1
THE LOCKET AND THE BIRD
There is a bird trapped in the chimney.
As if today hasn’t been enough of a chaotic mess already, now I have to save a bird. Its frightened flapping and the scraping of its talons across the stones elicit throbbing in my temples. But when I hear the muffled cawing, my heart plummets into my stomach.
Badb.
The goddess associated with crows and ravens; harbinger of doom and death. My unusual upbringing is not ideal for situations such as these, and the terror of what the omen could mean cuts through the usual dull ache of my grief.
Unfortunately, this isn’t even the first disaster of the day.
No, the chaos began bright and early, trying to coax Gran into eating her breakfast.
Breakfast, which was subsequently thrown across the dining room, the puddle of oatmeal now staining the blue and cream rug. That was followed by her brandishing her pillow as a shield and a candlestick as a sword when I tried to get her dressed.
But rather than tackle the trapped bird alone, I concede defeat and decide to enlist our groundskeeper, Torin, in mybird-saving crusade. Torin’s family has served as groundskeepers since the construction of Branch Hall some 500 years ago. However, we affectionately call the estate “The Hall.”
A plume of ash and soot rains down into the fireplace grate, and my anxiety for the bird’s life increases. If the poor creature dies before I have even attempted to save it, Badb will make sure the rest of my days are cursed. I cast my eyes towards Gran, who is settled in her favorite wingback chair, a floral shawl tucked tightly over her narrow shoulders. Her long silver hair is braided meticulously into her signature coronet to avoid obscuring her slightly unfocused, sky-blue eyes. She reaches out a steady hand, plucking a piece of her puzzle up before placing it in its rightful place. And that is all I can claim for my small victories today:she’s dressed and calm.
Since her diagnosis, I haven’t felt comfortable leaving her side for too long when it’s only the two of us home. The fear of her wandering off and becoming lost or, worse, injuring herself, plagues my every thought. With Lizzie, Gran’s live-in nurse, off today and no other therapies scheduled, I’ll be taking a bit of a risk leaving her unattended for any length of time. But this might be a life-or-death situation for the poor creature and, of course, a curse on my future.
The sounds of the trapped bird grow louder, and Gran flicks her eyes towards the fireplace. “Guards used the door in my day,” she mutters under her breath, before returning to the puzzle.Shit,she’s noticed the bird.
Deciding it’s worth the risk, I back slowly from her chair before turning and sprinting down the main hallway, one of my favorites in the house. The high ceiling has large timber beams spanning across the width. The wood was milled from trees on our own grounds, according to Torin. Portraits of my ancestors spanning centuries and gorgeous landscapes of the estate’s gardens flash by as I run. The expansiveness and wealth of the Hall still amazes me, and the oak staircase I race by is one of itsmost remarkable features. It boasts intricately carved poppies, ravens, ivy, and various symbols reminiscent of Viking runes.
I slow my pace to a jog to make the right turn into the servant’s area that makes up the back entrance. But as I burst through the back door, the beauty of the garden stops me in my tracks.
Do I really need to sprint the whole way there?
It’s only a modest trek through the southern garden, past the curving stone wall, and through a small wooded area to where Torin’s cottage is located. Besides, it’s not like the Gods can take any more from me, right? My parents are already dead. It’s also a rare, clear day, and the smell of freshly tilled soil and early blooming flowers gives off the illusion of new possibilities. Inhaling slowly to calm my already burning lungs, I decide to continue to Torin’s at a much slower jog to enjoy the surrounding scenery.
The rapid beating of my heart draws forward a story my parents used to tell me of a magical land far away, surrounded by towering mountains and majestic waterfalls that cast rainbows around the entire realm. I push the memory aside and pick up the pace, not wanting to be away from Gran for too long and unwilling to deal with my grief any further.
But details of the story burst through my mind again: winged women soaring in the sky, guarding a city made entirely for warriors.
I wish I could fly far from here.
The magic of the story is overshadowed by the cloud of my sorrow hovering at the forefront of my mind. My parents were so full of life and vitality that it still seems incomprehensible to me that they’re no longer here. They seemed so utterly invincible to me, almost otherworldly. Naturally, I never pictured a moment without them in my life.
I try my best to keep my grief tightly bottled up, but it’s been challenging to hold it together. When Gran has rare momentsof lucidity and mentions how my eyes are the same dark blue as my mom’s, I feel myself breaking. What hurts even more than the comparison, though, is when she has uncontrollable outbursts during her denser memory fog, and she calls me Bryn, my mom’s name.
The pain of those moments spears through the dull ache of their loss.
A white daffodil peeking through the grass catches my eye as I jog by. The beauty of it reminds me that not every moment here has been full of heartache. I’m so absorbed in my own little world that I almost miss the dark green Land Rover parked outside Torin’s cottage.
It’s the very loud, gravelly caw from a nearby bird that brings my attention up from the path and around to my current surroundings. The caw sounds like a raven, but I haven’t seen any ravens since I’ve been here. I scan the nearby trees, trying to locate the bird. A weird prickling sensation washes over my skin.
I’m being watched.
When I finally spot the surprisingly large raven, it’s perched right above the cottage and is, in fact, watching me.
My stomach churns with dread. If the bird in the chimney is also a raven and not a crow, that would mean it’s a sign from the Father,Odin. His two ravens symbolize thought and memory, as if I haven’t been struggling with that.
Hopefully, it’s not this raven’s friend currently stuck in our chimney, but it does appear to be judging my slow pace for help.
Shrugging off thoughts of watchful gods and judgmental birds, I carry on. I’ve almost reached the oak door of the gray stone cottage when it swings open, and Torin steps out into the dappled sunlight. Although he’s pushing his mid-sixties, he’s still a formidable man with broad shoulders, a tall stature, and tanned skin from the hours he spends tending the Hall’s garden. He settles his flat cap over his cropped chestnut hair, and hishoney-brown eyes settle onto me. A hint of worry creeps into them, and his shoulders slightly tense as he addresses me.
