The Songbird

Another short tale inspired by Angela Carter. This one's based on Han's Christian Anderson's Nightingale.

The Songbird

Do you hear it?

Do you hear me?

Do you hear me singing?

Do you hear me and my children singing?

We sing of liberation.

'Tis sing the song of freedom.

I have seen many lands. I have sung many tunes. Yet this song is my favorite. This song is mine.

Here. Up here. Up in the tree. Yes that little bird singing to you. That's me.

Where was I born? I do not know what the human name for the land is but I remember it was a land of cherry sweet cherry blossoms. I was born in springtime. Clouds of pinkish white flowers blanketed the land; east, west, north, south, it stretched everywhere as far as I could see.

I was born in a nest among the white blossoms; their sweet scent had welcomed me out of my egg and into the world. I was born a vast garden of a hundred cherry blossom trees; whiteness everywhere. I was born in the palace of the lands of cherry blossoms. And I was born to the emperor.

I was born ugly; dull and grey. But by the following spring my feathers were beautiful, at least I told myself that. I was velvet midnight black; a shadow in the sunlight.

And I have to admit, I have a beautiful voice. My mother had taught me all she knew. She too, like her mother and her mother's mother and all my ancestors before me, was a royal songbird. My mother took pride in her duty, an honour she said. She would thrust out her breasts with pride, almost arrogance, as she entertained the enthralled courtiers. She said that was our purpose and role in life. She's dead now. Killed by a palace cat; he swallowed her whole, imagine that. What an ungraceful way to die. Yet the old bird had taught me all she knew; she taught me well.

All day I would sing to him. What? Oh. Of course I had meant the emperor. I sang to the emperor. I was after all his songbird.

How was he like? Why even a small bird like me could tell he was handsome. He had long black hair, which when left untied, was like a black waterfall over his back. His skin radiated like the glorious sun that he was. Being so young, his body was lean and youthful, tempting almost. And his eyes, framed by their heavy lids, were intoxicating, erotic, seductive. And as an emperor, he was generous and kind, though he had an insatiable appetite for decadence and indulgence.

Yet, despite all his duties and worries and needs, despite all that he was and despite all that he had and could have, he still called for his little songbird; he called for me to drag him away from this bleeding earth. My voice was his escape.

I was always beside my emperor; almost always at least. He needed my voice. He needed me.

Every morning I would greet him with a tune and every night I would lull him to sleep; he was even more beautiful sleeping, I must admit. Yes, He needed me, until she came.

I was singing to him in his garden, among the white cherry blossoms; have I told you how beautiful they were? Well, they were beautiful, the blossoms. I was singing, enrapturing him, until a voice interrupted it like the dizzying nectar that it was; languid like the poisonous tongue of the holy serpent that seduced Eve.

My, my! I can't believe my eyes! The emperor, enthralled by the squawking of an ugly black bird, she giggled; her giggles were nauseatingly girlish.

I knew who she was. She was the greatest courtesan of her time. She was Venus incarnate. Yet her unrivaled beauty was not what dragged men to her feet. She had skills, tutored by the most skillful of whores, courtesans and geishas; her mentors. She had known it would bring her power. But oh, her gem was her voice. Even I envied it.

Dear emperor, let me show you real pleasure, she said.

Her skin was white as snow. Her lips were red as blood. Her hair was as black as my feathers. She was perfumed like jasmine in spring; it filled the air like a delicious plague. Her rich garments wrapped her delicately, as if they were caressing her; silk and brocade, evidently from the hands of master artisans. Her dress covered just enough that her nipples were hidden beneath it yet allowing the fullness and roundness of her breasts be exposed. They seem to grow with every deep slow breath she heaved. She moved like silk underwater towards my emperor, holding out her tender hand with a smile. He took it. He took it and I lost him.

She sang to him with her divine voice as they walked away from me, the ugly bird, alone on the tree. She sang to him.

You have a voice far beautiful than anything I've ever heard, even the bird, the emperor said in awe. Why, I won't need the feathered creature anymore now that you can sing to me.

She smiled, acting embarrassed. She took him. She took him and I lost him.

Then they were gone. Then I was alone.

I knew I had to win him back. I had to be his little songbird once more.

I spread my wings and felt the wind caress it. I was afraid but I had to do it for my emperor. I had to leave and only return to him when I'm worthy of him once more. I felt the wind pushing my wings, and so I let it; I took flight. I was scared to leave my home; never had I even migrated in the winter for the palace kept me warm. I was scared, petrified, but once I was over the great walls, there was no turning back; so I flew on and the fear left me just like happiness did.

I traveled to many land unknown. I traveled to learn. I sailed the winds alone.

I traveled to dark forsaken marshes where ancient larks taught me their songs of sorrow. I traveled to jungles, dizzying with greens and towering trees, where brilliant birds of paradise taught me their songs of lust and desire. I traveled dark forbidden forests where under the watch of the moon, sad nightingales taught me their songs of love and beauty. I traveled to the lands of pyramids and sand where great phoenixes taught me songs of life and death. I traveled to many lands unknown where my many feathered brethren taught me their many songs.

More than a year had passed and I was ready. My voice, now angelic; rivaling the seraphim choir. And on my flight home, I sang to the heavens for God must here me now. I sang with all my heart. I sang.

Soon I could see the familiar pinkish whiteness greeting me; glowing under the setting sun. I would be home soon. I flew on. Slowly the white turned yellow, then gold, then darkness embraced the lands; even under the night sky, they seem to glow, for the moon bathed them in her light; beautiful they were. But none was more beautiful than my emperor. I would be with him soon.

The great walls welcomed me. I was home. I flew over my precious garden and straight to my emperor's chambers. The windows were opened. I sat on window sill, silent. He was naked on his bed, only the white linens guarded his modesty. He was sitting propped up against the intricate golden headboard; gleaming serpentine dragons and screaming phoenixes decorated it. He had a knife in one hand and an apple in the other. Slowly he cut a slice then slipped it between his supple lips. The juice of the fruit lingered on his mouth, making his lips shine enticingly. He licked his lips languorously. Did he know I was watching, I do not know. A thick line of skin exposed seductively under the linens, from the side of his lean torso, down to his hips, then down to his thighs, then even lower to his legs. A hint of hair showed near his pelvis. He was the cruel temptation God created.

I saw the divine whore's garments lay crumpled beside the bed. The courtesan was here was she? Will she return to continue straddling my emperor? I did not wish to know. I flew to his bedside and started singing with my new voice. He smelled like her. Yet I continued to sing; all the things I learnt, all the songs I was taught. I was magnificent.

My little bird, you are back, he said, and you're voice, it's more beautiful now. Even she cannot sing like you.

Pride filled me.

Sing to me, don't stop. Sing me to sleep. This wretched world can be cruel sometimes, he said, I want to escape. Sing to me. Sing me to sleep with your glorious lullabies.

And so I did. I lulled him to deep slumber. My voice dragged him to the land of the sandman. His eyes were shut; blissful. He was smiling. He was beautiful. Yes, he was.

The knife glinted under the moonlight, with the fruit's juice still lingering on it. I flew to it. I picked it up with my tiny feet; those tiny claws clinging to it tightly. I beat my wings hard; the weight of the knife dragging me down. Yet I managed to lift it. You may ask, how could a tiny bird like me achieve such a feat and how silly it would look, a tiny avian carrying the huge blade; awkward almost. Yet I cared not how I look anymore. And when passion burned within you, you can pull down even the heavens and raise even hell.

I hovered with the knife momentarily above the emperor; over his firm chest, his beating heart just beneath it. Then I took a deep breath and plunged the blade into him with all my might, letting gravity assist me. It sank easily like butter. My claws still clutched the handle of the blade; it vibrated with the dying beat of his heart. Blood poured out of the wound like fountain. It soaked the feathers of my bosom. Almost gloriously artful I must say; red against black, without white intruding.

His eyes shot open. He saw me. I saw something on his once fair beautiful face; was it fear, hatred, regret, guilt, I never knew. I never cared.

Blood trickle out of his mouth. He spat out his blood as he asked, why?

Because you hurt me once, I told him, and I won't give you the opportunity to do it again. I hurt you before you could hurt me. I killed you before you could kill me.

Did he understand my little chirping, I never knew. I never cared.

And I flew out of the window. As I was leaving, I heard someone walking into the chambers. Then I heard the whore's scream. It was invigorating almost.

I flew away; away from my home, away to where no one would hurt me. I flew to where I would and will always be free; free of pain. And that was when I started singing my own special song, not those that have been taught to me, but my own tune and melody, my own composition; the song of freedom.

I now live here, where you see me telling you my tale. I have many children. The blood of the emperor never left my feathered bosom, staining it forever; no holy water could cleanse it. And all of my children and I wear the bloodred mark upon our breasts to remind me and my lineage, for all eternity, of my sins; yet I wear it with pride. My children too wear it with pride and my song is their anthem. Ah, robins you call us? Call us whatever you like. I care not; for our titles and names are not important. They never were.

Do you understand me and all that I've told you, I do not know. But I hope you do.

Do you hear it?

Do you hear me?

Do you hear me singing?

Do you hear me and my children singing?

We sing of liberation.

'Tis sing the song of freedom.