Secret Bird

By Arlan Gerig

Marta clutched a bag of medicinal herbs as she hurried down the dusty street. She brushed past a man holding a chicken he had just purchased, and she jumped backward at the animal’s squawk. Marta collided with a boy grasping a wooden box. It fell with a crunch.

“Dios mio!” The boy glared. “Be careful, Marta.”

She stuffed her bag into her skirt pocket, recognizing her schoolmate. “Lo siento, Pedro.” I’m sorry. “Let me help.”

Pedro knelt to examine the broken pieces, hands shaking as he shielded its contents. “Don’t bother, Marta. Just go home.”

Soft cooing came from the splintered box, and a white-winged dove hopped away. It was pure white instead of the characteristic mottled gray, and it watched her with its sangria-colored eyes.

“Look what you’ve done,” Pedro snapped. “You don’t know how hard I worked to find this bird. It’s very rare.”

Pedro jumped for the dove, but it flew to a tree branch. Marta held out a cracker from her pocket, the remainder of her morning’s meager meal. The dove cocked its head, staring into her eyes. It flew onto her shoulder and took the cracker.

Pedro looked relieved. “Gracias, Dios.” But when he reached for the dove, it nipped his hand.

Marta giggled. “It doesn’t want to leave me.”

“It’s made a connection with you.” Pedro angrily kicked up tiny dust clouds. “It’s supposed to be my bird.”

Marta stepped back, the dove cooing. People passed them slowly in the morning heat. “I hope this isn’t your dinner. She’s very pretty.”

“That’s none of your business. It belongs to me.”

With slow, gently cupped hands, he reached again, but the dove flew to Marta’s other shoulder.

“It doesn’t want you.”

“Don’t say that! Mi madre is sick with cancer, and I have no other family. If she dies, I go to the orphanage.”

Marta stroked the bird’s feathers, her voice softening. “How can this dove help? You would feed your mother a rare bird?”

“We would not eat such a precious gift. It is needed for something else.”

Marta’s stomach grumbled. “We’ve spent all our money on the curandera’s herbs for mi abuelo. My family could use a good meal.”

“You can’t eat this bird.” Pedro’s fists clenched. “Not good for food.”

“Every bird is good for food.”

Pedro leaned closer and whispered, “Not this bird. It’s a caladrius.”

Marta shrugged. “What’s that?”

“It heals people.”

Marta thought he must be joking. “You really think a bird can do that?”

Pedro’s face remained stern. Sweat condensed on his forehead. “Ay, caramba! Not every bird can, only this bird.”

Marta’s mind jumped to her frail grandfather and she touched her bulging pocket. “The curandera is cheaper than a real doctor, but her herbs only help mi abuelo’s pain. He is old, and Mamá and Papá have given up. Could it heal him?”

However small, it gave her hope. The dove cooed and watched her.

“I can’t risk it.” Pedro shook his head. “I need it to heal my madre’s cancer. Now give it back.”

He grabbed for the dove, but Marta stepped sideways. “My abuelo is just as important as your madre.”

“It’s my bird. I found it. If your abuelo’s old, maybe he should die!” Pedro pushed her into the dirt.

The dove flew to a tree branch, cocking its head at them. Marta rose and brushed herself off. How could he say such an awful thing?

Marta envisioned a life without her grandfather’s laughter or hugs, without his tales of life in old Mexico, and it broke her heart. She ran for her house, away from magic birds and mean boys. She dashed around a cat in the street and past a taco peddler, not stopping until she reached her yard.

Her parents’ house, a simple concrete home, was much like others on the street, except for Marta’s grandfather leaning back in a rocking chair, eyes closed. She ran to him and held his trembling, ashen hand, cold despite the sun.

He opened his eyes, coughed, and spat blood. Marta squeezed his hand, speaking softly.

“I’m here, abuelo.”

Pedro burst into her yard, breathing hard, and stopped behind Marta. She glanced at him, but he only watched the dove. The caladrius flew above the house several times, then rested on her grandfather’s shoulder.

Marta’s grandfather smiled. “Dios mio! Such a pretty white dove.”

As it stared into her grandfather’s eyes, his hands stopped shaking and his wrinkles smoothed into supple skin. His sunken face became a healthy, plump brown and a blush returned to his cheeks. A sparkle flashed in his eyes.

Marta’s grandfather took a deep, unlabored breath. “I feel like I could patch up this old house and replace the shutters!”

Marta hugged him tight, her heart soaring.

When the dove hacked, Marta looked up and gasped. The caladrius was sallow, scrawny, and losing feathers. It hopped, stumbled, and flew to the roof of the house. The dove glanced at her, then continued in clumsy, struggling circles toward the sun.

Marta turned to Pedro. “Where is it going?”

He stared into the sky. “It worked. The caladrius took the disease from your abuelo, and the sun should burn it off. If not, the dove will die.” Pedro stuffed his fists in his pockets and shifted his gaze to Marta. “It’s good your abuelo is healed, but the caladrius has gone. My mother will never recover now.”

Marta’s grandfather rose and walked to Pedro with strong, firm steps. “Have faith, chico.” He put his hand on Pedro’s shoulder. “You’re not alone.”

“Look,” Marta exclaimed.

The dove sat on the branch of a flowering dogwood. It had returned, a healthy white once more. It cocked its head at Pedro, watched him with its red eyes, and cooed. The dove flew to his waiting hand.

Marta’s grandfather chuckled. “You have another chance, Pedro. Go to your madre.”

Pedro grinned and left the yard, the caladrius singing on his shoulder.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Arlan Gerig has a love for fantasy and sci-fi that is often reflected in his writing. He has recently published with Havok and has a YA sci-fi novel currently under construction. Although his church’s mission trip to the poverty-stricken side of the Bahamas has been postponed twice, he hopes to go next year. Arlan lives with his wife, three kids, two dogs, a cat and a rabbit.

---

More Stories | Facebook