Ship of Souls

move toward it. When I’m about a foot away, I squat down and brush away some of the leaves that are covering its body. Right away the bird starts to tremble, and I realize the dead leaves were keeping it warm. “It’s OK,” I assure it. “I’m going to take care of you.” The bird seems to understand me because it wriggles its body closer to mine and even lets me stroke its body with my hand. I know feathers are supposed to be soft, but this bird’s feathers feel like satin! Before I can pet it a second time, the bird makes a small leap, and I catch hold of it with my hands.
    Up close, the bird doesn’t look white anymore. In a way, it doesn’t even look like a bird! In my hands it seems to glow as if lit from within by a white flame. The next instant it cools, hardens, and glitters like a tear-shaped diamond. Then it warms again and settles between my palms like a precious pearl.
    “I really need to get my eyes checked,” I say to myself.
    “Why—do you doubt your senses?” asks the shimmering globe.
    “You can talk?”
    “I can communicate, yes. You like birds, don’t you?”
    Before I can answer, the white orbs turns back into a dove. It whimpers softly, which makes me forget all the other questions I was ready to ask. “Are—are you hurt?”
    “No, but I am weak.” She snuggles close to my down jacket. “And a little cold.”
    Without any hesitation I unzip my jacket and place the bird inside, next to my heart. “Is that better?”
    She coos once more and looks up at me. “It’s getting dark.”
    After several minutes of gazing at the luminous bird, it’s hard to tell whether or not the sky’s growing dark. When I came to the park, I had planned to stay for at least a couple of hours. Still, I find myself saying, “I guess it’s time to go home.” And with that, I climb back up the steps that lead out of the ravine.
    As I walk back to Mrs. Martin’s place, I start to notice that things look different. Clearer. Brighter. And I don’t normally look forward to going home, but tonight I can’t wait to turn my key in the lock. I walk faster than usual, checking on my precious cargo every few seconds to make sure she’s OK.
    I go straight up to my room and rearrange the pillows on my bed to make a soft resting place for the bird. Then I take one of Mrs. Martin’s good plush towels out of the linen closet and wrap it around my new friend. “Is that OK?” I ask her. “Are you warm enough?”
    “Yes, thank you. You’re the perfect host. It’s good to know that the long years of captivity haven’t impaired my judgment.”
    That’s the most the bird has said to me so far, but one word in particular stands out. “Captivity?”
    The bird makes a sound that’s almost like a yawn. “You’d better go and have your dinner.”
    “I’m not really hungry,” I say as I carefully sit on the edge of the bed. “I’d rather stay here and talk to you. Where were you held captive?” I ask, but the bird only sighs. Then Mrs. Martin calls me, and I know I have to go downstairs or else she’ll come up to check on me.
    “Go and nourish yourself. I’ll rest while you’re gone.” The bird nestles against the soft towel and closes her eyes, which ends our conversation—for now.
    I go downstairs and try to act as normal as possible. Mrs. Martin’s got the baby carrier on the kitchen table, but Mercy’s starting to fret. That’s what she does before breaking into a full-blown wail. I’m about to ask if I can eat up in my room when Mrs. Martin asks me to rock the baby.
    “She’s been so unhappy today,” Mrs. Martin says with a yawn. “Up all night and then she wanted to be held all day long. Poor thing.”
    I use my hand to rock the carrier back and forth, but the baby’s screwing up her face, which means she’s about to bawl.
    “Not like that, D. Pick her up. She won’t bite.”
    Bite? This kid doesn’t even have teeth yet. It’s my eardrums I’m worried about. And what if her shrieks startle the bird—what if she decides to leave? Mrs. Martin’s standing at the stove watching me. I take a deep breath and pick up the wriggling baby.
    As soon as I put her body against mine, Mercy becomes still. She whimpers a bit, but quiets down when I bounce her a little.
    “That’s it,” says Mrs. Martin with a tired smile. “She likes you, D.”
    I can’t imagine having to hold a cranky baby all day. “Maybe we should order in tonight,” I suggest.
    Mrs. Martin pushes herself