The Boy
by Rory McDiarmid.
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A crow fell twisted, landing fat on the stony ground. Its black feathers hung in the rich air and after what seemed like an eternity came to rest at the feet of the boy. The boy cried. The crow was dead.
Stooping solemnly, the boy gathered the feathers and was reminded of his birthday. The wings felt light between his fingers. The day smelt new. It was morning. Wretched though the occasion undoubtedly was, the boy crumpled up his nose and marched in defiance towards Armstrong the bakers. Once there he paused outside for a moment, hands stroking the prize.
‘You should be at school boy but never-mind,’ bellowed Armstrong.
The boy showed him the feathers. Armstrong laughed.
‘Sorry son we’ve no use for feathers here. Try the smiddy.’ In the background young Alexander Cotton let go a snigger. The boy opened the door again and left. Armstrong pinched another loaf of bread. The feet of the boy scuttled homewards.
His father was at the table when he returned wringing his plump hands. ‘Early lunch,’ he offered by way of explanation. He stood folding ham in a brown bag and approached the mirror with a comb. The boy watched his father in the half-light of the hallway. He saw him peel back his fringe purposefully, dabbing the comb with water when appropriate. ‘Son, you need to get back to school. You need to learn and learning’s fine for a lad like you and besides…it’s what you need.’ The boy ran suddenly from the house. He ran faster than he ever had before. Restless his legs swished side by side dancing half-mangled through the streets. He followed the cobbles and heard his black-laced shoes click-clack on the way. Click clack. He imagined himself as the crow. His dark wings beyond repair. Curtained by night, alone.
And so the boy found himself on top of the tree that sat opposite McGregor’s farm. He didn’t know how long he had been sitting like this. The sky was blackening but it was not yet night. He had come here after being teased by the girls on the school steps. He closed his eyes. The memory forged fantastic:
(Lights)
THE GIRLS: Wee boy. What are you hiding?
THE BOY: I’m not telling.
THE GIRLS: Show us wee boy. Oh, please won’t you show us?
(The boy shrugs).
THE GIRLS: Please!
(The boy opens his hands. Laughter woops round the playground. Lights down).
The boy looked clumsy on his perch. Mrs. McGregor certainly thought so and circled the tree, beckoning him to come down. She was ignored. After she left the sky flashed and the boy opened his eyes to find a world that was born anew. His hands were old and shaken, his skin was wrinkled and he felt weighted by gloomy experience. The boy looked around and heard the voice of a man. The voice was his own.
‘What have you become?’ started the voice solemnly.
‘I have aged and finally become fully grown.’ Then a pause, ‘Do you think they will take me seriously now?’
‘What a ridiculous question! Don’t be so naďve.’
The boy looked distracted.
‘You’re a young boy and you seek guidance. Ah, I remember,’ recalled the man wistfully.
‘What can you tell me?’ asked the boy.
Before an answer could be given Mrs. McGregor appeared again at the foot of the tree. She had heard two voices from her window but could see only one boy.
‘Go away! Go away!’ ‘Tell her son, that’s it. Tell her.’
‘Leave us alone!’ ‘Leave him be. Leave us!’
‘I can tell you why you feel so miserable about the death of that bird,’ the man replied. ‘I can tell you why you cling to that bird’s feathers and why you are still clinging to them now.’
The boy frowned.
‘I think we know that already. I hope you’re not going to sit here and talk nonsense all day. If that’s all you’re interested in you can leave.’
‘And how exactly would I do that boy? You are I and I am you. I’m not going anywhere. You’re foolish to think so.’
‘Your hands are ugly,’ countered the boy.
‘The folly of youth! Age is never ugly. You should know that. It’s our birthday.’ (At the foot of the tree a perplexed Mrs. McGregor gave up hope of tempting the strange boy downwards).
‘I liked it best when Ma baked us a cake and Da put the candles in,’ said the boy.
‘Yes she was a good woman our mother,’ replied the man and looking at the feathers said softly, ‘she would like those, you know.’ Back through the cobbled streets and avenues the solitary boy continued the conversation. The man’s melodious voice wistfully recalled events and situations from his past which the boy could make neither head nor tail of. The man explained with a rudimentary sigh that this was because he was recalling the boy’s future.
‘It happened when you were younger and I was older?’ he enquired.
‘Yes,’ he replied.
The man told him he could remember what the boy was going to do with the crow feathers. The boy nodded. He certainly knew what he intended to do with them.
The graveyard was closer to the roadside than he thought. A strip of light from a street-lamp framed his mother’s tomb perfectly. He pulled the feathers out of his pocket and laid them slowly across her grave. He knelt there for a moment and the voice of the man stayed silent. As he separated one of the last feathers he noticed that the sly wrinkles in his hand had vanished. The boy felt confusion and called out for his companion but there was no reply.
Later, upon returning to his father’s house, he found his bed and climbed slovenly beneath the sheets. He heard a faint echo in his dreams, a slumbering voice whispering ‘you don’t need me anymore. You don’t need me anymore.’
©2006 By Rory Mc Diarmid