Read Online Someone Else's Conflict by Alison Layland - Free Book Online Page B

tiptoed to the door and went out, easing the door closed behind him. He heard a croak and the beating of wings. As a black raven bore down on him, he scratched at his cut and drew a drop of blood. In a flash of black-and-white, the magpie darted into the path of the raven. He watched, terrified, as the two birds tore into one another in a storm of feathers.
    â€˜â€œGo!” screeched the magpie.
    â€˜Back at the house, the youngest boy awoke with the dawn. He felt a small sticky patch on the blanket. He lifted his finger and saw in the pale light that it was blood. As he looked at the stain on his finger he heard snatches of wings beating, birds screeching, footsteps running. Somehow he knew it was his friend; he wanted desperately to go with him. He shook his sister awake and told her of the birds and the empty space beside them.
    â€˜â€œDon’t be stupid. Go back to sleep or Grandmother will hear you.”
    â€˜He dozed for a while and by the time it was fully light he hardly remembered the dream of the birds. The old woman gave them their breakfast porridge by the fire and the two of them set about their chores. The younger boy went out to fetch firewood – hadn’t that always been his job? Who else had ever been there to do it? – and as he reached the edge of the garden he saw a black-and-white shape motionless on the ground. He rubbed a red patch that had appeared on his finger overnight and as he reached out to touch the dead magpie he thought he caught a glimpse of a boy running through the trees. At the same time he felt a hand on his shoulder and started in fear.
    â€˜â€œCome back to the house, little one,” said the old woman. “You need your coat or you’ll catch your death of cold.”
    â€˜By the time he went out again there was nothing there. The youngest boy never lost the red patch on his finger where the drop of blood had stained it. If he rubbed it he’d catch a glimpse of a magpie in another place that somehow felt like home, and see the face of a half-remembered friend in his mind’s eye. He didn’t understand these images, and they felt like the saddest things he knew, but he was glad he had that red patch on his finger.’
    A candle sputtered and flickered rapidly before settling again to a steady flame. Jay moved to put a log on the fire, raising a shower of tiny sparks.
    â€˜What a sad story,’ Marilyn said. ‘Where did he go, the older boy? He must have been so lonely.’
    â€˜Brought it on himself. Imagine refusing a gift like that. The chance to forget all your troubles.’
    â€˜Gift? She had them imprisoned.’
    â€˜Wasn’t it better than sadness and loneliness? I tell you, it was a gift. Crafty things, magpies. They’ll steal anything, even when it means nothing to them.’
    â€˜That magpie sacrificed its life to help the boy remember who he really was.’
    â€˜Perhaps he’d have been better off if it hadn’t. Perhaps the magpie was simply jealous. I would be… The gift of forgetting all the bad stuff in your life.’ He rubbed his index finger absently with the tip of his other; shrugged. ‘Perhaps not. Perhaps you’d just end up making the same mistakes over and over again.’
    â€˜Anything in particular?’
    He looked away and busied himself firing up new life in his pipe bowl. His silence suggested she’d gone too far.
    â€˜I like the way you told it.’
    It was an over-obvious olive branch but he glanced up, clearly willing to accept it. He relaxed visibly, smiled.
    â€˜The odd jobs pay better when I can get them, but the stories – busking – are way more fun. It’s a question of balance.’
    He blew a smoke ring, let it hover and speared it with a thin stream of smoke.
    â€˜Your turn.’
    â€˜You’re joking? You’re the performer; I’m happy to listen.’
    â€˜Everyone’s got performance in them