The Window Story (II)

Here is the second part of the Window Story. Pieces of the allegory that don't quite fit with the first, you'll have to excuse, assume that the island is in the middle of the big lake mentioned in part I.

Look down at that small island. Do you see it? It’s the one with the forest on it... yes, that’s it. And if you look right along the edge of this beach, you can see her standing here: the girl with the dark hair and deep red wings. She flew here, traveling from far away, from the town she grew up in. But now she cannot fly: the air is perfectly still, as calm and smooth as it has been for a few months. She is patient and will wait for her wind to come back so that she can finish her journey. Besides, there are things she must do while she waits.

She walks away from the beach towards a trail almost hidden from view. As she avoids stepping on the tough oat grasses, her bare feet leave dimples in the sand dunes. Her wings are folded close to her back, the tips of their black-red feathers almost brush the ground. The small trail weaves through the ever-denser pine trees and small palm fronds and curves around a pool of clear water. Eventually it branches off towards a small house.

Since she landed here two moths ago, she has planted a garden and is trying to keep up with her studies. There are other homes and other people on the island, but few are close enough to her to become her friends because everyone is so occupied with their travels. A few good friends will visit her often. They usually spend time chatting or working together. But as far as she knows, she is the only permanent resident of the island; she is the only one stuck here, waiting for her wind.

She misses the simplicity of life in her hometown; her rose garden, the hummingbirds and butterflies, her childhood friendships that were filled with carefree laughter: she misses talking to the Wing Man. But more than anything she has ever known, she misses flying. She loves her wings and stubbornly refuses to put them away, even though there is no wind to fly with. She wears them, letting them hang down her back, absorbing the sunshine.

She has grown to love the little island, it’s busy traffic of travelers coming and going, the beaches, the clear, white sun. There is, however, one place she avoids; the cliff. Just like in her hometown, the cliff overlooks a steep drop into the black sea, but she doesn’t avoid it for that reason alone. She avoids it because it reminds her of what it felt like to take off, to finally leave the ground. Being near it makes her wings ache. She longs for the familiar twisting pain that pinches her back when she spreads her feathers to the wind, for the power that rushes out to her wings.

Everything that has to do with cliffs or flying or even wings; her sketches and stories and poems, have all been locked in a chest in her bedroom closet. But sometimes, on dark nights when she can’t sleep, or when restlessness settles in on her heart, she will pull them out. She will write again. And then she’ll push them back into the chest and relock it.

But now it is morning, and she is walking home from the beach. The shade of the trees feels cool and mimics a breeze. She carefully pushes her wings from her back just enough to stretch them in the cool air. She hums a little and sighs as she steps around an uprooted tree whose twisted roots stretch high into the air. She trips a little as she carefully ducks her wings under after her. Reaching out to catch herself, she yells out and falls right into a man on the other side of the fallen tree.

“Ow… oh, I am so sorry!” The man just stares at her. “I just tripped and I totally knocked you over. I’m so sorry!”

“I can see that.” He is middle aged and is carrying a large bag.

“I really should just move that tree: in fact, I’d better’d do it now. Well, actually it’s a little big…” She sizes up the tree and realizes that it is half buried anyway.

The man scratches his moustache a bit and shakes his head, attempting to clear the shock off of his face. “I’m not totally convinced it was just the tree. Why are you walking around with such cumbersome wings? Why not fly… or take them off or something?”

“I… I like them. But I…”

He sighs and cocks his eyebrow, “You don’t have any wind?”

“Well, no. Not now.” She looks at him, wondering how he can tell.

“Why don’t you get a new pair?”

“A new pair of wings?”

“Yes.”

“There is no Wing Man on this island.”

“There is now.” He puffs out his chest a bit.

“Wait… you’re a Wing Man?”

“Yes.” She looks at his bag again and he turns from where he is sitting on the ground and begins to undo a series of ties at the top. He has a large pair of wings too. His are not made of feathers, but of a sheer iridescent material; like a thin sheet of mother of pearl. The veins that stretch through them are easily visible, and while they catch the scattered light beautifully, it makes them look rather fragile.

“My great-uncle is a Wing Man and he has taught me his trade. I’m rather young for a Wing Man, I know, but I was able to learn all that I needed in a short amount of time. I left my great-uncle’s forge, and I decided to settle here. You see, I’ve developed a different kind of wing. They are lighter and a little faster to make.” He is finally able to open his bag. “But they are so new…”

He digs around in his bag for a moment before drawing out a pair of his new wings. They are beautiful. A deep sky blue swirled with a shimmering green, sculpted into the graceful wing shapes of a dragonfly.

“They are amazing. Can I touch them?”

“Yes, of course.”

They feel like cold skin, but smoother. They give in to her touch although they are pulled tight over the veins. As she grazes her fingers over them she feels a breeze pass over them: they tremble, aching for the sky. Suddenly all of her memories of the cliff, the Wing Man, flying… her memories of the wind crash upon her. She breathes in slowly and the smell of the wind fills her. But it feels foreign.

“Would you like them?” The young Wing Man offers them to her.

“Oh, I… I don’t know...”

“Come on, take them! You can go down to the cliff and try them out. You’ll be able to fly again!” He smiles at her, but she is still wary.

She sighs, “Well, alright then. I suppose I could use some good wind.” She takes them gently from him.

“Here, let me help you trade them out.”

“I, oh… okay.” He gently takes off her large red feather wings and places the dragonfly ones on her back.

“Well? What do you think?”

“Oh… they are lovely…” She can barely feel them they are so light. In the corners of her eyes she can see them bouncing the light onto the trees.

He grins proudly. “Oh, I’m so glad you like them.” She tries to smile.

“Well, I do hope you enjoy them. I suppose I’ll be off to find other wingless people now.”

“Oh, yes. Thank you very much.”

“Do tell me how they work for you!”

“I’ll be sure to do that.”

They say their goodbyes and continue on their ways. She carries her red wings in her arms, close to her heart. They feel so much heavier than the wings on her back. She wonders how the dragonfly wings will hold her up. It’s so strange that the young Wing Man was so eager to give his wings away. How could he know who she was, or which wings she would need? But he must have been taught everything his great-uncle knew so he would have just known… Worried thoughts circle around in her head and before she realizes how far she is walking, she is coming upon the back edge of the woods. She knows she can’t really let herself fly off the cliff, but then she wouldn’t have anything to tell the Wing Man. These wings; they aren’t hers; she has a pair, a perfectly beautiful, durable pair. And she has her familiar wind… it’s just not here… She knows the Wing Man meant well, but she can’t accept them. Still she keeps walking towards the cliff.

She grasps her red wings and doesn’t slow her pace. This wind… it feels better than nothing. It feels better than the stillness of the beating sun, better than the silent waiting. She pauses at the bottom of the cliff to set down her red wings before continuing. She reaches the edge and stops. She pushes out the dragonfly wings and the wind picks at them, begging them to jump for the sky. They are so frail and thin, she doesn’t really believe that they will be strong enough… but to fly, the thrill. A crazed joy fills her as the wind plays in her hair and pushes it around her head. The dragonfly wings want to fly so badly, they seem to be twitching all on their own, beating rapidly and raining bits of light around the edge of the cliff. She laughs and throws her arms out to the sunny blue.

No.

Something inside her, a memory, snaps back. She remembers a promise made to her. She pushes herself back to the ground, away from the edge of the cliff. She feels the thin wings bend underneath her as she rolls back down the hill. She bumps down and comes to rest next to her feather wings. She groans as she pushes herself up. She winces as she realizes that she has damaged the dragonfly wings. They are horribly bent and torn and the left wing has a hole in it. She pulls them off her back and lays them down next to her red wings. She feels sorry for breaking them, but a small part of her is grateful that she didn’t try to jump into the wind. She reaches for her soft, blood red wings and places them back on her shoulders. Their familiar weight comforts her as she gazes at the mess of iridescent tatters. She picks them up and they flutter sadly. The young Wing Man will be able to fix them, but she can do nothing.

Softly, she whispers, “I’m sorry.”