The Magic Cottage

RETURN VISIT

"MIKE, COME on, wake up!"

I'm not sure how uncivil my response was, but it didn't stop the hand tugging at my shoulder. I opened my eyes and daylight trampled in.

"Mike, I want you to see," Midge persisted.

Her face was close to mine and looking considerably brighter than it had the night before. In fact, Midge fairly bristled with life and her touch must have sent volts shooting into me because I came alive in a rush. This was the second morning I'd awoken feeling vital and refreshed and, as already stated, this wasn't my usual condition at all. I was becoming a born-again early riser.

I pulled her down on top of me and she laughingly resisted.

"No, I want you to come down and see!" She pulled away and grabbed my robe draped over a chair, tossing it at me and sweeping back the bedcovers.

I swung my legs over the edge and slid my arms through the sleeves of the robe. "You mind telling me what all the excitement's about?" I groused, but faking it.

"You'll see."

She was laughing and tugging at me, drawing me from the bed and toward the door. The white nightshirt she wore (one of my old collarless shirts with the sleeves rolled up) flapped loosely around her bare legs, a pleasing sight first thing in the morning.

"Nice day again," I observed as we passed by the window. Our friendly neighborhood birds were making their presence known.

"Every day is nice here."

I saw no gain in pointing out that we'd only been resident for two days, and allowed myself to be hauled to the stairs.

"Oh, Gudgeon, this'd better be good." The stair carpet we'd had laid before moving in was soft and springy beneath my bare feet, but the wood underneath was good and firm. O'Malley had missed nothing.

We reached the kitchen/dining area and Midge stood aside, waving me through. Hands in my robe pockets, I stood there expectantly. The room looked exactly the same to me.

I turned to say something to Midge when a fluttering of wings made me jump. The bird flew across the room and landed on top of the sideboard. It chirped a greeting or a warning, I'm not sure which.

"How did that get in here?" I'd already noted the window was still closed.

"He's the mistle thrush, stupid. He's the one who had the broken wing yesterday!"

I gaped at her, then at the bird, which was jauntily hopping along the sideboard top. It launched itself into the air again to find another perch over the window.

"That isn't possible, Midge. It can't be the same."

Midge laughed, pleased by my incredulity. "Check the box. You won't find the thrush in there."

"But it isn't possible," I repeated, actually going over to the cardboard box, which was still tucked away in a corner. The mistle thrush over the window begged to differ by flying onto the table where there was a pile of breadcrumbs, presumably put there earlier by Midge. The bird pecked at them, its appetite as healthy as its wing.

"Midge," I warned. "Are you having a sly joke with me? Is this one of your friends from outside?"

"I promise you, Mike, he's the same bird. Isn't it fantastic!"

"I don't believe it." I was shaking my head, watching the thrush and still suspecting I was being fooled. "There's no way, Midge—no way— that its wing could have mended overnight. As a matter of fact, the break was so bad I thought the bird would be dead this morning."

"You were wrong." Midge moved toward the table and our robust friend stopped pecking to watch her. She picked up a crumb and held it toward the bird who, to my amazement, beaked it from her fingers, showing no fear whatsoever.

One bird looks much the same as another if they're of a breed, so I couldn't tell if this really was our patient or not. But the question still begged, of course: If this was a different thrush where was the injured one? It was then I noticed one wing was ragged, feathers missing, and something went cold inside me. Now I was convinced. This was the original thrush all right, but its remarkable recovery made no sense. Surely we couldn't have been that wrong about its condition yesterday?

I suppose this was the point where my underlying uneasiness over several aspects of Gramarye began to move onto a more conscious level. Nothing definite, just a vague sense of disquiet over a culmination of things, none of which I could pinpoint precisely to say: "Hey, this is totally bizarre." If any of these had been bad, or at least were completely inexplicable, then I'd have been a mite anxious. You see, it was just possible that the bird's wing had been locked into a grotesque position the day before and had worked itself free overnight (again the old brain reasoning where there wasn't much reason). And the rest—well, what was the rest? Good music, glorious lovemaking (true recollection of the previous night's experience had already dimmed), a crack in the stone lintel that hadn't been a crack at all. Certainly there were good vibes from the place, particularly from the round room, but what did that mean in itself? We were in love and this was our first proper home. The curved walls of the round room caught the sun's rays so that a serene warmth literally exuded from them. There really was no more than that. And yet. And yet . . .

The mistle thrush was now perched on Midge's hand and trilling happily. Doubts were eased aside as Midge's joy touched me. Her eyes were vibrant with contained excitement as she spoke soothingly to the small creature, who answered her in kind. She slowly raised her hand so that the thrush was level with her face, then blew a soft breath toward it, ruffling feathers only slightly, causing the bird to blink.

I watched entranced as Midge smoothly walked to the door, her bare feet silent on the quarry tiles. She turned her head toward me and whispered, "Mike . . ."

Equally cautious, I went to the door and drew back the bolts, making as little noise as possible. The bird seemed oblivious to me. Twisting the key in the lock, I quietly pulled open the door and Midge moved forward to stand on the step.

Lifting her hand high, she said, "Off you go. Find your family and say hello from me."

The thrush appeared reluctant to leave, but Midge dipped her hand so that the bird's wings fluttered and it was airborne. It soared high above the garden, calling fiercely and swooping down over Midge's head. The thrush skimmed across the flowerbeds, then rose once more into the air heading back into the woods from where it had been rescued.

Midge clapped her hands in delight and I stood next to her on the step, an arm around her shoulders, wearing a grin and cheering the bird on. When it was gone I hugged Midge and mussed her hair.

"Did you really do that?" I asked.

"It was his idea to climb onto my hand."

"I meant its wing . . ."

She shook her head, eyes still full of shining. "He did that all by himself. It was his own magic."

The word "magic" again, the second time she'd unselfconsciously used it since we'd moved in. I opened my mouth to speak when the doorstep was abruptly besieged by other birds, all noisily demanding breakfast. We ducked inside, away from the squawking, Midge making for the wrapped loaf on the table and taking out a handful of slices.

"Okay, you guys," she called, returning to the doorway, "there's plenty for all, so little ones first."

They refused to form a queue, but not even the smallest sparrow was intimidated by any of the big chiefs: they rushed together in a mad mêlée of feathers and screeching, the nimblest fleeing the throng with prizes in beaks.

I left Midge to the feeding of the multitude and went upstairs to shave, my thoughts dogged by the thrush's "miraculous" recovery. The wing had to have unlocked itself, there really was no other explanation. I was back downstairs again within ten minutes, and muesli and toast with strong coffee was there on the table waiting for me, a single rose, freshly picked from the garden, in a tiny china vase brightening the breakfast setting. Brightening the room considerably more was Midge's beaming face.

There were still one or two birds loitering around the doorstep as if daring one another to venture in, but the majority had disbanded to fly off and do whatever it is birds do all day.

As I buttered toast, I said, "I still can't figure it out. That bird looked pretty sick to me yesterday."

Midge sipped coffee before replying. "What does it matter? His wing healed, that's the main thing, so why worry over how?"

And she meant it. In fact, I got the impression that she didn't want the cure questioned, that she had no wish to delve any further. I shrugged, prepared to let it go, having semi-accepted my own "unlocked bones" theory anyway. Flimsy, but it would suffice.

"Plans for today?" Midge inquired, the subject already dismissed from her mind. She looked small and childlike in my oversized converted shirt.

"Uh, some investigations first," I told her, and she raised her eybrows. "I heard noises coming from the loft last night."

"You thought there were birds nesting in the eaves."

"Yeah, that was yesterday afternoon. This was something moving around in the middle of the night when all good little birds are sound asleep."

She was slightly alarmed. "D'you have any idea what it could be?"

"Not really, but I'm sure as hell gonna find out this morning, in daylight. I don't want to lie in the dark with my imagination running loose again."

"You should have woken me."

"I didn't like to disturb you." I munched toast.

Midge came around to my side of the table and pushed herself onto my lap, making me scrape back the chair to accommodate her. She pecked my forehead.

"Want me to come up to the loft with you?" she asked, and I didn't miss the trace of mockery in her tone.

"And have you get hysterical if we find mice?" I shook my head and added stout-heartedly, "I'll go it alone, thank you." Things never seemed quite so threatening in daylight.

"You know mice don't frighten me. Still, there's a lot of scrubbing and cleaning to be done, so the sooner I make a start the better. I think O'Malley's men created more mess than they shifted."

"Aah, they were pretty good, considering. They certainly put the cottage back in shape, even though we've got a fair amount of painting and decorating to do ourselves. Less than I imagined on our first recce, though. Any ideas on how you'd like the round room done? That's the important one."

She frowned. "I like it exactly as it is. I don't think we should change anything."

"Up to you. It's in good condition, I'll admit that. Maybe Flora had the room redecorated just before she, uh, she passed on."

"We'll need curtains, perhaps white or beige—all the color we need comes from the sun. Have you noticed how the walls change throughout the day?"

"Yeah, from bright white-yellow in the morning to fiery gold at sunset. Then that warm red just after the sun's gone. They've got a life of their own, like that big rock in Australia that's always changing color."

"Ayers Rock. They say it has mystical qualities . . ."

"Who say?"

"The aborigines."

"The aborigines have seen the round room?"

My nose took its usual tweaking (I swear it was a different shape before I met Midge).

"What do I have to do to get a serious conversation out of you nowadays?" she said, pouting.

"Talk about me?" I suggested, gingerly remolding my released nose.

"Boring," she droned.

My hand was up inside the nightshirt and fingers poised around the side of her lower ribs before she had a chance to move. "Boring?" I asked.

"No, Mike! You know I can't stand that!"

I nodded and squeezed, sudden and hard, rigid fingers finding those ticklish zones between ribs. With a shriek she leapt two or three inches off my lap, but my other hand held her down again.

"Boring?" I repeated with a pleasant smile.

"Mike, please, you know—"

My fingers twitched spasmodically, showing no mercy, and she jumped again to land squirming in my lap, hiccuping with her own laughter as I kept probing.

"Mike, noooo!"

"Did you say boring?"

"No, no! Interesting! No—exciting! Yes, exciting! The most . . . Mike! . . . ex—exciting . . . no, fascinating . . . person . . . I've . . . stop it, Mike, please no more . . ."

I could barely hold her there, slight though she was, and I was laughing almost as much as her. Her legs flailed the air and soon she was slipping from my lap, nightshirt rising as she sank.

She screamed when her naked bottom touched the quarry tiles. "It's cold! Oh you bast. . ." The rest was unintelligible amid the laughter.

I buried my face in her hair, hands sliding down her body to clasp together beneath her breasts. The memory of last night's lovemaking was not too far from my thoughts as I nuzzled her ear. My teeth gently nipped at her neck.

"Well hello again," she said brightly.

It wasn't the response I'd expected. I looked up and saw she had been greeting another caller at the door. Our friendly neighborhood squirrel was grinning at our fun from the open doorway.

"Come on in," I invited the animal, noticing Midge modestly pulling the nightshirt down over her thighs. "This is Open House, no tickets for admission."

The squirrel looked uncertain.

"Hush, Mike," warned Midge, "you'll frighten him. Come on, little 'un, pay no mind to this big old ugly brute behind me. Snarl and he'll hide under the table."

It hopped inside. Another hop and it was only a couple of feet away from Midge's wriggling toes. I think my eyebrows must have touched my hairline in surprise. Midge giggled as the squirrel chattered.

"Yes, I know he looks like a big bad bear with toothache, but he's very nice once you get to know him," she told the noisy mite.

It looked at me and then at her, and then at me again. I gave it my best smile and the squirrel's tail swished in annoyance.

"Hey, I live here, y'know," I said, then wondered what the hell I was doing. Talking to a squirrel? The boys in the bands had said I'd flip outside my natural environment. The animal jerked its tufty head in funny little ducking movements, narrow shoulders hunching up, and to me it looked like it was chortling.

"This guy's got no respect," I complained to Midge.

"He's the same squirrel who came visiting yesterday," she said thoughtfully.

"Didn't that one look more Jewish?"

She banged my sneaker with the heel of her fist, hurting my toes.

"Come on, Midge, how can you tell? They all look alike. And how d'you know it's a he, anyway?"

"I just know. He's got a personality all his own."

She put her hands on my knees and levered herself up from the floor. "Let's find something for you to eat, eh?" she said to the squirrel, who appeared pleased with the idea; without further bidding, it leapt onto the table and chattered all the more. Midge broke off some of my toast and offered the piece to our intruder. Showing no timidity whatsoever, it skipped forward and grasped the toast in its tiny paws, licking at the butter first, not even backing away once it had started nibbling.

"I don't believe this," I said as I rested an elbow on the edge of the table, palm supporting my chin.

"Neither do I. Red squirrels are rarely this tame, unlike the gray."

"Red . . .? Midge, no outdoor animal is tame. I mean, maybe in zoos and things, but not out here in the wild."

"Could be that they got used to Flora. I bet she'd been feeding generation after generation of animals hereabouts. Look how the birds were at the window on our first morning here. It's almost as if this place is a natural habitat for them, part of their own forest."

"The local fast-food counter, you mean. I can understand how it's popular. The problem is, how long before they start messing up our cozy country retreat? They could do some damage."

"Oh, Mike, the birds, the squirrels, and any other animal that cares to wander through, are as much a part of Gramarye as are we. Don't forget, they were here before us." She lowered herself, bending her knees and balancing on the balls of her feet, hands resting on my knees. "We've got to adapt to them, Mike, don't you see? Feed them and help them survive. Treat them as friends."

"I draw the line at snakes and lizards."

She smiled. "I'll allow you to close the door on rats as well."

That reminded me I had some investigating to do. I leaned forward and kissed her lips, conscious of the squirrel gnawing toast while observing us.

"Voyeur," I called it when Midge and I parted. "Okay, Pixie, all creatures great and small are welcome here, so long as they're not too great and not small enough to bore holes in woodwork. Deal?"

"I don't know what you're expecting—so far we've only had a bird and a squirrel inside the house—but okay, it's a deal. Elephants and woodworm are out."

We shook hands on it and I winked at the squirrel. "All right, Rumbo, you're in. But don't get me jealous or mad."

Midge laughed. "Why Rumbo?"

"I don't know. He just looks like a Rumbo, doesn't he? More like a Rumbo than a Rambo, anyway."

The squirrel jerked its head convulsively, tiny shoulders juddering, its chattering like laughter. Which Midge found hysterically funny.

"I think he agrees," she said between giggles.

"Yeah, a real clown," I said drily. I stood slowly, careful not to startle our chuckling guest. "This man's got work to do."

"So's this woman."

"You think he'll mind eating alone?" Now he had a name, Rumbo was no longer an "it" to me.

"I suggested we make friends with the animals, not pander to them. He can make his own conversation."

So we left him there feeding quite happily, Midge departing for the sink next door and me, after taking a flashlight from a downstairs cupboard, for the loft. I felt cheered as I climbed the stairs, glad to be alive and glad to be in love, musing over how real love has constant moments of absolute freshness, as if you've only just fallen, the realization always exciting, always absorbing. We'd got to know each other—I mean, really know—Midge and I, but we'd never got too used to one another, had never become complacent. Don't get me wrong—our relationship hasn't always been as rosy as the picture I'm painting here; in fact, there have been some very stormy patches, times when we've come close to break-up. Fortunately, we've always managed to see sense at the same time and come to terms with the other's faults (or point of view, as Midge would have it). No false modesty here: we both have our own special talents in music and art, and have you ever known any talented person not to possess a streak of temperament? Goes with the territory, as they say. I'm not talking about arrogance or ego, but the single-minded drive within to get things right (to their way of thinking, of course) and the frustrations that quickly develop when those things aren't so. They're the times when the nearest person to you takes the brunt and has to learn to duck and weave, or just talk plain sense. We'd learned with each other over the years. We'd also learned not to take our respective selves too seriously, a bonus if you're aware of that before you're too old for it to matter.

Resisting the temptation to pick up a guitar, knowing the morning would be gone if I did, I approached the chair left standing directly beneath the loft hatch the day before. The flashlight worked fine, the chair was steady, the hatch cover was waiting: time to make my move.

So why was I hesitating?

Maybe I should have brought the stepladder up with me; climbing to the loft would have been much easier. No, the ceiling wasn't high; the chair would do.

There were no noises up there now so perhaps the problem had gone away. Still no reason not to take a look-see.

I was being sissy and I knew it. Yet something was telling me I really didn't want to look into that loft. Could be that there's a tiny compartment in everyone's mind where the future exists here and now, where archives of events yet to come are kept, where the record keeper (who is, after all, oneself) occasionally slips a hint beneath the sealed door. Could be. Such things are a mystery to me as I'm sure they are to you; all I know is that the urge to back away, to retreat down the stairs and invent some excuses for not going into the loft, was immense.

Come on, Stringer, I scolded myself, get up there and rout some rats, unless you want to face derision and disgrace. Still I hesitated, eyes locked on the hatchway: derision and disgrace weren't so bad.

Common sense prevailed, the pragmatist in me won the day; I stepped onto the chair and switched on the flashlight. With one hand I pushed up the hatch—only a couple of inches, though. No menacing eyes peered down at me through the gap, nothing shifted, nothing "snuffled liquidly." All was still and quiet. Feeling a fraction bolder, I widened the opening and shone the light through, standing on tip-toe to try and peek over the edge. I couldn't quite make it, but I was sure there was a small amount of daylight coming from low down. I switched off the flashlight to check and then was certain that daylight was coming through the eaves around the roof.

There was the answer: birds had squeezed in and had made a nice protective aviary out of the rooftop. Maybe last night they'd decided to throw a party to celebrate. I switched on the light again and swung the hatch back as far as it would go, my hand sliding toward the base the wider it opened. Finally, the hatch overbalanced and fell backward, only a little way, though, something behind catching it with a bump.

Putting the flashlight over the lip, I grabbed the sides and pulled myself up; what I lacked in athletic style I made up for in curses as I hauled myself into the loft, white sneakers kicking empty space below like demented doves. Resting on the edge, feet dangling, I caught my breath and immediately regretted the inhalation. The air up there was foul, a kind of acidy stench wrinkling my nose.

"Jesus," I said aloud and I thought I heard a movement not too far away.

The light was pointing to one side, but I could still make out the dim shapes of rafters and crossbeams. There were no holes in the roof itself, the builders obviously having done their job well. But I could just see something else on the crossbeams, dark objects, unclear in the gloom. They seemed to be hanging from the timbers and with a shudder I noticed there were more—many more—on the sloping rafters.

I knew what they were but I reached for the flashlight anyway and shone the beam upward. I felt a trembly revulsion when I saw what seemed like hundreds of dark little furry bodies hanging upside down like withered fruit on branches, all crammed into the loft space and filling it with their stench.

Even as I watched, a wing twitched, stretched outward in a quivering movement, then tucked back into the dark body.

"Oh God," I murmured, frozen there. In the still silence, I imagined I could hear their tiny heartbeats, pulsating as one, a regular rhythm that unified the creatures, gave them mass.

I was shivering when I quietly lowered myself from the loft, afraid that the slightest sound would send the bats into a mad frenzy of shrieks and fluttering wings.