The Return of the Osprey

Failte, Reader. Welcome back if you're a regular.

If you're a lover of stories, I have a treat for you. For a few weeks, I've been building on a new story. This week, I am sharing the full whack (all of what's been written), so far. It's called, as you saw in the title, The Return of the Osprey. That title might change as we go along, we'll see. For new readers, the story's been building over the past number of weeks in each post. I thought it would be nice for ye to read it in full. If you're interested in the background of how stories are inspired, or some other general thoughts about, well, thoughts, flick back through the previous posts. If you go back far enough, you'll also find stories, poetry and other cogitations. 

I invite you to contact me (HERE) or in a comment below the post to share your thoughts, questions, experiences of seeing ospreys, and whatever else you might like to message me with. I love hearing from people who read. As a new writer, it's really lovely when people get in touch.

Without further ado, here's the full story so far, and this week's addition. Disfruta!

*******

The wind that blows in your ears,

the wind that howls at night. 

The ghaoth that breaks the tree boughs

she speaks to you my child.

"Listen now, I have a story for you. 

Hear the notes within my whip.

Feel my song strike through you.

Write down now the words on your lips."

*******

The shadow of a bird blocked the sun on an early autumn evening in the countryside of Ireland. The old healer started at the loss of light and fleeting image that just crossed her eyes. 

"Has it been 100 years already?" she mused. 

The village folk steered clear of the dilapidated cottage in the field beside the old church grounds. Strange things were said to have happened there. Somehow, roses stayed in bloom all year long, daffodils danced in the October dusk breeze, and the scent of lemongrass and thyme seemed to have settled in the air all around it. 

Many years previous, before the elderly population had died out, it was said people would go there to be cured. 

"That dreaded breathing affliction, asthma, they called it," a neighbour had once told Olivia when she was a nipper. 

"What happened to them after they went to the house?" Olivia asked, wide-eyed. Joe told the most wonderful stories. 

"They'd have to go up every day for three days, at the same time, 'tweentime, right between day and dusk when the birds are settling in to roost, and the light separates the veil between the two worlds."

Olivia, who was around 10 at the time, felt a shudder. 

"W-what does that mean, Joe, 'separates the veil between the two ... worlds?' What worlds?"

"There are two worlds, at least, Olivia, the physical and the mystical. We live in the physical world. The Sidhe (*say 'she'), the faerie folk, and other magical creatures, live in the mystical world.

Olivia sat transfixed. She'd heard her parents thank the faeries, and curse them, many times. 

"At 'tweentime," Joe continued, "when the veil separates, it is said the healers and spell weavers can access a mystical energy that strengthens their skills while the veil is open." 

"Woooaah!" whispered Olivia, awe-struck. 

"On the first day, the afflicted would be given the dried petal of a red rose, which they were to pin onto their clothing at the breast, where the heart is." Joe pointed to the place on his chest. "When they awoke, and twice more in the day, they were to find a quiet place, out in the forest if they could, sit down, and cover their heart and the petal with their hands. Then they were to picture the petal glowing red, radiating into their hearts, while chanting:

"I am loved. I am free. I allow myself to breathe."

They were then to hum three notes: low-higher-low, followed by four notes: two low-higher-low, like the rhythm of the chant, are you with me?" 

"Yes, yes. Like this?"

Olivia hummed the tune of the chant, looking up expectantly at Joe as she finished.

"Y-y-but how did you know the last line? Jesus, I haven't heard that hummed for years," he spluttered. "How did you know the last line?"

"I ... I," Olivia was a little unnerved by Joe's tone. 

"I didn't mean to startle you, child. I'm just a little surprised."

Olivia relaxed. "It just felt like the right way to finish it," she said. "I didn't really think about it." 

Joe let out a short whistle of wonder. "Well isn't that something? You might have magic in you child. Stay alert." 

Joe's eyes slid over her as Olivia's fingers flickered with excitement. That's what she thought it was anyway, excitement. Though her mother had taught her how to use the magic of nature, the plants, for healing, nobody had ever said anything about real magic being in her bloodline. 

"The healer would repeat the same, I've been told, at 'tweentime when they'd come. She'd lay them down and hold her own hands over theirs. Some used to say they'd smell roses all around them for the three whole days, and that the scent wouldn't fully fade until the first new moon after they were with her." 

"What happened then?" 

"They were to release the rose petal into the river, that part where the piece of land sticks out, blocking its flow on the side where the bank is cleared to look a bit like the seaside, but 'tisn't seaside, 'tis forest sure with the trees growing around it. They were to release the rose petal to the river, and trust that it would be drawn out into the current where the river runs freely, over on the opposite side of the bank."

"And then?"

"Then, child, they were healed. Not one creatúr with the affliction ever complained of it again after they were with her. Some believed they had been affected by it even. Not only could they breathe full, but everything seemed lighter and easier for them to achieve afterwards. 'Twas like they were brought to life anew." 

"That's amazing! Mammy told me once that my great, great, grandmother had asthma. I wonder if she went to the healer."

Joe looked at Olivia out of the corner of his eye. 

"What was her name, do you know?"

"Arry.... arm .... air ..." Olivia faltered. 

"It wasn't 'Airmed' by any chance, was it?" Joe asked, cautiously, sensing a tingle scale his spine. He'd silently laughed off the spark he thought he'd seen from her fingers earlier. Now, he wasn't so sure he should have. 

"That's it, Joe. How did you know?" 

"Eeehhh ..." Joe needed to investigate this before he told her what he was thinking. "I-i-it's a name that would have been more common in the early years, around the time of your great-great-grandmother. She'd have died around 70 years or so ago."

"Oh, OK. Why did you want to know it?" 

"Ah-uh-no-n-no reason. Just curious child." 

"Oh, OK."

Joe breathed a sigh of relief when she accepted his response. 

*******

30 years later, as Olivia stood stoking her backyard fire, the shadow of a bird blocked the sun.

"That's unusual. Didn't I hear a story about that happening once ...?" she mused, and for half a second thought she caught an image of something cross her eyes. Her stomach was pulsing, and her breathing short. "Maybe I need to lie down. I haven't been sleeping well." 

Olivia drifted off quickly, thoughts of tucking into her specially prepared birthday dinner, then snuggling up with a movie and wine, swimming in her head. "It's my 40th birthday," she had said to herself. "I'm going all out! It's time I started treating myself." The summer weather was stretching into early autumn, so she'd got herself enough meat to BBQ for three. Chicken wings, a rack of ribs, steak, and prawns. Not forgetting the veg, she threw in peppers, courgette, red onion. And, of course, a nice, round, fat spud. She was going to bake it for a while before finishing it on the fire. Wine. "Sure, I'll just get two bottles, and maybe a little Bailey's. I'll just get the bottle of Bailey's. Feck it. I can make coffee with it too." 

It would be Olivia's first birthday alone after the separation. Everything had changed so quickly in the past 10 months. First, she'd discovered her partner of ten years had been cheating on her for six. Soon afterwards, her father had died. That was the only reason she'd come home. Well, that and getting an apartment in Dublin was almost impossible, and insanely expensive. Even though she and her ex had sold the house, she still wasn't willing to waste her money on extortionate rent when she had a perfectly good home to live in. "Am I really ready to be back there, though? It's so quiet and old fashioned." She felt a shiver as a breeze blew through her. "Maybe that's exactly what I need. A completely fresh start somewhere I feel safe." Her step felt lighter once she'd made the decision. 

*******

If anyone had been around to see Olivia's body writhing and twisting on the couch, they would have thought her possessed. The dream was back. It was always the same. More a nightscare than a dream. She couldn't understand what it meant, and hadn't taken the time to really go looking yet. Parts of it felt familiar. "I just can't place them." She mithered over it a lot. After the dream, she always woke up sopping, in a pool of her own sweat, confused, out of breath, and most unusually, if the dream had gone on long enough, to a tingling sensation in her fingertips.

*******

Olivia is standing on an old road, near the ruins of an ancient church, surrounded by sycamore trees. The wind is whipping violently all around her. Tree boughs begin bending, bracing themselves as best they can against the wind's thundering roar. Leaves, and browning "helicopters" (the little seed sacs that grow on the sycamore tree), whirling and twisting into miniature tornados captured by crossing gusts, are propelled upwards before losing the air current, dispersing and dropping to the ground. The earth beneath her feet seems to be vibrating. It warms her body as she walks towards the church. Someone is shouting nearby.

"The wall must ... the wall must ..." 

A strange screech whistles each time the voice says, "must," drowning out the words following it. Olivia can't see who it is, can't see much around her at all. The road she's walking is shrouded by treetops reaching out to each other from opposite sides, peering down at her head as she walks towards the voice. It seems to be coming from the graveyard. Olivia had forgotten all about this place. She wondered how after having spent so many afternoons there in her youth. 

*******

"It's the old church and graveyard!" Olivia woke with a jolt. "I can't believe I didn't recognise it. How have I forgotten all about that place? What the hell was that image that crossed my eyes at the fire earlier? The fire. Oh shit - the meat!" She belted it out to the fire, exhaling a loud, "Pheeew!" when she saw that she'd moved the grill to the lower shelf. She didn't recall having done that. "Today is a strange day," she muttered, moving the shelf back up while adding fuel to her fire. "I think a Bailey's coffee is in order. At least that will feel normal." 

*******

"I'm not ready. I'm simply not ready. How did I not notice the colours change? I am getting too old. I have much to do." Not far away, the old healer was all in a tizzy, darting in and out of the old, dilapidated cottage, collecting pots, pans, and other accoutrements, stoking a giant fire cracking within a large stone hearth on the west wall of the cottage. To outsiders, the cottage may have looked like it should have been knocked years ago. To those in the know, it had a very different appearance. 

"Where did I leave my bloody saucer? I need to see that bird." 

Twister in a Teacup

The evening Olivia left Joe's house he was perturbed. It had been a long time since he'd thought about any of this healing and magic business. When he was a boy, many a story used to be told about the old cottage by the church. He had forgotten most of them, but not all. The child's fingers had sparked a memory from somewhere deep down.

"What in the Goddesses' name was that story?" 

Joe pondered a while but it wouldn't come to him. "Sure I'll take a wander up around the place and see if anything stirs," he told the chickens while plucking their eggs from under them. "Do you know what I'll do too, I'll bring a few of these eggs with me, in case someone happens to be up there. You'd never know, you'd never know. They might come in handy as a wee barter for the story. Well done today, chooks. We've a great clutch here. Enough for a barter and a breakfast." The chickens clucked with contentment. 

Joe strolled down towards the old cottage. It sat as it always had, over the wall behind the yew tree along the northwestern hedge of the field when you kept the church wall at your back. He let out another whistle of wonder. "Jesus I haven't been up here since I left to fight for Ireland." A nimble young man no more, having only a few days previous enjoyed the finest whiskey he'd ever tasted, sent to him by an old comrade all the way from America to mark his 90th year, Joe found himself breathing heavily after climbing over the stile into the graveyard. "I'll take a wee rest here again' the wall for a spell, catch my breath."

*******

From the window of the old cottage, the old healer saw the old man climb slowly into the graveyard. It had been many years since anyone came down there, other than the few family members left who visited the graves. Her work was mostly done by distance now, though she'd be called upon at night often enough, asked for a cure or some other sort of remedy under dark skies when the clergy weren't watching. "I wonder what's taken a man of that age all the way down here," she mused, stroking Tuxedo's thick black and white fur. Tuxedo purred a deep, lioness like purr. She'd missed having a human stroke her over the past year, but she'd known the time would come when she would need to return. "I'm glad you're back, Tuxedo. I missed you." The Healer nuzzled into her favourite familiar. 

*******

A rustling at the wall by the field shook Joe from a daydream. "I could have sworn I just saw ... no, no, it couldn't have been. They've been extinct since I was ..." 

"Bejayus and the Mother Goddess. Joe McDowd. How many years it has been since I saw that face." 

Joe started at her voice. The old healer had been the rustle, but he hadn't seen her come over the wall. 

"The war's blown the story out of you, has it?"

"It seems it has, Old Healer. It seems it has. The memory's not what it used to be."

"The blessing and the curse of age, is that, Joe. Still, the wind's blown you up here now. She always knows when a story needs telling. Will you come in for a cup of tea?" 

"Indeedin' I'd be more than grateful," Joe smiled. "Wasn't it a fair walk down here, and aren't I not as nimble as I once was. Though I didn't see how you came over that wall. You're no spring chicken yourself, no insult intended." 

"Did you drop something?" 

Joe bent down to pick up the eggs. He'd placed them on the grass gently while resting, so as not to disturb the shells and waste the spoils of a good clutch. When he stood up he found himself sitting on an old wooden rocking chair, a giant fire crackling within a large stone hearth in front of him. The rich, earthy scent of burning turf that must have had pine sap drip onto it wafted into his nostrils, sending his thoughts swirling. Somewhere behind him he could hear cups and saucers tinkling. 

"How in the name of all things holy did I get myself here? Trickery it was. That Old Healer and her trickery."

"You would have preferred the walk, would you Joe?"

"N-n-no, no now, that's not what I was saying at all."

The healer smiled a knowing smile, waiting for Joe's mind to catch up.

"Here now, hauld on a second woman. Out of my head it is you're to get. Sure, I didn't say out loud a thought. Aren't I only thinking them. I'm too old for all of this." 

"Hand me over a shovel of the ash from the bottom of that fire. Make sure there's a lick of black through it, and a healthy pile of the grey stuff. Don't spill it, for Goddess sake. My hands are worn sweeping that floor." 

Joe lifted the fire shovel and dug it into the ash pile beneath the dancing flames. As slowly as his limbs would allow, and as carefully, he stood up and moved towards the healer, shuffling over with the shovel tight under his grip. He'd held enough guns in his lifetime to know how to keep a shovel steady. The healer held out a bouillon spoon as Joe approached. 

"Hold her steady now, Joe. Keep your grip firm. There might be a wee jolt now. Keep that ash off the floor." 

"Are you honestly that worried about your bloody floor and you up to all sorts of strange and odd things here in front of me?" 

"I am Joe. I am." 

Joe's shovel and the healer's spoon moved towards each other. As the healer pushed the spoon towards the ash, the air between them seemed to ripple for a moment. 

"What happened there, Healer. What happened? I saw the air move. Did I see the air move? Jesus on earth, what have I got myself into at all?" 

"Hold steady, Joe. There'll be one more now when I move into the ash. Do not let a drop of it hit that floor! Are you ready?"

"I have no notion, Healer. Am I ready for bloody what? I'm holding steady. That I can promise you." 

Once again, the healer pressed her spoon towards Joe. He had to use all the might inside him to hold the shovel steady. The force trying to keep them apart was stronger than anything he'd ever experienced, and Joe had experienced a lot in his lifetime. Suddenly, the spoon hit the shovel, scooping into the ash. As if the sap had become syrup, the ash began to congeal, twisting and turning into a multitude of shapes. Black swirls rose and fell. Grey whisps spat out from its sides, evaporating into nothing before reaching the floor. 

"Hold it steady, Joe. We're almost there. Hold her now!"

Joe held on for dear life, gaping. He didn't dare take a breath, but the healer did. He watched as she inhaled slowly and deeply through her nose. Not a sound did she make. 

"Ready now, Joe. This is the moment. Hold on." 

"I'm holding, woman, I'm holding."

One of the old healer's gifts was exsufflation, the power of forcible exhalation. Into the ash she blew, her lips closed almost as tightly as if she were trying to whistle a high pitched tune. The swirling ash started to shape itself into an image. From the centre of the shovel and spoon rose the sun. Around it trees, fields and birds emerged. It looked to be an early autumn evening in the countryside of an Ireland Joe no longer remembered.  

"What is happening?" he squeaked, trying to sound manly and brave, stifling his scream. 

The shadow of a bird blocked the sun. Its wingspan looked to measure almost 2 metres. 

"That's the bird I saw in my daydream earlier, just before you arrived. Please, Healer, please tell me what is happening. I am too old for all of this." 

The image began to dissipate. What remained of the ash trickled, as slowly as honey drips off a spoon, down onto the shovel. 

"Pour it onto the saucer on the table, Joe. Then, sit down. You are the keeper of a prophecy which must be shared within your lifetime. It is time to remind you of a gift you received many years ago, before the War had a chance to blow the story out of you." 

The old healer covered her ash-laden saucer with lambskin and tucked it into the back of her kitchen dresser for safekeeping. As she made the tea, Joe sat, exhausted by the afternoon's activities, and not entirely certain he was ready for what was next. 

"You're a man of duty and honour, Joe McDowd. You'll fulfil whatever it is you must. That you will."

"That you will, Joe. Are you ready to hear the story?"

"That I am, Healer. That I am."

*******

Full as a tick after golloping the guts of the meat and veg she'd bought, Olivia sat relaxing under an early evening sun, sipping her second helping of Bailey's coffee. Golden fields stretched for miles just beyond her garden. Her gaze moved meditatively up the vegetable patches, over the badminton net, swooping across to her old Wendy House (her parents had never dismantled it, quietly hoping that someday a grandchild would play there), and up towards the plum tree she'd planted when they'd first moved in. Completing a full sweep of the land she had inherited, Olivia's eyes wove up, down and over the thorn bushes, sticky backs, and trees, all the way to the now giant sycamore in the corner above the shed and compost heap. 

"How I adored sitting up in that tree, far away from everyone but the birds, the wind, and the leaves. Do you remember how we used to play, Wind?" 

The trees around her rustled. Olivia jumped. She hadn't talked to the wind for many years.

"You weren't listening to me for a long time either," Wind whispered. "It's been nice to see you start paying attention again this year." 

Olivia, bottom jaw frozen open in a sort of stupefied shock, eyebrows raised in surprise, sat staring fixedly at the sycamore. She thought back to the shiver she'd got when considering the move back home. After a long pause, she inhaled and whispered back. 

"Do you remember? I'd sit up amongst the branches, as high as I could get, then throw the helicopters out when I'd feel your gust coming. You'd catch them and twirl them so they'd spin really fast towards the ground. Like real helicopter propellers."

"Then what would happen?" 

"I'd get really excited, and start bouncing my bum up and down on the branch, waving my hands all over the place." 

"Then?"

Olivia paused. "I can't remember." 

"Would you like me to show you?" 

Olivia felt frustrated and fearful. She wanted to know why her memory was blocked, but she was also talking to the wind. How could she be talking to the wind? When she was a child, it was normal. Children make up all sorts of things as they explore the world. An adult talking to the wind though, that was enough to make people look at you sideways. Still, Olivia had always been curious. She was entering a new phase of her life. Her courage and conviction were coming back. With them came her incessant thirst to understand ... herself and the world around her. 

"Yes, I would like you to show me." 

Whoooosh

The wind, euphoric, released a lasso like gust, curling the air around the sycamore's leaves, whipping off hundreds of brownish-green helicopter seed pods, and twisting them in the air. Olivia sat transfixed. Her focus began to blur as her eyes darted in rhythm with the giant funnel shape the pods were now forming. She sat back in her chair, unaware her body was moving, gazing open mouthed at the image beginning to form before her.

*******

"Get down from that tree, child. You're up far too high, for Goddess sake." 

Joe spotted Olivia way up in the sycamore tree in the cornfield across the road from the graveyard. 

"Hi, Joe. Don't worry. I climb up here all the time. I feel like I'm on top of the world."

"You'll be on the bottom of it if you don't find yourself down in front of me. I wouldn't get over the guilt in my grave if anything happened to you." 

"OK, Joe. I'm coming."

"Slowly now, mind. I'll rest at the trunk here. Don't drop on me now. Heavens, I've had enough surprises today to last me whatever time I have left." 

Joe plucked a stem of corn from the field to chew on before bending slowly down to rest on what looked for all the world like a cottage threshold stone beneath the sycamore. He hadn't noticed it before. Olivia soon plopped down beside him, laying her head on his upper arm. 

"Tell me another story, Joe." 

Joe let out a long, mournful sigh. He had a story for her, all right; a story she was as yet too tender to hear. He'd protested to the healer 'til he was blue in the face and gasping for breath. 

"There are burdens we must all bear in this world, Joe. There are blessings equal to the burdens. When the time comes, 'twill be sooner than you think, the prophecy must be passed on. It is your duty as the Keeper. You will do it?" 

"Aye, Healer, on my honour, I will do it. Though know that it will be with a heavy heart which may never again thereafter lighten." 

"You are a good man, Joe O'Dowd." 

Joe sat silently beside Olivia for some time. His breathing began to slow as he readied to tell her the story. He had no notion how to tell it in a way that wouldn't rock her very world from under her. They only way was to start talking, and trust that the words would come. 

"Are you warm and comfortable, child? This will be a long one."

"Beside you Joe, I'm always warm and comfortable. Tell me the story." 

*******

"Where did I leave my bloody saucer? I need to see that bird!"

The old healer searched high and low for the saucer of soot she'd used all those years ago to soften the blow of the story for Joe. She had known he would need to be ruffled enough to be interested in hearing her words after so many years closed off to the "otherworld." 

Miaow

"Not now, Tuxedo. Can't you see I'm searching for something?" 

Miaooooow. 

Crash. Smash. Bang. 

"TUXEDO! What have you broken now?" 

The healer darted across the room towards the dresser Tuxedo was slowly pacing back and forth upon, tail curling as she walked, tapping off everything in her path, knocking cups, saucers, and pretty little milk jugs to the ground. 

"What on earth are you do...? Tuxedo, you clever, clever girl. What would I do without you?" 

Tuxedo let out a low, deep, 'I know I'm clever' purr. If her smile had been visible, she'd have resembled the grinning Cheshire Cat. She jumped off the dresser and strutted over to her basket by the fire, work done for the day. 

Slowly, the healer creaked the dresser door open, eyes roaming around to find the spot she had set her saucer on all those years ago. Spying it on the top shelf, away from anything that might fall on it, she reached up and lifted the saucer out, holding it straight and steady so as not to disturb its contents. The lambskin should have kept it fresh. Though ash can sit for a lifetime or more, sap is not as simple to store. The fire snapped and cracked when the old healer peeled back the covering. As if the saucer's substance could feel the fire's flames, it began to bubble, readying itself for the exsufflative breath the healer was preparing to express. 

Into the ash she blew, her lips closed almost as tightly as if she were trying to whistle a high pitched tune. The swirling ash started to shape itself into an image. From the centre of the saucer rose the sun. Around it trees, fields and birds emerged. It looked to be an early autumn evening in the countryside of Ireland. Suddenly, the image shifted to a middle-aged woman stoking a fire in the back garden of her home. The scent of barbequing meat filled the air, stirring Tuxedo momentarily. The woman started as the shadow of a bird crossed the sun. 

Fsssssss

"That you slow and show up close to me the bird that now my eyes do see."

Fsssssss 

The healer drew in a long, thin breath through clenched teeth. As she inhaled, the whirling image paused and magnified the bird. Thick streaks of black ran up each side of its head, flowing into and encircling large, rounded golden-yellow eyes. Crooked wings spanning almost two metres acted as an awning, creating a shadow as the bird crossed the sun.

Over 200 years before, Ireland had been home to a bird revered by indigenous cultures around the world. Mistress of wind and water, the bird has been associated with prowess, abundance, and an unwavering certainty in its heading. Fishermen would use their nests, so large and heavy they can be seen for miles, as beacons for boats coming home from the sea. To Ancient Romans, they were a courageous creature with no fear of the sun's fire. As a messenger bird of the God of Communication, Mercurius, it was believed that the bird's eyes had a mesmerising effect, causing fish to surrender to their fate. When seen in a vision, this medicine bird to Native American populations revealed that the receiver of the vision may become an exceptional healer.

Some 200 years before, the bird had been driven to extinction in Ireland, hunted out by humans who hungered to monopolise fish stocks. Considered vermin, they were sourced and shot by gamekeepers and sport hunters, until such a time as there were no more to shoot. And though they would cross over Ireland on their migratory routes every year, none were to be seen crossing the sun, nor did they land to nest. Their tie to Ireland had been severed, and with their disappearance so too was severed a magikal bind, a centuries old energetic warp and weft intertwining human and animal magik. 

"Look, Tuxedo, look. Can you believe it? It's back. The Osprey is back!" 

Tuxedo could believe it. Tuxedo had known the time was coming when she would be needed. That's why she'd come back. Much change was coming in the world now that the Osprey had returned. She'd spent her time away watching them, nesting once more off the coast of Ireland's shore. As summer had drawn to a close and the leaves of autumn begun to crispen and change colour, Tuxedo knew that soon the Osprey's wings would once again cast a shadow over the sun. 

"Oh, Tuxedo, you did know. You did. That's why you're back? You really are the cleverest of clever cats. We have much to do. Olivia will come soon. Olivia will come. Poor Olivia will come, and she will not know what has happened. She will not understand that feeling in her stomach. She will not understand anything. Oh dear. Oh dear, Tuxedo. She must be shown. We must make sure she's shown."