My anxiety rises with its pitch, and I remember the exploding heart, the viscera.
‘Please, be calm!’
The bird reacts, landing on my pile of books. I see its breathing slow, its eyes less wild. The colour has returned to its feathers. Brilliant violets and sunset pinks, with the oranges of summer adorning its beak and head. It has a comically long beak for such a small thing.
‘We both want you to live. You must trust me, though. Can you do that?’
The bird looks at me and cocks its head. I wonder if I have gone mad. It inclines its head, as if in understanding, and I let out a small laugh. It twitters at me in turn, and I do believe I have slipped into an entirely surreal world. Truly, I have lost my mind if I am talking to a bird.
For the rest of the afternoon, it is my research companion. The bird sits at the windowsill, looking out, but seems uninterested inflying away. It is strange and comforting to have another living being in the library. I fashion a perch for it and wonder if I should cage it. I’ve never found anyone else in the library, and I’m unsure who else save the queen has access. Would it be more suspicious to transfer the bird to my rooms? But the servants clean there, which they never do here, if the dust is anything to go by. No, I think the bird is best kept secret and safe in the library.
I sneak out of the library, slipping past the feasting hall, which is full of music and dancing, and almost lose my footing at the sight of the queen singing:
‘Highest of halls and tallest of towers
That’s where you sleep, my love.
Thickest of walls and over each hour
That’s where I’ll find you, my love.
Warmest of sheets and wildest of dreams
That’s where you’ll wander, my love.
Deepest of rivers and darkest of hearts
That’s where you sleep, my love.’
Her voice is high and strong, knifelike through the air. It stops me in my tracks to watch her, the emotion writ on her face, her pale, delicate throat raised in supplication to the sky. I count in my head and force myself to move away, to break the spell that would keep me watching her until she stops.
The kitchen servants are used to my coming and going, fetching dainties for the queen, and I steal away some seeds and nuts. The bird adores them, nipping gently at my fingers, and presses its soft head against my skin. When I lock it up for the evening, it coos mournfully.
‘Do not worry, friend. I will be back in the morning.’
As I lock the door I wonder if the bird will be alive when I return. I marvel to see it alive and well but I remember the initial soaring of my heart when the mokon came back. That was a temporary miracle.
When I enter the library the next morning, the bird is still there. It wakens, untucking its head from its wing, and chirps at me. Every time I unlock the library doors I hold my breath, and it is still alive. The bird is still with me the next morning, and the morning after that. I begin to keep a small flame of hope in my heart for it, tallying the days like a lover. Then I make the mistake of naming it, Pocket, on account of its size. It seems content in the library, grateful for the treats and company I bring. I wonder at such a life for a creature, so close to the sun and fresh air and yet closeted here in the dark with me. It is my experiment, to twist life from death, wrestling its essence back from the grave.
chapter thirty-one
ris
Everyone on theship’s deck watches as Sinigang falls from the taffrail. Biba is the first to react, and she lunges, shooting her arm through the rails to grab the otter-cat before he falls into the surf. She pulls him bodily back onto the deck, and I run to them, grabbing Biba.
‘Why did you do that?’ I shout, crying and holding her close.
She yells out in pain and clutches her shoulder.
‘Are you hurt?’
‘Worry about Sini,’ she says, and Isagani leaps down from the rigging.
They gently hold the otter-cat and strokes his fur. ‘He’s breathing.’
‘That was powerful stuff – no wonder he’s out cold,’ Finlyr says. ‘He’ll be all right,’ he adds, giving Isagani and Biba a reassuring look. It’s one I recognise: tamping down the churning in your gut to save face.
We follow Isagani and Biba as they carefully, almost ritualistically, take Sinigang down to the living quarters to rest. I try not to see the shape of the dead otter-cat from the farm, and Biba catches my eye, as if she knows what I’m thinking. I focus instead on the hammocks rocking gently from the ceiling and the dim lanterns flickering overhead.
