Poll Whitecap

By Pamela Love

In honor of my first Crossing the Line—or equator, as landlubbers call it—I bought a parrot. Scarlet she was, with a tuft of white atop her head, which I smoothed down, saying, “I’ll call you Poll Whitecap,” thinking of the foam-topped waves.

“Can’t believe you paid so much for that heap of feathers, young gob.” The first mate shook his head, but ‘twas with a grin.

Bah! That bird was as fine a shipmate as any sailor could wish. She’d perch on my shoulder, speaking as if she understood the words. She’d even sing a sea chantey with me:

Years two score and ten have I spent on the deep,
So when I am gone, dear friends, do not weep.
 Just as sure as I am of the knots that I tie,
Fiddler’s Green has a place for me after I die.

Fifty years we did sail together, carrying cargo from Boston to Britain to Bali. By now, my pate was as white as Poll’s cap.

She had courage, did Poll Whitecap. More than once when pirates were climbing over the railing of our ship, knives in their teeth, I fought them hand to hand while down my parrot swooped from the rigging, clawing at their faces.

So panic she didn’t when the direst storm in my memory struck late one day. She clung to my shoulder as I clambered up to the foredeck.

Wind and waves cracked our ship’s hull, dumping me into the savage sea. Poll flapped wildly over my head as if she thought she could lift me to safety.

As I flailed away, trying to reach a lifeboat bobbing nearby, lightning struck the mainmast. With a thunderous crack, it came crashing toward me. Spitting out seawater, I bellowed—“Poll, fly!”—just before it hit.

Everything went black and still.

‘Twas a tune that woke me, one that set my toes to tapping, although I lay on my back. I opened my eyes to a sunny blue sky. Pushing myself up on one elbow from the sweet clover beneath me, I found myself steps away from a village green, filled with sailors dressed in their best. Everyone was dancing a hornpipe and merry as could be. Above their heads a fiddle played itself without a pause.

“Fiddler’s Green,” I whispered. Though you wouldn’t know it from the men before me—nary a one looking over thirty. “We’re here, Poll!”

There was no reply.

Scrambling to my feet without my knees creaking as I’d grown used to over the past few years, I called out, “Poll Whitecap!”

Still no answer. I didn’t see a parrot anywhere, though there were a dozen dogs at least and three cats.

“Desmond McKay! Join in, laddie!” Fergus Murphy, an old shipmate I hadn’t seen for thirty years, was beckoning.

I’d never been much of a dancer, but that music put a spring in my step, the like of which I’d never known. Soon I was hopping and kicking with the best of them.

Yet I couldn’t enjoy myself, fretting as I was about Poll. Stilling my feet, I said, “I’m looking for my parrot, Fergus.”

He spun around. “Poll Whitecap? Aye, I remember her. But I’ve never seen nor heard of any bird in Fiddler’s Green.”

Bidding him thanks, I weaved my way through the other dancers till I came to a row of tables all groaning under platters of roasts, fruit, and cakes, with kegs of rum and ale besides. I asked sailors filling their plates and mugs what they knew, but everyone said they’d never seen a parrot here.

That didn’t sit right with me. She deserved better, did Poll.

I set out to find her, heading toward the horizon. Call me a fool if you wish, to leave a place like this.

Eventually I found a harbor. Hours later? Days? I couldn’t say. Time is different there. A rowboat, which seemed just a-waiting for me, was tied to a dock’s end. Off I rowed, with a flask that never emptied and an equally obliging picnic basket on the seat beside me.

After what seemed like a year and a day, I came upon a tropical isle, the first land I’d spied since leaving the sailors’ paradise.

I pulled my boat ashore, onto sands sparkling in the sunlight. Though I longed to nap, something gave me the fidgets. I headed into the woods. Trees taller than any I’d seen towered over me. Vines hung from them, swaying in the breeze. A stream twisted across the ground. Flowers polka-dotted the landscape. Rich, spicy scents filled my nose. Though the sky was cloudless, it smelled as if rain had just ceased. My arms ached with weariness, my heart with loneliness. Was this a fool’s errand? Who here could have word of Poll?

What did I hear? Birdsong. Gasping, I clapped a hand to my mouth. Those twitterings matched Fiddler’s Green’s tune! But where were the birds? No matter which way I turned, I couldn’t see a one. They must be hiding in all those Kelly green leaves.

“Desmond! Desmond!”

I could’ve hugged myself for joy, for ‘twas Poll Whitecap herself landing on my shoulder, calling me by name. I couldn’t mistake that white patch of hers.

“Ah, Poll! Good to see you at last, my lass. Now that we’ve found each other, I can take you back with me—”

She tilted her head. The birdsong stopped. Silently, I cursed myself for a fool and heaved a sigh. “But why would I? Why indeed, when ‘tis plain you’ve found a parrot’s paradise right here.” I gave her a goodbye pat. “Wonder what it’s called?”

She sang out while the rest joined in,

Just as sure as I am of the way that I fly,
Fiddler’s Greenery’s home for me after I die.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Pamela Love was born in New Jersey and worked as a teacher and in marketing before becoming a writer. Her work has appeared in Havok, Page & Spine, and Luna Station Quarterly. She is the 2020 winner of the Magazine Merit Fiction Award for her story “The Fog Test,” which appeared in Cricket. She and her family live in Maryland.

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