He came
on the last breath of a nor’easter, an apparition gathered out of the morning
mist. His form, that of a goose, but his substance of something yet unseen. She did not recognize his orange beak, nor the
pattern on his wings – feathers dark, the grey of a winter storm, but edged
faintly white. He stood in the bent
grass beneath the spruce, a study in stillness, while the morning rolled on over
the riverbank.
At
first she doubted, but there was no mistake. He was looking straight at her,
eyes pooled black with secrets. Rushes whispered, blackbirds chattered, rain
pattered off the big old spruce limbs, but still he did not move. He was
obviously the vagrant, yet poised without a quiver of fear. Was he waiting for
something, or someone? The call of a mate? A lull in the wind?
She
took a small step toward him.
He
blinked.
She
took another.
He
tipped his head aside.
She
stretched out her hand and crept slowly forward.
He
shook the droplets from his feathers and stepped out from under the tree.
She
paused and knelt in the wet grass, hand trembling out. Blackbirds quieted. The
wind caught in her throat, and all the world slowed to still.
He
walked over and laid his head in her hand, one black eye upturned.
She
could feel the warmth, the weightless intimacy of each feather, the wild wing
beating of the creature’s heart. She could feel him breathing, and somehow it
was enough for both of them.
When
she finally exhaled, he lifted his head. She met his gaze and whispered, “Hello.”
Her
voice cracked with this faltering word, the first she had spoken aloud in
weeks. And then, the wave of all that had been hit her again, like it had every
morning, the rush of an emptiness too barren for grief. But this time, though
it swept over her wholly, it receded and drew out a tiny rivulet of tears.
The
goose stood beside her till her eyes cleared. Then he shook his head and raised
wings to the sky, revealing a striking white web of plumage. With a slight nod,
he turned and waddled to the riverbank. She was sure he would fly away,
disappear as quickly as he had come, leave her there to drown with the next
storm surge. But he returned to the spruce and settled in its shelter.
She walked
down later in the day, this time with half a loaf of stale bread. He held back
until she had torn and tossed all the pieces in his direction, then made short
work of the meal.
“What
are you doing here?” she asked. He only stared until the question seemed to echo
back.
The
next morning, when she opened the door, there he stood next to the stoop, head
tipped and beak half open. This time she laughed. She went and got a fresh
loaf.
On the
third day, watching the goose parade around the yard, she picked up the phone.
“Dad?”
“Honey?
Is that you sweetheart? Are you ok? I’ve been so worried . . .”
“Dad, I
found a goose.”
“A
what?”
“A
goose. I found a goose, Dad. Well, I think it’s lost. After that big storm.
It’s not anything I’ve seen before. “
The
silence of confusion. And then, a break in the grey.
“Hold
on, let me get my book.”
On the
fourth day, the phone rang.
“Honey?
Still got your goose?”
Picking
up the old rotary from the kitchen counter, she moved to the window where she
could see the bird paddling and diving on the calm river surface.
“From what I can tell by your description –
white coverts, right? – it sounds like a Greylag. A wild goose, native to the
Old World. It must have gone off course somehow, or got blown over in a storm
current. They don’t usually travel alone. A pretty rare sighting from what I
can tell. Definitely newsworthy, among the bird world anyway. Maybe you could
get someone to come take a look?”
The
phone cord twisted in curls around her fingers. “Maybe.”
“Is he
friendly?”
“He
waits outside the back door for breakfast every morning, so yeah, I’d say so.”
“Hmm. I
wonder if he’s part of somebody’s domestic flock, or from a zoo.”
“Never
heard of anything like that around here, though him coming all the way from the
other side of the Atlantic is just as unlikely. But he seems wild to me. Even
with breakfast.”
“Well,
God knows how these creatures get around. Migratory instinct. That’s just the
scientific name for mystery. Stupid car GPS couldn’t even get me to your place
the last time . . .” Words tangled into a laugh.
She
tugged unsuccessfully at a kink in the phone cord.
“You
know, the ancient Celts figured the Holy Spirit was more like a wild goose than
a dove. For what it’s worth.”
She
gazed out at the strange bird, graceful on the water.
“Did
you read that in one of your books?”
“Yep.”
“Well,
I’ve never talked to a dove. So maybe they were on to something.”
That
night the wind blew unsettled. Out the window the old spruce swayed like a
spectre, growling at the moon. She was worried about Greylag. She must have
stood there for an hour, maybe two, staring into the dark. Finally, she flipped
the lights off and went to bed.
A
sudden cacophony startled her awake. Fighting to make sense of the pounding –
was it in her ears or without? – the sound came into focus. Geese.
She
leapt out of bed, grabbing an old sweater, and ran outside. There were hundreds
of them flying over the river, circling, calling. Dozens more were swooping
down to the water, bracing, landing and dashing the moon tipped waves. Her eyes
scanned frantic for Greylag.
All
around her swirled beating wings, honking cries, the river alive with the dance
of webbed feet. They were Canada Geese, the familiar black and white, yet here
in the moonlight they had never seemed so deafeningly wild. And she was alive
with fear and wonder and the frosty grass beneath her toes, and the storm of
feathers raged, and she stood wide and bracing and then she saw it – the eye of
the storm.
Greylag,
there on the water, wings raised, conducting the whole movement, calling down
the night. He turned and lowered his head in a quick bob. The rondo went on
till every last goose had spun through the centre and back out into the sky,
finally forming into silhouette V’s and disappearing to the south.
Greylag
stayed.
When
the noise faded at last, he swam to the bank.
She
dropped to her knees.
He came
once more and laid his head in her hand, and this time the salt river within
her burst. When all was calm again, she knew only a silver web rocking her to
sleep.
She woke
to a playful midday sun, warm in her tousled bed and the old sweater. She would
call Dad, tell him to come and identify the goose himself. Tell him to get out
the GPS and bring his books and camera. Newsworthy, he had said. She pulled on
her jeans and padded out to the kitchen. A honk sounded from the yard.
“Coming!”
she sang, tearing into a new loaf of bread. “I know I’m late.”
She
opened the door.
“Greylag?”
She threw the pieces out on the grass.
“Breakfast is ready!”
She
stuffed a chunk into her own mouth and stepped into a pair of boots. Her eyes
scanned the yard. Empty. Maybe he had decided on minnows instead. She strode
down to the river. Nothing.
“Greylag,”
she whispered, searching the clear sky.
And
then all at once her cheeks burned foolish. I’m
talking to a goose. And then, the panic. The moon, the strange dance, the strange
goose, the whole thing – a dream.
She closed
her eyes, desperate for some evidence. She had none. No pictures, no other
witnesses. Only shadows in the mist and the ravings of a sick mind.
No.
Eyes
snapped open. The tree. She crept under the ragged spruce to where the brown
grass had been flattened and formed in a gentle circle. She reached out her
hand and felt the softness, the warmth, the
real presence of what she had seen.
She
took the remaining bread, broke it, and laid it in the grass with a whisper. “Good-bye.”
She
walked to the house, went to the phone and dialed a number by heart.
“Dad?
How’s your migratory instinct today?”
~lg
