Bird Of Prey
E Marc Coe

 


The hawk spread its wings and launched itself into the mountain air in one smooth motion. Moments later, it caught an updraft and rose quickly. A few hundred feet up it hovered above the cold green and white slopes.

For twenty long minutes, it circled the outcropping of granite, searching, waiting, until it finally saw what it was waiting for. The hawk’s eyes, sharpened by millions of years of evolution, reacted with exquisite sensitivity to movement.

A small rabbit emerged from a scraggly bush two hundred feet below. Colored to the same shade as the snow, it cautiously crept forward.

The hawk pulled its wings together and dropped like a stone. Like an arrow fired from a bow, it shot down, a blur in the cold alpine air.

The rabbit, its eyes also shaped by evolutionary forces to sense even the slightest movement, saw the dark blur dropping toward it. It tore off across the plain, heading toward the shelter of icy boulders.

Twenty feet up, the hawk threw out its wings, slowing with a rush. Its talons extended and hit the flank of the rabbit. They slid smoothly through skin and muscle. The rabbit struggled for a moment, then lay still.

The hawk looked down, saw bright red blood on its claws.

Saw the blood on my fingers.

I woke up again, bathed in sweat. I was shaking from the excitement of the hunt, the kill. Tears ran freely down my cheeks.

It was still night, the bright moon shining through my closed window. It was so quiet all I could hear was the pounding of my heart.

I couldn’t remember the last time I was able to sleep without these crazy dreams. It even started coming when I was awake and conscious. The visions were growing stronger.

Even now, sitting up in bed, I felt the wind rushing underneath my wings, the bitter winter air searing my lungs. My eyes searched the soft white hills beneath me slowly, looking for movement….

I fought the image, trying to force it from my mind. But I was so tired, so weak, I couldn’t even keep my head up. Gently, my head returned to the pillow, my eyes closing of their own volition.

I saw the mouse, small and frail, moving slowly across the snow, desperately searching for food. It was little more than skin and bones.

My hunger was uncontrollable, the rabbit of a few days ago forgotten, gone. It might never have existed at all. I pulled in my wings and plummeted, the ground rushing up at me. I reached out my wings, and the air threw them back, the snow and trees rushing back into focus.

My talons tore into the mouse as I landed on the snowy field. I balanced the struggling mouse on one claw, lifting it to my beak. I broke its neck in one smooth motion.

Tasted its blood in my mouth.

The next time I woke up, my sheets were dank and cold, and I was shivering violently. Disoriented, I struggled to get up. The blanket was tangled around my legs like a huge constrictor, and I lost my balance. I hit the floor hard, slamming my chin and biting my tongue. Warm blood splashed in my mouth.

For an instant the vision returned with vivid clarity. My beak tore into the mouse, small chunks of its flesh going down my throat. My mouth was full of the coppery taste of its blood.

“No!” I was screaming, pounding the floor with my hands.

“No,” I croaked again through cracked lips. God, how long had it been since I was awake?

I forced my arms under my body and pushed my chest up with an effort that sent everything spinning again. I nearly fell back to the floor.

I grit my teeth and ground my eyes into focus, the effort feeling like it nearly split my skull.

Daylight shined through my window, dim and indistinct. It was either early morning or late evening, and I had no idea which. The window was partly open, and I could feel the cold wind. I wanted to open my wings, to sail out the window, back to the freedom of the skies.

No! I was barely able to keep the visions away. They kept growing stronger, and I kept growing weaker.

I made my legs flex, lifting me up, and I stumbled forward, nearly too weak to stand. I stumbled toward the bathroom. I reached the sink, bracing one arm against the ledge, trembling.

I groped around uncertainly until I reached the faucet. I turned on the water and splashed it on my face and chest.

It was so cold it stung, but it felt good, the cold giving me something I could focus on, a physical sensation far from the hawk that was trying to claim me.

I drank deeply. The cold water tasted good, loosening my dry throat, chilling me from the inside. The cold was delicious, coming from everywhere at once. I felt more alive now than I had in days. But somehow I knew the feeling wouldn’t last.

Suddenly my legs had the strength to hold me, and I stood up straight. I looked at myself in the mirror.

My face was drawn and gaunt, little more than skin stretched tight over bones. My cheeks and neck were covered with thick stubble. It looked like at least four or five days of growth.

My God, what’s happening to me?

Unconsciously, I reached for my razor, and looked into my own eyes. They were sunken and dull, but it seemed like there was something in my eye, a dark point moving in the blue of my left eye. I moved closer, curious.

The point was the hawk, powerful, fast, waiting for me. My eye became the sky, full of freedom and promise. The sun-warmed air flowed under my wings, gently caressing me as I searched for prey.

“Damn it!” I shouted. My fist lashed out, striking the hawk, the mirror. It shattered into a thousand slivers and fell into the sink with a crash.

My hand was sliced open across the knuckle. I watched in morbid fascination as blood pumped out of the wound, flowed down my hand in a thin stream and ran off the edge of my thumb. It formed a growing pool on one of the slivers of the broken mirror.

Blood. The blood of the kill was warm and sweet, nourishing, powerful. Sustenance. I saw the broken rabbit, my kill, dead and broken in my talons, tasted its flesh in my mouth.

No… but my voice was insignificant compared to the predator within me. But I not only saw the blood, I felt the pain, a burning sensation across the top of my hand.

The pain was real, concrete and separate. I focused on it, clenching my fist. I shut my eyes to the blood, until my hand hurt so much I could hardly bear the pain. I whimpered, but did not relax my fist.

With a start, my brain started working again. I took in my surroundings, and looked at myself in the fragments left of the mirror. The image was disjointed, a bit of hair here, a fragment of nose here, my eye distorted, too large to be real, starting back with an intensity that forced me to look away.

I need help, I thought. This was not a new thought. But it held a special urgency this time. I can’t take this much longer….I’m almost gone.

I took the washcloth off the rack and wrapped it tight around my knuckle. It staunched the blood. I squeezed my hand, and the pain became unbearable, my head exploding with agony. My knees began to tremble. With a sharp exhalation, I released my grip.

Good, I thought, I still have some control. But this insight brought no satisfaction.

My room seemed to shift left and right as I struggled to dress. I pulled on sweatpants and sneakers. I stumbled, but by clenching my fist, I did not fall. I got shoes on my feet somehow. I tried to tie them but a wave of blackness struck me as I bent over. I teetered, clenching my fist so hard that fresh drops of blood struck the floor. I cried out, and somehow stayed conscious.

I pulled on my jacket and careened to the door, walking carefully in the untied shoes.

I threw open the door and entered the hallway.

The brightness of the hall overpowered me. The fluorescent lights were so intense, it was like looking into the face of the sun…

I circled the sun in the crisp, cold morning air, its rays striking the dark feathers along my back and the top of my wings. The warmth created a contrast with my underside and claws, which were very cold. The snow below me was featureless and quiet as I hung in the air, waiting for motion.

I felt the hunger within becoming unbearable. I had not eaten in days. I needed a kill soon, or I would be too weak to fly, too weak to stay alive.

I saw movement. It was a tiny bird, flitting from one branch to another on a tree below. I usually ignored such small prey.

My hunger made the decision for me. Small or not, it was food, and food was life. I drew in my wings and dropped like a stone, but already the little shape saw me, shooting away toward the thicker tree branches. I was too late, too slow. This prey would escape.

Still, I had to try. I drew in my wings even tighter, my speed increasing, until I was just a streak, barely in control. All my awareness focused on the fleeing bird.

I threw out my wings to stop my fall, but it was too late. The meal I needed so badly was gone. Instantly I knew I was too low to the branches, traveling too fast. I wasn’t strong enough to hold my wings rigid.

Instinctively, I went limp. I hit the branches and they broke with my weight. Snow flew in all directions, blocking out the sun. I kept falling, spiraling like a leaf caught in a zephyr.

I hit the snow hard, white powder flying in all directions. When I came to rest, there was nothing but darkness.

I knelt in front of my door, squeezing my hand so tightly blood ran down my wrist and dripped on the carpet.

I was ravenous. I needed food, I needed life. I needed help. It was all I could do to make my legs lift me back to a standing position. I leaned against the wall, shivering despite my heavy jacket.

The hallway was deserted. Through the windows I could see it was dark again outside. I looked around desperately for someone, anyone.

I started forward. Every step was shaky, and I nearly fell a dozen times heading toward the double doors that led outside. I did not see anyone, no one to help me. I needed help so bad…

I threw my weight against the doors, and they slowly opened. Sounds of traffic from the street hit me, the smell of car exhaust. A bitterly cold wind rushed in, stealing the last of the warmth from my body. Everything was a blur, no matter how I tried to focus my eyes. I was squeezing my fist as hard as I could, but now I felt no pain.

I was conscious again almost instantly, throwing the snow off my wings, shaking violently until I was free of it. My wings were still whole, although some of the feathers were bent and twisted.

I launched skyward, trembling with the cold. My wings did not stay extended smoothly, but instead shook. I slowly rose with a great effort.

I searched for movement, each beating of my wings becoming slower and weaker. I could not stop shaking.

And the ground below was still, empty, lifeless.

Eventually, the blur came into focus. I was still leaning against the open door. The city street stretched away in darkness. A light snow fell, covering the narrow street with slush.

I looked vainly around for someone, anyone.

A group of people approached me on the sidewalk. Two parents and two children, wrapped up tight against the cold. They were perhaps twenty feet away. The man saw me and immediately averted his eyes. He whispered something to the woman, and they reached out and took the children’s hands as they approached.

I released the door and stumbled toward them.

“Help me!”, I shouted. But it only came out a whisper.

The woman’s eyes met mine. She was young and attractive. She looked away and moved toward the man as she walked, a look of disgust and fear on her face.

I moved forward and tried to block their way.

“Help me,” I whispered again. The woman saw my bloody hand and cried out. The children were pushed behind the father, and they peeked around his legs, curious at this unexpected event in their evening travels.

“Look,” the man said, “We don’t want any trouble.” I could hear the fear in his voice.

I wanted him. I wanted to tear out his throat with my talons, to drink his blood, to take his sustenance for my own.

One of the children started crying.

The man pushed me, hard. I had no strength to resist. I hit the pavement, my skull cracking against the slick pavement.

“Help me,” I whispered again. The family scurried away.

I was shivering so hard it took an effort to move. I rolled on my stomach and tried to get my hands under my weight. I struggled, but was unable to rise. One of my shoes was missing, but my exposed foot was not cold. Again, I tasted blood in my mouth.

The snow came down harder, mixing with the colors and sounds of the slowing traffic. It was a giant maelstrom of color and motion.

But there was no motion beneath me. No prey, no food. I could barely fight gravity to stay aloft. The sun was gone behind a thick bank of clouds. I was cold, too cold. Ice was forming on my wings. A storm was coming. I should land and take cover.

But if I landed, I would never have the strength to fly again. All I needed was one kill…

The sky began to snow. Still I stayed aloft, searching in the failing light.

My cheek was so cold it seemed like the whole side of my face was frozen. I managed to roll onto my back. I still could not focus my eyes, but I sensed there were people around me.

I tried to sit up and failed. My pulse pounded, but it seemed different, hollow somehow.

I saw motion. It was a squirrel a hundred feet below me.

I pulled in my wings and dropped, my hunger burning inside me. But I was so weak I could barely keep my dive straight, and the squirrel kept coming in and out of focus.

I tried to open my wings, to stop my descent. I was too weak. They snapped back alongside my body. The ground rose up at me with amazing speed.

The tree was close, too close. I hit a thick branch next to the squirrel with a loud whack. I felt the impact in my chest.

I continued to fall. I hit the trunk of the tree and slid down the last few feet, my left wing hanging off at a crazy angle. I hit the snow with a silent rush and lay still.

I saw a shrew, ragged and thin with hunger, climb cautiously onto my broken wing. When it saw I did not move, it tore aside the feathers and began to eat the tendons and muscles beneath.

Then all I saw was the snow, gently drifting through the sky.

 

 

Copyright © 2003 E Marc Coe
Published on the World Wide Web by "www.storymania.com"