I wrote this short story as part of my year long writing workshop taught by local author Joyce Kornblatt……

There was once a woman who had four children. They were all beautiful children, golden hair, fair skin. She would hear them laughing and playing in the forests covering the hills above the house.  They loved the animals and birds which abounded around them.

They would skip along the rocks in the stream at the end of the meadow, the older ones helping the young ones across the bigger rocks.  Hand they hand they would appear at dinner time tired but happy from a day playing together outside.

But one day they appeared early and only 3 children ran hand in hand. In the arms of her eldest child was the limp body of her youngest son.

Oh, she cried, as she ran out, arms outstretched towards her youngest. She cradled him in her bosom, caressed his cheek, wiped at the blood on his forehead.

The children said they’d been playing in the stream and the young boy had turned at the sound of a bird. It was the beautiful call of the magpie.  He reached out, too close, the magpie flew towards his face flapping in angst. He fell onto a rock in the river.

Will he be ok, cried the children. The mother held the boy close, tears falling from her eyes, slowly dripping into his eyes.  He opened them, gazed with fear at his mother and cried, the bird was going to peck my eyes!

Now he sits at the window watching his sisters and brothers playing outside. He no longer goes out. He moves slowly, some days not at all.  A scar stretches across his forehead.  The mothers sees a deeper scar inside her child. He is the sensitive one. She holds him tight, nurtures him, neglects her other children.

He wears a woollen hat.  When a bird comes into view through the large window, he lowers the hat over his eyes.  The world is a frightening place he thinks, I am safe inside where nothing can get me.   He watches his siblings having fun, remembering the days when he could explore freely, without fear.

One windy wintery day a nest blows out of the tree alongside the house. It lands outside the window. The boy looks at the tiny chicks calling out for their mother.  He moves his hat to cover his eyes but eventually peeks out as the chicks continue their desperate cries.

The mother comes over, they both stare at the broken nest on the ground. He asks her, will they die.  Most likely, she says. We could try save them, she adds.  The fear of their sharp beaks rises up in him, but it also hurts him to see animals suffer.  He nods slowly.

The mother collects the chicks and places them in a large box near the fireplace where they can be warm.  She gently feeds them soft food into their upturned mouths.

Over the days the boy ventures closer and closer to the box. The chicks see him and rush over expectantly for food. The fear draws him away.  The mother waits, patiently, understanding the wound runs deep.   Love, acceptance, will slowly heal his wound. Like it healed hers.  Her mother had held her tightly when she was too tired to continue living.  It was her mother’s tenderness that brought her relief and breathed life back into her.

Now the mother holds out her hand to her young son.  Together they walk to the box to feed the chicks.