Read Online Gives Light(Gives Light Series) by Rose Christo - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rose Christo
Ads: Link
parents to come along. If the parents see us touch the fledgling, they might grow wary and abandon it."
We waited; no parents came.
"Alright," Rafael said. "Don't move."
He got closer to the falcon and crouched down. I couldn't see what he was doing, but then he stood up and turned around, the baby in his hands.
"It's dead," he said. "Probably it couldn't fly, so the parents had to leave it."
I know animals die in the wild all the time. I just wish they didn't. It's crazy, but nothing bothers me more than animals getting hurt. I think Rafael saw that I was upset, because he went on talking in a much gentler tone than usual. He said things like, "It wouldn't have survived long, anyway," and "If it died while flying, it died very quickly." I knew he was trying to console me. I thought that was remarkably kind of him. Still, I think I must have been distracted; I barely noticed the rain stopping or the walk home.
It was a few days later when Rafael came to see me at Granny's house, looking uncharacteristically abashed. I let him inside and fetched the juniper tea from the icebox, but he didn't seem very interested in it. I noticed that his hands were tucked secretively behind his back, not unlike a little boy caught stealing sweets before dinner. I wondered whether he was in trouble with his uncle for something, but apart from that awful power metal stuff he listened to, I couldn't think of anything he'd done wrong. Suddenly he freed both of his hands, producing a small, slender white flute on the end of a thin leather cord.
"Take it," he said, sounding angry.
I took it from him, but only because I was too startled to do anything else. The flute looked brittle, delicate, but in my grasp it was strong. It was smooth to the touch, six holes running from tapered end to end. I couldn't tell what material it had been whittled from. Just touching it made me feel humbled. I think everyone feels humbled in the presence of beauty.
I looked at Rafael questioningly.
"Well, I mean," he started disgruntledly, "maybe you can't sing. But anyone can play the plains flute. You don't need vocal cords for that. Just breath."
It was ironic that he was talking about breathing--because suddenly I couldn't breathe at all. He knew. How did he know? He was looking at me in this incredibly vulnerable way. I realized he was afraid that I might reject his gift. How anyone could have rejected it, I don't know.
I felt the smile forming on my face before I'd even consciously decided to smile. I couldn't think of a way to thank him besides looping the leather cord around my neck. Rafael seemed to relax, relieved.
"Bird bones," he admitted. "That's what all our flutes are made of. I saw how it upset you when that fledgling died. I didn't want you to think its death was a waste."
In a way, I thought I could see how there was a life after death. I'd heard falcon cries before; Angel Falls is close to the desert, not that far from Nettlebush, and you tend to see a lot of falcons out there. When a falcon cries, either it's sharp, like a shriek, or it's soft, like a clear, bright whistle. Maybe that fledgling couldn't fly, but it mollified me, some way, knowing that its song wouldn't die.
Death wasn't a waste of life. My mom was gone. I'd never have the chance to know her. But it was through her absence, aching and acute, that I had come to know Rafael instead.
8
Omega
Rafael and I developed the routine of spending our afternoons in the windmill field, our evenings by the lake. He'd sit sketching or reading in silence while I learned to play the plains flute, how to make it produce the sounds I wanted: low and mournful, solid and reedy, airy and bright. Occasionally Rafael would throw impossible instructions at me, like: "Play Ring of Fire." Or my personal favorite: "Play Greensleeves." I didn't
We waited; no parents came.
"Alright," Rafael said. "Don't move."
He got closer to the falcon and crouched down. I couldn't see what he was doing, but then he stood up and turned around, the baby in his hands.
"It's dead," he said. "Probably it couldn't fly, so the parents had to leave it."
I know animals die in the wild all the time. I just wish they didn't. It's crazy, but nothing bothers me more than animals getting hurt. I think Rafael saw that I was upset, because he went on talking in a much gentler tone than usual. He said things like, "It wouldn't have survived long, anyway," and "If it died while flying, it died very quickly." I knew he was trying to console me. I thought that was remarkably kind of him. Still, I think I must have been distracted; I barely noticed the rain stopping or the walk home.
It was a few days later when Rafael came to see me at Granny's house, looking uncharacteristically abashed. I let him inside and fetched the juniper tea from the icebox, but he didn't seem very interested in it. I noticed that his hands were tucked secretively behind his back, not unlike a little boy caught stealing sweets before dinner. I wondered whether he was in trouble with his uncle for something, but apart from that awful power metal stuff he listened to, I couldn't think of anything he'd done wrong. Suddenly he freed both of his hands, producing a small, slender white flute on the end of a thin leather cord.
"Take it," he said, sounding angry.
I took it from him, but only because I was too startled to do anything else. The flute looked brittle, delicate, but in my grasp it was strong. It was smooth to the touch, six holes running from tapered end to end. I couldn't tell what material it had been whittled from. Just touching it made me feel humbled. I think everyone feels humbled in the presence of beauty.
I looked at Rafael questioningly.
"Well, I mean," he started disgruntledly, "maybe you can't sing. But anyone can play the plains flute. You don't need vocal cords for that. Just breath."
It was ironic that he was talking about breathing--because suddenly I couldn't breathe at all. He knew. How did he know? He was looking at me in this incredibly vulnerable way. I realized he was afraid that I might reject his gift. How anyone could have rejected it, I don't know.
I felt the smile forming on my face before I'd even consciously decided to smile. I couldn't think of a way to thank him besides looping the leather cord around my neck. Rafael seemed to relax, relieved.
"Bird bones," he admitted. "That's what all our flutes are made of. I saw how it upset you when that fledgling died. I didn't want you to think its death was a waste."
In a way, I thought I could see how there was a life after death. I'd heard falcon cries before; Angel Falls is close to the desert, not that far from Nettlebush, and you tend to see a lot of falcons out there. When a falcon cries, either it's sharp, like a shriek, or it's soft, like a clear, bright whistle. Maybe that fledgling couldn't fly, but it mollified me, some way, knowing that its song wouldn't die.
Death wasn't a waste of life. My mom was gone. I'd never have the chance to know her. But it was through her absence, aching and acute, that I had come to know Rafael instead.
8
Omega
Rafael and I developed the routine of spending our afternoons in the windmill field, our evenings by the lake. He'd sit sketching or reading in silence while I learned to play the plains flute, how to make it produce the sounds I wanted: low and mournful, solid and reedy, airy and bright. Occasionally Rafael would throw impossible instructions at me, like: "Play Ring of Fire." Or my personal favorite: "Play Greensleeves." I didn't
Similar Books
