The pressure of packing nagging at my brain, I make a quick decision to leave early. Keeping the small orange dome-shaped lamp on for Carya, but turning off the rest of the lights. I hope she appreciates the cozy gesture.
The air is still when I finally lock up the front door. Ashton’s pub bustles with the sound of chatter, showing no signs of closing early. A good sign for someone who works as hard as he does.
I walk fast enough that the city sounds fade out of my earshot, and then my only focus is to get home. I don’t even register the faint rustling whisper of oak leaves weaving through my hair.
I make my way to my door, then to my room. An itch creeps along my spine that I know something about the jade ring. About the hickory. But what is it?
Only in sleep does my mind awaken, and the feelings I’ve buried rise like fog—formless but pressing.
My dreamy head is a blur of feathers. One set is iridescent black, and the other is a glittering golden brown. As they move farther from my vision, it looks as if two birds are dancing. A poetic waltz of wings and beaks. But as I look longer, their talons tell a different story. They are not dancing in synchronicity, but battling in a chaotic duel of blood and fury.
Two trees stand tall in the background, lookingalmost human. The arm-like limbs connected to the powerful bodies of bark sway as if orchestrating the whole thing. The birds being puppets of the trees’ bidding.
Something within the fighting bird's talons breaks free and falls, bouncing a couple times before settling at my feet. It is the jade ring, glowing with an electric pulse that grabs my attention. I lean down, my fingertips registering its energy before brushing the shiny metal.
A sharp prick.
Pulling my finger back in response, I see the ring has morphed into some sort of purple flower. Tiny spiked thorns rimmed the long, slim and delicate mass of petals like the collar of an evil queen protecting her ageless beauty. Blood drips steadily from my finger, forming a small puddle that slowly spreads across the ground.
Soon my blood is filling the ground. I can’t stop it. I spot the ring again sinking into the dark red liquid. It falls deeper, and deeper still. I try to reach for it, but my arm is slowly being coated in a mix of blood and dirt.Thick wooden cords coil around my waist like muscle. I thrash, desperate for air. It is no use. I take one last breath as I too am lost to the earth, tangled within roots that refuse to let me go. And they never will.
5
BIRDS
DETROIT 1978
Morning comes quickly, and it seems not to care at all that I would like it to slow down. It is my last day in Detroit. My last day as a youngish, naïve antique shop owner. In one day’s time, I will add estate owner to my resume, and I’m not entirely sure how I feel about that title.
My black suede thigh-high boots click against the sidewalk as I make my way to the place I feel most at home. This shop of mine has provided a cocoon where I would happily slumber in an oblivious wake state through the years, but with little warning, it seems now I am meant to transform. To embrace something different. Something down south, beckoning me to it more and more since finding out it could be mine.
The day is breezy and warm, making my pleated chiffon skirt cling to the front of my thighs. The back sways out behind me like leaves of a willow billowing in the breeze. Willows were always my mother’s favorite tree, but the only glimpse I’ve had of one lately is the jade willow statue sitting in a hundred odd-shaped pieces on my shop counter.
There were many willows at the lake we lived near before coming to Detroit, and perhaps that is why my mother was so reluctantto leave. The reason we came here was never quite clear to me then. Young minds often miss the reasons for things, but they tend to feel the big picture, regardless. And I know the reason we left that lake was important.My mother had fear written all over her face that day she packed everything in the car.
I round the corner of the block to make it onto Sixth Street, and I’m just about knocked over by a heady dark floral aroma. A small oak near my shop looks weighed down by a mass of black leaves. This constant smell always lingers around this oak, but where else have I smelt this? As I inch closer, I see the leaves are actually an iridescent blue-black, and are not actually leaves at all. They are feathers. Crow feathers.
The oak sits heavy with crows, every beady eye fixed on me. They weigh on the tree and on my spirit. An ominous and sensual feeling sweeps through me. Not feeling comfortable in my skin, I aggressively shove my key in the door, breaking a nail in haste, and all but jump in to get rid of the feeling of being watched.
Once the door is closed, the welcome meow of Carya eases my nerves, and only then do I release the breath I’ve been holding since realizing what occupied that poor distressed oak. When did I get a starring role in an Alfred Hitchcock movie? I sweep my fingers along Carya’s back, my hand shaking from the eerie impression those birds left me with.
Carya meows once more and brushes against me, as if she knows I’m on edge. She has been acting strangely ever since the estate lawyer came by. I can’t say I blame her. My constant shadow these last couple of days, weaving in between my legs and testing my acrobatic abilities. She doesn’t seem to want to leave my side, so it is then that I decide to take her with me to see my newly inherited mansion.
The day carries on like any other before my inheritance, a quiet pressure building within me. If you looked at this day as an outsider, you would think nothing of it. No show of outward distraction, but from my view it looks as if everything has been set ablaze. Ripe withanticipation of the next part of my journey. After all, all monumental change starts from within. I just wish mine had a clearer focus.
The door chimes, which sets my nerves on edge, but I’m greeted by a comforting smile. Ashton places a steaming bowl of brown soup in front of me from the local deli, the blue and red design on the carryout bowl giving it away. It’s rather warm outside for soup, but once the brothy aroma reaches me, I’m left with no choice but to see if its taste matches its mouthwatering smell.
Jumping from my stool and giving Ashton a quick peck on the cheek, I sit cross-legged on the floor with it. Ashton automatically mirrors my actions. He joins me with his own meal as we eat on the floor, discussing the many plans I have yet to decide on.
“Jade, you are too pure of heart. And that is such a good thing, but not down there. There is so much injustice down there…I would hate for you to be hardened because of it,” Ashton says. The worry consumes his words. I can tell from his posture he seems reluctant for me to go.
He fears I won’t mix well with the people in the southern states. My mind has always been more liberated than most, and I have a hard time seeing unjust behavior toward anyone based on their color, gender, or societal ranking. My mother is to blame for that conviction, and I’ve heard no one complain about it until now.
“Ash, I’ll be fine. If anyone needs to worry, it’s you. How will you manage Lollie while I’m gone?” I push his shoulder, and he smirks knowingly.
“Nobody can manageher,” the words fall out with a twinkle in his eye. I tumble back into a fit of giggles, almost sending my soup bowl across the room. I swear Ashton tries, but fails to hide his version of blushing. His cheeks, normally tawny brown, turn a deep color of pink. Why he reacts this way has me curious, but I can’t control my laughter enough to ask.
He and Lollie ended in a way I think Ashton rather forget.Ashton, head over heels in love, took Lollie to The London Chop House. The nicest restaurant in Detroit.
