Martrö∂vindur

What stirs the mind at night?

Not the best but give me a break; I wrote it in an afternoon!

He found it researching hiking trails for the summer. 

The article was short; the kind of puff piece that usually swam at the bottom of the news sites, trying to add some bubble to the flat slew of dreariness. Most of concerned the nature trails of an old castle ground someplace up north that had been converted into a park and had been opened up to the public only recently. All that remained of the grounds was a great walled-off rectangle, which contained the original carriage house, a big wild garden and some communal plots. The nature trails were lain in loops of varying distances around the gardens and ran through the woods and fields of the original estate.

What interested him the most, however, was the brief mention of the last resident. None other than Mrs Grace Aston, widow of the late Sir Henry Aston, the well-known photographer and documentarian. Sir Aston had been an avid collector of rare birds, something Mrs Aston abhorred, and it was rumoured that after his death, she had ordered their immediate release. 

Being a birder, he felt a flush of excitement at even the remote possibility that some of them might have lingered.  

At the end of May he made the drive up alone. The wife and child had limited patience for his hobby and apart from the carriage house, which had been turned into a restaurant, there wasn’t much to see or do. For them, anyway. It was a pity, because the day was turning out to be a beaut. The sky was painted an unblemished blue and it was already warm enough to drive with the windows down the last few miles.

The parking lot was at the back of the estate. Creeping past the cars parked in the shadow of the trees, he sucked his teeth, the chance of a decent sighting growing dimmer . Halfway up the lot, spots opened up. He turned into one. This far up there was no shade afforded by the trees, which meant the elderly Volkswagen would spent the rest of the day baking under the sun. He sighed and turned off the engine.

After checking in with the wife, he got out and checked the backpack containing his supplies: food and drink, field manual and notebook, mosquito repellant, a small first aid kid, binoculars, and the Nikon. Finding everything in order, he shouldered it and started up the dappled shadow trail leading to the entrance of the gardens.

The wrought iron gate gave a sharp squeal as he opened it, making him cringe. Beyond, a profusion of green swayed in the soft breeze. A small cardboard sign on the door read:

Go ahead and see the sight

Remember: the door is shut at night

Gratefully we thank you for

Promptly closing the door

Smiling, he did what the note said, fumbling with the strange locking mechanism until it caught with a resounding clang. Two people sitting on a bench swing against the wall looked at him and he offered them an apologetic grin, before turning to explore the garden.

The article hadn’t exaggerated; the place was beautiful. While they characterised it as a ‘wild garden’, some structure could be discerned: most of the shrubs and flowers had once been planted in plots laid out in some geometric design drawn by the pathways. But now nature had taken the reigns. Great patches of lavender and cow parsley bloomed between cleaver and creeping buttercups. Along the path that followed the old brick wall, huge hydrangeas grew pink and white flowers. The communal plots had everything from potatoes to strawberries, and along the far wall there was an herb garden and some makeshift green houses that exhaled a hot green breath he couldn’t stand for long.

In front of the carriage house, a man was raking the crushed stone. As he approached the man looked up, showed him a face full of hard work and life’s hardships. Listening to his question, he used one arm to wipe the sweat from his brow. His mouth twisted.

“Birds is up there,” he said, hoisting a thumb over his shoulder towards the restaurant. “In the fields. We don’t want ‘em in here.” 

“Have you heard about any rare ones, by any chance?”

The man paused mid-rake. “Don’t know. Don’t care. All they do’s muck up the gardens. Winged pests is all they are.”

He shifted the pack. Made to leave, then caught himself. “You do know birds have been here longer than we have and are likely to be here long after we’ve gone, don’t you?”

The man straightened, put his hands on the handle. “Tell you what. You bring all as birds you can find out there and bring ‘em. We’ll see whose like to still be here afterwards.”

He watched as the man bent back to his work. 

The sounds of steel raking dirt followed him to the studded oak door next to the carriage house and into the fields beyond. The crushed stone path stretched away in a lazy curve amid the knee length grasses. In the distance, he could make out the woods. Across the rolling field, tiny figures walked the path in the opposite direction. Beyond, he could make out the somber silhouette of a church. Or a chapel. Between it and the walkers, a fence of some kind ruined the view.

He adjusted the pack again and began to walk. First he’d need to find a good spotting location. Then he’d have a spot of lunch. And something to drink. He wiped the sweat off his forehead. Christ, it was hot out here! And not even quarter past eleven.

He almost made a complete circuit before he found what he was looking for. A shaded spot a half mile or so from the walls of the garden, overlooking the field and what turned out to be a small chapel. A few lone trees studded the open space. Halfway down the slope was a big bird stand— apparently, someone around here still cared. 

The only thing that bothered him was the chainlink fence that ran along the edge of the property. He definitely wasn’t crazy about the loops of razor wire atop it; no doubt a remnant of the old estate. 

After unpacking his attributes, he had lunch. Every now and then a flutter made him grab for the binoculars. But most of these turned out to be nothing special. Magpies, a few pigeons, some chews. At some point, a scattering of black exploded from the tall grass. Ravens, six of them, climbed up into the blue.

Bad omen, he thought. The smile came down with the binoculars.

The day crept on. The journal remained empty. The camera stood nearby, its lens cap firmly on. Doubt began to set in. He’d told himself it was by no means a guarantee. Still, the disappointment was tough to swallow. Staring at the empty bird stand, the bitter twist to his mouth mirrored that of the garden’s caretaker.

Around four, he was ready to pack it in. What a waste this day had turned out to be! And he hadn’t even taken the time to enjoy the sights. Well, it was too late now. Maybe he could still have something to drink at the carriage house before he hit the road but—

His thoughts broke off as he caught a bright streak from the corner of his eye. Turning, his heart leapt. It floated across the field like a multicoloured kite. Was it— could it be—

Trembling fingers reached for the binoculars. It leapt closer. Excitement steamed behind his pressed lips. It was. It really was. A Scarlet Macaw. 

He made the observation. Had to force himself to pause twice because his hands kept shaking. 

He was barely finished before he caught sight of another. 

This one took his breath away. He didn’t believe it, not even when the guide was telling him it was the truth. A Western Meadowlark. Here. He almost didn’t have the strength to lift the camera for the shot.

Hours passed without notice. An Ivory Gull, a Stellar Eider, and an honest-to-goodness Short-tailed Albatross made their introductions. His head swam with the day’s discoveries, all rare birds that most members of the society would have killed to have merely glimpsed. And he had complete observations on them all.

And the day was not over yet. He could feel the potential in the field before him; the marvellous sights that awaited. It wasn’t long before the next one appeared. A Russian Heron. He drank it in through the magnified glasses, mouth open with speechless wonder.

When he’d finished his latest observation, he became aware of the failing light. Pawing at his wrist, he saw that it was almost ten. His wife was going to be worried sick! He patted his pockets for his cellphone, dug through the contents of the backpack. It wasn’t there. He must’ve left it in the car! Stupid.

As quick as he could, he filled the pack. It was miles back to the parking lot. If he didn’t hustle, it would be full dark before he got there. Sparing one last hungry look for the stand, he turned and began to speed-walk up down the path. I’ll be back, he thought. I’ll be back soon.

While he travelled, he watched with regret as wings took flight. He thought he spotted a rare owl. Halfway down he heard the haunting cry of a loon. He gave a wounded cry back. Next time. Next time for sure.

As he caught sight of the closed door, his heart dropped. 

He rushed over, yanked the handle. Pushed at the heavy studded wood. But it wouldn’t budge. Too late the note on the gate came back to him: Remember: at night the door is shut.

Remember.

To the left and right, the wall lost itself in the thorn thickets. Looking up, he thought of wings and let out a bitter breath of laughter.

“Son of a bitch.” 

Okay, okay. Just— turn back and find another way around. Maybe you can get to the parking lot from the other side. There weren’t any thorn bushes up there, were there?

He bit his lip. He couldn’t remember. He’d been so focused on a good spot that he hadn’t paid much attention to the surroundings. Maybe— not?

In the end it didn’t make much difference. Turning his back on the wall, he started back up the path for the third time. 

Third time’s the charm.

He smiled. Glancing up at the sky made it wilt. The light was almost gone now, deepening towards cobalt. In another fifteen minutes or so, it would be dark.

This time, there were no birds to keep him company, only the crunch of his own footsteps on the path. That, and the stiff breeze hissing through the tall grass. Now that the sun was gone, the May air couldn’t hold the day’s heat. He shivered, wishing he’d brought a jacket.

It was so quiet out here. Even for someone who loved to be out in nature, the silence was unnerving. It pressed against his eardrums, seeming to expand. A stillness that was almost expectant. 

He shivered again. Picked up the pace. His gritting footfalls hurried along. 

Up ahead the woods waited. He looked off across the field where the path would be waiting but he couldn’t make it out. The light was almost gone now.

Beneath the canopy, night had fallen.

He pushed ahead.

Inside, sounds condensed, clung tight to him. His hairs stood at attention, listening to the rustle of the leaves. He jumped at a furtive movement in the thicket. When his foot struck a root, he nearly screamed.

Get a grip. What’s wrong with you?

He didn’t know. All he knew was that he was terrified. 

His heart pound slow and hard as he walked along, every noise sending a little spike through his forearms. Breath became a shallow staccato. His eyes flitted around, finding only darkness.

A wave of relief washed over him as he rounded a bend and caught sight of the fields. A pale moon had risen, painting the world in blues and silver. He picked up the pace again.

Just as he reached the exit, he heard it. A stirring in the leaves above him. 

He froze, waiting.

There came another rustling. This time the branches shook, sending twigs and leaves down in his face.

Before he knew it, he was running down the path, legs pumping. Behind, he heard something exploded from the canopy. Something big.

He stumbled, almost went down. Managed to keep going. The backpack bounced up and down, not helping matters any. The only sound was his own ragged breath until he became aware of another noise. Something like a sheet clappering on a clothesline, growing closer. Closer—

He ducked on instinct. It brushed the top of his head as it swooped down. The scent it left in its wake was rank sweat and metal. He thought of endless December nights spent beneath the covers, afraid to look out the window at a pale and hungry face.

A whining sound escaped his throat.

This isn’t real. This isn’t real. This isn’t real.

He searched the sky. But all he found was the cold, uncaring eye of the moon. 

The path curved. He was almost at the bird stand again. And then maybe, maybe—

His mouth full electric spit, he managed to speed up. There! There was the spot he spent the day looking at birds, filling up a journal that he’d wanted to show off at the society. All that had lost all meaning now that life had turned upside down.

Beyond, the path ran curved towards the wall. Yes! No sign of the thorn thickets. And—

His thoughts broke off as a ragged piece of night wheeled in the sky up ahead. For a heartbeat, it hung into the air like a cross, its wingspan dizzying. Then it swooped down and dropped down on the top of the wall, its scrabbling talons sending bits of brick crumbling down. 

He skidded to a stop, heart hammering against his chest.

His eyes bulged, looking at the peeling skull, the beak the color of raw meat.  

On the wall sat the rarest bird of all. It wouldn’t be in any journal, but he knew its name all the same, forgotten in the sweet oblivion of sleep, now remembered.

Twitching its head, one bloody bubble of an eye regarded him. His bladder let go, sending hot urine down his leg. He didn’t even notice. He was caught in Martrö∂vindur’s gaze. Swept up on the wings that disturbed the surface of sleep.

On its perch, the nightmare wind buried its beak in its feathers.

When he moved, the blade pinned him in place.

The flesh of its beak spread like stretching dough. The sound that came from its throat was the screams of a thousand nightmares shattering.

In a fluttering rush, it took flight.

Gibbering, he turned. He ran. All of it with the agonising slowness of dreams. 

Even so, he almost made it. Would have made it, perhaps. 

If not for the razor wire.

Hanging upside down in its steely clutches, he bleeded and sobbed, as Martrö∂vindur whipped the air with the stench of terror. 

So long it had been forced to feed on the sleepers. It had nearly forgotten the pleasures of the waking mind.

Gently, the nightmare wind settled.

The night was his. And it had only just begun.

---

The doctor came upon her pushing him in the wheelchair. “Going for a walk, are we?”

“Yes,” the wife said. “He used to love going for walks— you know, before.”

“Don’t give up hope,” the doctor said. “These things take time.”

She nodded, wiped at the tears. A shaky smile fought for purchase. “Yes. Thank you, doctor.”

“What do you say, Seanie?” she said, bending close to his ear. “You want to go see the birds?”

Sean didn’t answer. Dark wings moved endlessly, throwing ever more disturbing shadows on the walls of his mind. His mouth couldn’t begin to describe them.