The next time Isabella visited the Iron gates it was spring and Icarayus was there at the gate carrying a load of hay. It was as if he was expecting her.
“How lovely to see you again. Here can you give me a hand?” he asked and handed her half of his straw. “We need to prepare for the fledglings,” he said and walked off in the direction of the aviary. Isabella followed behind him pleased to be back in the gardens and to see Icarayus.
The meetings with Simmi had remained with her as a profound experience, which she had revisited repeatedly in the intervening months. She had, strangely, no desire to return to the iron gates but would find herself waking up early in the morning with realisations about what she had actually seen, or experienced, during her time behind the blue mist.
She had, for example, remembered the chandelier that hung in the centre of the hall, partly out of sight, and realised that it was no ordinary chandelier, it was a reproduction of the night sky, with the planets arranged across the ceiling and the stars surrounding them like small oceans of light. In the very centre was a three dimensional six pointed star that was more brilliant than the others and she fancied that it had etched on it some symbols, or mathematical formulae. Over time the more she revisited it in her waking moments the more she felt it was a 3D map not just a chandelier.
She had also visited Aunt May quite soon after her last visit and asked her for some Carnelian, which Aunt May had been only too happy to provide. This piece of Carnelian seemed to provide all the sensations of Simmi’s warm kitchen just by being held in her hand and so her need to return to the kitchen was lessened by simply holding the stone and closing her eyes. She had, of course, developed a taste for cardamom in her tea and although her friends looked at her strangely, she continued to make this evocative drink so she could return to the experience of Simmi’s kitchen.
There was little time today for fancy chandeliers or fragrant tea, Icarayus was busy preparing nesting boxes for young Spectas and set her to work hard to feed a tiny bird who looked as if he had been through a thunderstorm. This was a job that brought her great satisfaction, but also an equal amount of anxiety, for she felt so responsible for the tiny life. She could feel its heartbeat in her hands and physically feel the warmth from her hand move through its tiny body. Her hand was enormous compared to this tiny form and she felt she could, with a careless movement, crush out its life.
When the bird had regained its strength it struggled to be free and she looked to see where it belonged. Although its plumage was not fully developed it had the definite aura of gold about it and so she placed it carefully back with the gold Spectas. It had taken her some time to realise that the Spectas were divided, or divided themselves, according to their predominate colour. They all had magnificent plumage which contained most of the colours of the rainbow, but overall each bird had a distinctive aura of one colour or another. When they were together the array of patterns and colours was fantastic, intricate, colourful and luminous and yet individual.
As she placed her bird back and while she was basking in self satisfaction at having breathed life into such a tiny creature, she noticed Icarayus working on a new set of boxes all of which contained fledglings, which he was hand rearing. Each one was in an individual box and seemed to be being treated with kid gloves.
When she asked why the Spectas were special Icarayus explained that they were being prepared for a long journey and they needed to build up their strength. When she asked where they were going his reply was enigmatic, “All over,” he said and elaborated no more. Isabella had always believed that the birds lived locally and returned each night from their travels. Icarayus explained that some of their journeys were very long and quite dangerous, that they would be gone for some time, but however long their journeys they would always return.
“How do you know?” she asked, “There are so many you cannot possibly keep track of every bird?”
“You do me a disservice my dear, each bird has its own note, its own call and that remains forever in here,” he said pointing to his heart, “it is like being the conductor of an orchestra. Do you think that a conductor would not notice the missing flute, or drum, or even the seventh violin? Of course he would and when I listen to my flock I know which note is missing and at times I will go visiting myself to bring a stray bird home. Now talking of orchestras...”
Icarayus produced his flute from nowhere and started to play and the Spectas and Isabella settled down to listen as the notes rose and fell like the birds themselves in flight. The spring sun shone down on the scene. Isabella swore she could smell cardamom wafting across the breeze and suddenly all felt right with the world again. She felt privileged to be part of these new lives being set free and in that moment her grief and her loss, which remained so deeply hidden, seemed to ebb away completely and she felt whole again.
