock stretched ahead to a cavernous interior. The outer rim edged by a roughly chiseled yet strangely ornate stone balustrade, beyond which, a gut wrenching and precipitous drop of almost infinite sheer cliff face, directly into the tumultuous finale of unrelenting water breaking against ancient rock - the ones misty defeat against the others immovable might!

As difficult as it was to draw my eyes away from all of this, I struggled to regain my focus and remind myself why I was here - to find the bird man, Makak. The one who would teach me to soar into the blue sky and scratch at the massive white underbelly of those remote clouds, and in doing so, coax the rain from their endless storehouses and bring precious water down to earth where it would restore life to a dying land.

I gathered some courage and prepared to announce my presence but it was not necessary. The bird man knew I had arrived and the high pitched craw of our most sacred bird confirmed that he was coming out to meet me.

My spine twitched of its own accord as he slowly materialized from the dark recess at the far end of the granite patio.

I took an involuntary and frightened step backward, and for an instant it appeared as if a giant man sized bird was emerging from the shadows. A hot bead of relief dropped from my brow as he stepped from within and I could finally see him clearly. Dressed to resemble the magnificent Macaw, from the plush emerald and scarlet plumage strapped to his arms and back, through to the cap of scarlet feathers resting above the noble curved beak that appeared to be fashioned from wood, concealing most of his features. He was an impressive sight, from his feathered crown to the gnarled and intricately carved three toed claws that overlaid his feet.

I waited for him to speak, or perhaps shriek, but he simply held out his open upturned hand. I reached instinctively for the hidden stitched pocket above my left breast and withdrew the handful of emeralds and rubies, hard dug from our secret places. It was the unspoken payment for the miraculous knowledge he would soon pass on to me.

I was about to learn that which was only spoken of in our ancient tales and legends passed through generations.

He took the gems and deposited them into a small leather pouch and with the attached leather thong proceeded to reach out and tie it gently around my neck. It struck me as a noble and insightful gesture.

Was the secret of flight hidden in the gems? Was the living sparkle with which they were imbued perhaps a reflection of the magic that we attributed to the beautiful birds whose colors they so marvelously mimicked? The thought energized me and rekindled my confidence in our ancient stories and the special place Makak surely had in bringing them to reality.

A parched and rough leathery hand grasped my elbow with an intensity that caused me to instinctively pull away. He maintained his grip and I blushed in shame hoping he did not interpret it as hidden lack of faith.

And so I allowed him to turn me around and slowly guide me to the edge of the granite balcony. I quickly registered our destination as we neared the edge where the stone balustrade gave way to a large opening from which extended a short wooden platform - out and into the crisp blue sky. I felt as if I had stopped breathing and greedily filled my lungs with air that left me feeling giddy and slightly unsteady on feet which now stood planted above the tiny rocks a thousand miles below!

Makak stepped back, and raising his arms, he gestured for me to close my eyes. I obediently complied. I felt myself begin to sway as my balance failed and I frantically reached out in the hope of steadying myself against the waist high balustrade.

It was then that he pushed me.

I instinctively opened my eyes and in sheer exhilaration found myself surrounded by hundreds of vibrant screeching macaws. The rush of wind, the mesmerizing colors beating across my vision, the wild screeching encouragement of my avian brethren urging me to take wing on the surging draught of air!

An instant later I was falling. My open eyes bearing witness in a sickening moment of despair as the majestic birds above me grew to specs of red and green and the rocks below reached up to embrace me with unforgiving clarity.

Who knows how long my shattered body lay upon the rocks below. Perhaps I was already dead and the vision before my eyes was merely a flash of dying memory flickering briefly in a mind long gone. The grizzled face of Makak wreathed in sun kissed clouds gazed down upon me.

He reached for the pouch of gems about my neck and roughly broke the cord as he took them.

He smiled sadly as my vision slowly faded, an ironic and slightly mocking sparkle in his eye.

Perhaps this was my final reward, the enlightenment at the end of my journey.

Our stories and legends are a lie. Our lives are a hoax.

Everything we believe in and are taught to live for is a grand deception designed to coax and seduce us to dance and act from birth to dust- seven billion short term skits to entertain the false Gods as they drink, eat and fornicate endlessly in the sky.

Were my body not already shattered and broken I would have split my ribs in laughter as I drifted into the black nothing...

Short Story
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About the Creator

Ricardo Da Rocha

A Nobody Journalist, unfocused dreamer and recovering cynic.

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