A skull-shaped cloud floated past the day he crashed into my life. Into the window, to be precise—thwack! And there he was, lying still.
One for sorrow.
I don’t believe in coincidence.
My abdomen fluttered, like the first flicker of life. I crossed myself, saluted, tried to remember which incantations forestall bad luck.
Just as I started to fear the worst, he hopped upright.
“Do you need water? Food?” I asked.
Like a waiter. Bread or olives while you wait, Sir?
I fetched a pack of nuts from inside, poured a little pile. He sat, dazed. Whole minutes later he blinked, shot me a withering look, and flapped off.
Next day, the nuts were gone and the magpie sat squawking in their place. When I went out, he flapped into the apple tree. I poured more nuts and was barely back in the house before he swooped down for them.
He returned every day. When the nuts were gone, I moved on to peas, then stew, whatever I could spare. I called him Reggie.
*
The village folk bring pies and cakes, but never stay to eat them.
I don’t take it personally. They don’t trust the land to hold, here on the edge of things. They think I’m mad to stay. There are places in town, they say. More houses than people these days.
Some hardly need any work. They put in compost toilets years ago. Did one for me too, bless ’em. My poo-with-a-view. On nice days I leave the door open, look out over the cliff. No one’s caught me in the act yet, except the odd gull.
Living dangerously.
They bring me yarn too, the villagers. Flax usually, although they’ve been experimenting with nettle fibre and plant dyes. I run it up on the loom and return the cloth, save what I need, which isn’t much. As we learn, the fabric gets finer, colours richer, patterns more intricate.
Reports of the death of technology have been greatly exaggerated. The electronics, telly, phones what-have-you are gone, but we overestimated their usefulness. We still have spades, saws, looms.
We were dazzled; magpies drawn to shiny things.
*
The loom’s disassembled and packed into the wheelbarrow. I usually avoid town, but I need someone to take a look. It’s started making a juddering noise, like a magpie’s rasp.
So when I hear Reggie fussing, I picture the loom, zombie-weaving in the yard.
“What’s got into you?” I wipe my hands on my apron.
He hops along the path, looks back, chitters.
“You tease!” I laugh, following.
He flaps towards the wheelbarrow, then up onto it, head cocked.
“What’s the rush, you incorrigible bird? I—“
An almighty crack echoes up through the ground. The messy grind of rock on rock, wood splitting, stone crumbling, metal shrieking, all at once. I turn. Strange sky echoes blue where house should be.
I stare back at Reggie, then lift the handles of the barrow, hands trembling.
I don’t believe in coincidence.
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