250 Words: Chomreedhoo (Coat of black) 2

I walk the plains and forests of this land protected by my coat of black.  Like all Children of the Birdman, I have my companion with me always whether perched upon my shoulder, on a branch nearby or above me in the sky.  It is called a symbiotic relationship by people.  It is parasitic; he gains no advantage that I can see.

He finds us berries and nuts, plucks us worms from the ground.  He flies high and ahead to find the way and to call to me when there is danger approaching.  Danger that I don’t think I could ever protect him from.  

I give him nothing but conversation and that’s really just a way to hypnotise him and keep him with me.  Despite the colour of my coat I am no mate replacement.  I have stolen him away from his kind for my own ends. 

Perhaps I followed the wrong path.  This guilt I feel makes no sense given the life behind me: from the day I saw the man at a distance through the woods with a blackbird upon his shoulder through to learning the calls from him and the day I left to wander without a human care, a Child of the Birdman seeking one day to pass and become a bird and fly as my stolen companion does. 

If only I were the Birdman himself and could converse fully with these animals, if only the language had not been lost and turned to this sorcery.  

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Note: Chomreedhoo is, I think, old Manx-Gaelic for Coat of black.  The word appears in the song Armistice by Patrick Wolf, which is where I came across it - or, rather, more likely, initially, in the NME while talking about it.  Not sure if I wrote this and the first Chomreedhoo (Coat of black) before or after hearing the song itself.

Additionally, this one is a follow-up of sorts to Myths of our Solar System (30): Makemake, the first birdman.

250 Words: Chomreedhoo (Coat of black)

Grey-black, teeming down with rain, the sky is made up of lines dragging the clouds toward the earth, the summer sun hidden away for now and I see her, a broad smile and twinkling eyes surrounded by hair matted to her face, as black as the bird, her voice as pretty to my ears as birdsong when the rain has cleared.  Or even as the sound of rain on leaves beforehand.  I move the hair away from your face, kiss your cheeks, your lips, ask you where your umbrella is.  As the rain eases you ask if it matters and suggest a walk before dinner.

The darkness of this late afternoon soon gives way to sun as we enter the park to walk its abandoned and sodden paths alone.  The birds are returning from their places of shelter filling the air with their voices again, hopping about the grass and taking advantage of the absence of the people they would normally be fighting with for space this time of year.

We see a blackbird on a fence watching us.  He follows as if in vigilance, watching over its colleague in colour and her hand holder.  He suddenly flies and hops in front of us as if seeking to relay information to us.  Then he gives up on this and stops, looks at us and cries out in alarm.  A thunderstorm breaks open the heavens and we run back to Soho and a warm restaurant, all sheepish grins and wringing wet.  

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Note: Chomreedhoo is, I think, old Manx-Gaelic for Coat of black.  The word appears in the song Armistice by Patrick Wolf, which is where I came across it - or, rather, more likely, initially, in the NME while talking about it.  Not sure if I wrote this and the second Chomreedhoo (Coat of black) before or after hearing the song itself.