One
dark morning, young Finch wrestled and pecked through the freshly fallen wall
of snow that covered old wrinkly Evergreen. Emerging from the newly formed hole
he hopped from branch to branch. “Good morning, Mr. Evergreen, sir,” tweeted
the spry fowl.
“Humph,” grumbled the crotchety fir. “I don’t believe in
good mornings anymore,” he murmured to himself as he stretched his long,
slender limbs. Evergreen then shook his thick coat of needles causing tiny
particles of ice to explode into the air.
Finch swooped from the branches and cut through the
frigid cloud of crystals taking in sharp breaths as he gracefully spiraled down.
The cold air stabbed and pricked at his delicate lungs.
He
alighted on Willow for a moment to catch his breath and greet the frost-coated
thicket. “Good mor-”
Just
then a fierce gust came knocking Finch from Willow’s brittle branch. The small
bird tumbled and flipped through the air before disappearing into a mound of
snow and a puff of powder. The North Wind cackled and hooted with chill delight
as he passed by frolicking about the dale. A series of shrill gasps came from
the trees as he slithered by tickling their trunks as he went. At least someone
is having a good morning, thought Finch.
“Ughh!” piped Willow. “Tha-tha-that nasty fellow, kicking
up snow every which way he goes!”
“Please Mr. Willow calm down. You can’t get better when
you’re upset,” chirped Finch.
“Ya-you know, I-I-I heard him and Frost talking the other
day. Tha-they s-say they never plan on leaving. Heee, hooo,” wheezed Willow.
“Heee, hooo. Wa-why won’t Frost just la-leave me alone or k-kill me quickly?”
Finch
looked down and after a short moment peeped back. “Please, sir, try not to
think that way. If I see Bear I will tell him keep an eye out for Frost tonight.”
With that he leapt into flight and while flying away he sent one more musical
strain in Willow’s direction. “Do try and have a good day Mr. Willow. You
mustn’t let that old villain get the best of you.”
Thwok-flap-flap.
Up he pushed, high above the crowns of the now stretching conifers. “Sleep
well,” he sang to Moon who was just now settling down below the horizon. Thwok-flap-flap.
Up he pushed, high above the star-lit hills. A waterfall of diamonds crashed
into existence where the stars on the horizon and the shimmering white hill
tops met.
On the
eastern clearing a dark, jagged silhouette scarred the perfectly white landscape
and Finch spied the crumbling walls of an old hamlet. No light flickered in the
windows. No black, billowing columns escaped the tilted chimneys.
Now gently gliding in the breeze Finch had come to the
tallest summit that stood watching over the woodland. He landed in two fidgety
hops and rolled to a stop on a plump boulder.
“Ha ha, he he,” laughed Frost who had made his home upon
the stony surface during the night. “Get off! Get Off!” he cried to Finch. “Your
mangy feathers are tickling me.”
“I come here every morning, sir,” said Finch, clapping
his beak haughtily. “So why don’t you just find yourself a new home, and
preferably not on one of my friends”
“Bahh,” snooted Frost as he skulked further down the crags.
“It won’t be long before your critters are gone. Bahh!”
With a bent brow and one eye fidgeting, Finch watched to
make sure Frost was well on his way. When he was sure he would no longer be
bothered, he twisted his head toward the eastern horizon. His eyes remained
open, stretched to capacity and his heart fluttered rapidly for many minutes as
he watched. Lub dub, lub dub. Then as more minutes passed his pulse slowed.
Luub duub, luub, duub. His eye lids relaxed and his eyes gradually reduced to
their normal pea size. The stars burned more intensely than before and the dark
sky dove into even deeper pools of blackness as the sleeping Moon disappeared completely
behind the mountains. It dawned on Finch that, once again, day would not arrive.
Finch had never seen the Sun. When he was younger he
would sit up late at night and listen to Moon tell stories of the dancing
tulips in the spring when the world was moist and all life was swollen with
shades of green. Then there were the proud roses that stood erect and dignified
flaunting their petals as summer chased away the rain and children’s laughter
echoed through the hollow as they splashed in the creek. Though, nothing was
more enchanting than the tales of the Sunflowers. Oh, the Sunflowers, whose
deep brown faces and blazing manes of gold would trace an undeviating course
across the purple autumn sky. Every morning the people would wake and watch the
flowers bend with anticipation, and they would know that Sun was on his way
again. Finch imagined how wonderful it must have been.
He took one last look at the eastern horizon before
letting himself fall and catch the breeze lazily with his arched wings. Then he
turned his gaze to the field that sat just outside the abandoned hamlet like a
great white quilt. At the edge of the quilt stood a tall Elm, a wide watchtower
looking over the ancient evergreen forest. Zig-zagging slowly down from the glazed
slopes he glided toward the field, swish up, float down, swish up, float down.
Soon,
with one final swish and a plop, he landed at the base of the mighty trunk.
Sticking his round beak into the powder he burrowed down to reach the frozen soil.
He crinkled his wings and rustled his tail as he wormed about looking for Elm
seeds. Each day it seemed to take him longer than before.
After
he had collected a few, he wriggled his way to the surface and rocketed
skyward. “G’ mo’ring, E’m,” he jabbered with a beak full of seeds as he
approached Elm’s thick branches.
“A
good morning to you my dear boy,” replied Elm in a raspy voice. “I’m afraid there
isn’t much to offer this morning.”
“Oh Elm,
don’t worry,” chirped Finch after emptying the seeds onto a wide limb.
“It’s
been many years since I’ve actually produced seed and the Sparrows are down
there every morning as well.”
“Please,
don’t worry Mr. Elm. Is Grandpa Finch awake yet?”
“You
know, I’m not sure. You’ll have to go check.”
Finch leapt
and flapped once, landing on the bough above. He crept slowly into a great
opening in the thick trunk where Owl once lived before he went away. There on
top of a pile of dried Elm leaves lay a mass of feathers. Grandfather’s
rust-red wings were ruffled, and the fuzz on his small head only grew in
patches. Finch watched as he breathed heavily and trembled under the strain.
“Grandfather,” he squeaked softly.
Grandfather’s
eyes peeled open slowly. “Aye, my lad. How nice of you to come visit.”
“Grandfather,
I’m sorry but Sun did not come.”
In an
almost indistinguishable whisper came the reply. “Aye, but he will.”
“Grandfather,
you must eat,” urged Finch, with more energy in his voice. He placed the Elm
seeds gently before the old bird who made no attempt to place the seed in his
brittle beak. It had been this way for many days now. Finch would bring what
seeds he could find and Grandfather would insist that Finch use what are left
of the seeds to keep himself in good health. Finch gave two abrasive nudges pushing
the seeds towards Grandfather, his beak rasping at the bark as it moved.
“I
won’t make it,” hummed Grandfather quietly. “But you will.”
“But
Grandfa-”
“No
buts. I’ve seen the Sun. It’s your turn. You eat them lad.” Grandfather tried
to wink, but his one eye stayed shut and would not peel open again.
“Please!
Grandfather,” whimpered Finch.
Acting
as though he had not heard Finch’s insistent plea, Grandfather began to tell of
the old days in a low whisper. He recounted the times when the wide field was a
sea of bobbing crowns. Each gold wreath of the sunflowers gave unceasing praise
to the blazing orb above. Farmer would be busy in the autumn selling his crops
in the village square. People bustled around his wooden carts filled with
nature’s treasures. There were plump pumpkins, blushing yams, and freckled
potatoes all from the patches on the side of his cottage. From the thriving
orchard he collected bushels of Granny Smiths and Red Deliciouses sparkling in
the calm light like emeralds and rubies. In his labor, Farmer would call to
Grandpa Finch.
“Oh
Mr. Finch, how nice it is to see you,” he would say. “Please won’t you go to my
sunflowers and remind them to always face the sun. The children will be out of
school soon and will want to go and play among my flowers.”
Day in
and day out Farmer would greet Mr. Finch and send him to the fields to remind
the sunflowers to face the sun so that the children would be greeted by their
bright faces and vibrant petals.
One
day the sunflowers watched Farmer digging in the corner of the field closest to
the school yard. When Farmer stepped aside shaking dirt from his hands they saw
a new sunflower, taller, bigger and brighter than all the others.
“Hello!”
cried the stranger to all the other Sunflowers.
“Why,
hello,” they all responded, bobbing their brown heads in wonder. “Certainly you
are the biggest and most beautiful of all the sunflowers that we have ever
seen. Where do you come from?” they asked.
However,
before he could respond, the school bell chimed and a flood of children spilled
out of the building. “Oooo!” they squealed. “Farmer has brought a new flower!”
“It is
so tall,” said one boy.
“It is
beautiful,” said a cluster of children.
“I
love it more than all the other sunflowers,” a small pretty girl said in a melodious
voice.
The
look of wonder on the other sunflower’s faces turned to contempt. The thought
that the children no longer loved them burned within each of their leafy limbs.
“How
could Farmer bring this sunflower to our field?” they murmured amongst
themselves. “We have lived here for many years. What gives this flower the
right to take the children away from us?”
Just
then Mr. Finch darted above the bell tower and came swooping down to the
fields. He gracefully glided above all the waving yellow flames. Just like all
the previous days, he chirped and tweeted his song, reminding the sunflowers to
always face the sun.
“Humph,”
they all snorted. “We will not face the sun until Farmer removes that unwelcome
guest from our field.”
With
that, one by one, each sunflower turned to face the ground. Those closest to
the new sunflower hesitated a moment for they saw his true beauty. They looked
to the sunflower, then back at their friends, and finally they too bowed their
heads.
Many
days passed but no matter how many tweets or chirps Mr. Finch dropped from
above, the sunflowers would not look toward the sun.
“Please,”
cried the lonely sunflower in the corner of the field. “I mean you no harm. Oh,
please, follow the sun.” Only snorts came his way. Each day he watched as more
and more of his fellow sunflowers withered away to the dusty soil. Soon he was
left alone, a single stalk in a bare corner. Finally, when the wicked crows had
come from above and violently plucked nearly every seed from his beautiful face,
he too fell, and the children no longer visited the fields.
“How
can I look upon such a sight?” groaned Sun. “I cannot bear it any longer. I
must go away until I know that there will come again at least one sunflower who
will look heavenward.” So, he left the hamlet and began a long nap below the
western horizon. Soon the North Wind’s cackles littered the once fresh air, and
a trail of cold corpses followed Frost everywhere he went. The people packed
their things and moved on. When Farmer, who was the last to go, turned from his
field for the last time, all that was left were the wisps of snow scuttling
through the air and a barren Elm.
Mr.
Finch breathed in the stabbing air as he descended to the lonely corner where
the last sunflower once stood. He burrowed into the snow and did not emerge
until he had found the last seed that lay on the solid soil. With a
thwok-flap-flap Mr. Finch pushed high into the air and dove down toward Elm
cutting through wisps of icy particles. Below Elm’s thick root Mr. Finch buried
the seed, insisting that Elm keep it safe and warm.
“And
there it’s been ever since, lad,” whispered Grandpa Finch faintly as he strained
to take in another icy breath. “Now,” sighed Grandfather almost inaudibly.
“It’s, yo-your t-turn.”
Grandfather’s
eyes were latched shut again and Finch could barely see his breast rise and
fall. “Ha ha, he he,” hooted Frost who silently listened from outside the hole.
“Looks like Willow’s not the only critter I’m claiming tonight– ha ha, he he – and
it won’t be long before I have you too.”
Finch raised his left foot to avoid Frost as he came crawling
forward. Finch’s eyes flared wide. He burst from the dark shelter like a comet
then dove spiraling down in a flame of fury as he disappeared into a blanket of
snow. He shot straight down to Elm’s protruding root. He pecked and clawed at
the soil below, twitching and fluttering in a fit of rage, but Frost had
already paid a visit. Above the soil where the last sunflower seed lay buried was
a thick residue of ice. Just as Finch thought he could not expel another breath
he freed the seed from a crack in the ice.
With a chipped beak and bleeding claws, he lurched.
Thwok-flap-flap. Finch launched himself up, up from the powdered ground. He
soared to the corner nearest the dilapidated school house. As soon as Finch touched softly on the ground
he felt a blistering pain in his left foot. “Baah! Ha ha, he he,” shrieked
Frost. “You just stay put while I take care of all your wretched friends. Ha
ha, he he. Good luck planting a seed in that soil.”
Finch’s foot was sheathed in ice, chaining him
to that spot. He whimpered and squawked. He wriggled and kicked. His wings
scraped and pulled against the frost-bitten earth as he tried to escape. He
twisted and twisted until he heard a chilling snap come from his leg. He fell
to his side unable to support himself. His foot remained locked in place while
his leg lay bent at a severe angle, a broken twig in the snow. He heard Frost’s
ha ha, he he in the distance slinking
away from him.
After exhausting all his energy trying to escape, there
on the solid ground, Finch faintly prodded and poked at the ice with his worn beak
trying to cut through and place the seed in the soil below. Not even a scratch
appeared on the surface. He raised his head and looked over his body at his tortured
leg.
Below
the bend he saw a tiny dark bead forming at the mouth of a small wound. The warm drop fell to the cold surface
bursting on impact. Finch watched the ice soften slightly under the vibrant
blood. Then, with renewed energy, he curled his body, pulling his beak toward
the bruised and tender flesh. He began pulling and plucking at the thin skin
around the severed bone. Soon, instead of oozing droplets, Finch managed to
induce a steamy, red trickle, trailing from his leg. It gathered slowly at the
torn flesh and then fell, lightly sprinkling the white ice. When a hot puddle
of crimson had formed below his body Finch dropped the seed from his clutched
beak. With his snout he burrowed the seed through the pink sludge.
In the
instant the seed connected with the soft, living soil Finch noticed a brilliant
azure in the sky, a color he had never seen. Now gazing skyward, he watched the
stars melt away. A smooth touch of amber kissed the eastern horizon. Then as his
last breath escaped his breast he caught hold of a blazing pillar of wild fire,
possessing a wave of heat that turned the snow to melted gold.
That warm afternoon, after Bear discovered Finch’s cold body
in the rotten snow and the news spread through the woods, Willow wept and Elm
bowed his head.
It was not long before the tulips danced again and the
roses flaunted their summer petals once more. Then, in a certain corner of the
field, when autumn had arrived, Sun smiled down on a tender green sprout that
sprang from the fertile soil and stretched heavenward from between the hollow
ribs of a departed songbird.
