Eyes Wide Open

Clara tiptoes through the soft moss on bare feet. Her fingers tickle the soft needles of the white pine, thick on each side of her body. The sun is warm on her bare shoulders. The air is soft and thick with morning dew. Bird trails glisten around her in pops of pinks, golds, and blues. She hops onto a large rock and pulls away a branch of long, smooth needles hiding Mama Bird's woven nest. Three tiny heartbeats vibrate a yellow glow from within their shells. The pulsing light stretches longer and longer each day. They’ll soon break free, having little room left between their bodies and the shells.

Clara smiles and sits, perched on the rock. Stretching back, she drinks in the colours that swirl around her. She searches the sky for Mama Bird. Clara can usually find her because she's a tense little thing. She's always flicking red and purple splashes around as she darts from one branch to the next. There's no sign of her today.

The small bodies of the chickadees flit around her head, flicking her hair as they pass, always up for a game. Clara laughs and whistles their name, and they echo her notes.

Heavy wings break through the trees. A large, dark bird veers off down the path. Clara rises to follow, curious about what bird carries such a hefty burden. Hopping from mount to mount of moss, she stops in the blueberry patch at the base of a rock cliff. Reaching one hand to a root, she wedges her foot into a thin crevice and pulls herself up to the top. The sun rays are stronger here, and the stone under her knees is warm and dry. She scrambles over the scratchy lichen-encrusted bedrock, her eyes fixed on the bird. It droops and dives from the top of each mighty pine. It releases no squawk or call to help her identify it. Its body moves with such heaviness as if carrying a great millstone around its neck.

The bird swoops into the woods, and Clara loses it in the thick canopy. Shoving aside the itchy shrubs, she steps into a sunny glade. The bird circles above. There’s something wrong with its glide. It rocks to one side as if favouring one wing. “Oh, bird. Come here to me!” Clara calls up to the swirling bird. Her call jolts the bird and jars its trajectory, like when she stumbles over a missed step. It swoops, landing on a gnarled branch of a jack pine, and sharp bursts of light rain down on her. It’s a raven, and it's glaring at her. She couldn't tell what kind of bird it was because of its strange gliding pattern.

“What’s wrong with you?” she complains. “Come here and let me have a look at that wing.”

The bird doesn’t move. Why would a bird listen to a small girl?

“You can choose to suffer or come sit next to me.”

The bird buries its beak in its wing.

“Is there something hurting you?”

It looks to the sky, ignoring her concerned words.

“Don’t be ignorant, bird. I’ve helped many birds before and can help you too.”

 The raven’s gaze flips over Clara's before returning to the sky.

What a stubborn fool. Could it be only a rumour that ravens are so smart? She smiles and fishes around in her pocket for some bait. The raven’s eyes flick green lights at her. It's curious. Clara twirls a shiny coin in her palm. The bird's head twitches back and forth, but the raven’s eyes remain glued to the prize.

Clara pats the stone beside her and closes her palm around the coin. It caws and shakes its head. She can almost hear the thoughts cycling around its bird brain. "You're not a nice girl. You need to play fair."

“Then come here,” she orders, patting the stone again.

The raven’s chin rises to the sky, but its eyes are still fixed on her palm. She flips the coin several times before dropping it onto the rock. Glancing away from the raven, she feigns interest in a butterfly darting around the brush. The insect sparkles as it stirs up dust or pollen into the air. The jack pine branch pulses as the raven paces back and forth. The raven wants that coin but knows this is a trick. It caws again. She pats the stone.

The raven drops from the branch, landing ten feet from Clara and the prize. Walking in circles, it kicks small stones or twigs, with its chin directed away from where Clara sits. Each hop brings the raven inches closer. Now and then it flips its gaze to her or the coin.

A maroon light swells from a raised lump on its right wing—is it inflamed from a mite or a tick? Whatever it is, it must be very uncomfortable for the poor, stubborn bird.

She pats the stone beside her and whispers, “Come, mighty bird. Let me help you.”

The raven glances at her before darting its interest to a small mushroom in the moss.

“I’m going to tell you a story,” Clara murmurs, without moving. “There once was a lion who lived in Africa. He was a mighty creature, like you, dear Raven. He was a miserable creature, and all the animals feared him. He was always yelling and complaining. One day a mouse crawled up to him as he sat under the shade of a huge baobab tree. The mouse asked, ‘Kind Lion, could I please share the shade with you?’

The lion growled, ‘Don’t you know who I am? If you did, you wouldn't sit this close to me.’

‘Why, are you going to eat little old me?’

The lion replied, ‘No. I’m not hungry at the moment but do like tasty mice.’

The mouse asked, ‘Why are you so moody?’

The lion answered, ‘I am not moody; I am a lion; this is how we are.’

The mouse noticed his paw was red and puffy. ‘I’ve known many lions, and none are moody like you. Are you miserable because of your paw?’

The lion snorted and slipped his paw under his belly, cringing as it brushed across his body."

Clara keeps her gaze away from the bird. But watches it in her periphery. The raven hops onto the stone. Its head is still fixed on the coin. Waves of colourful energy pulse off its body as it wavers back and forth on its peg legs.

“Without fear, the mouse scurried to the lion's side and stroked the cat's ankle with his tiny paw. ‘Oh, Mighty King, let me help you,” he said.

Lions are vain creatures. The mouse hoped to hook him with flattery. The lion flips his paw with an annoyed gaze as if it was always in his plan to do so, having nothing to do with the mouse. There is a tiny thorn in the center of his inflamed paw.

‘May I?’ asked the mouse.

The lion shook his head.

‘What? A majestic beast, such as you, is frightened of a little ol' mouse?’

The lion straightened. ‘I am afraid of nothing on this earth. I am the King of the Beasts.’”

Clara smiles down at the raven. “Are you the King of the Forest?”

The raven's head shines silver. It's so close now that when the bird twitches, it throws flecks of light across Clara's lap.

“Then what are you afraid of?”

Clara creeps her fingers along the feathers of his back, searching for the lump.

“The mouse crept across the palm of this mighty beast and plucked out the thorn.”

Clara finds the parasite and picks an engorged woodtick from the raven’s wing. The bird launches into the air, cawing and twisting as if she had plucked one of its beautiful long feathers. Flashes of red light strobe out of its chest.

“Cool down, Raven. Don't you want your reward?”

She sets the coin in her open palm and raises it above her head. The raven swoops and pinches it from her hand. It spirals away without any heaviness. It doesn’t caw a thanks or even look back. Clara laughs. Ravens are stubborn creatures.

She jumps up and follows the path back across the bedrock. She climbs down the cliff and lands in the crunchy blueberry bushes. The silhouette of Clara's small cabin cuts through the colourful breeze. The scent of hot blueberry muffins wafting out of open windows activates her stomach. Clara quickens, leaping from one patch of moss to the next.

She takes her slim rod leaning beside the door and taps it in front of her as she steps into the dark, murky cabin. Even with the walking stick, Clara trips on the edge of the rug. Her mom laughs and offers her hand. Spidery tendrils of light connect the two with her brief caress.

The forest exhales light through the open windows, brightening the black, lifeless interior. The glow creates an easy path to the table. Out of habit, Clara still counts the steps. Her mom slides Clara's chair under the open window so she can see her breakfast.

“So what adventures did you find today?” asks her mom, who glows pale gold in the shadows.

Clara smiles. “No adventures today, Mom. I was only a tiny mouse in a big, big world.”

Her mom kisses her forehead, and her golden glow pulses. If only everything lived and breathed. Then Clara would never be in the dark.

“I wish I could see what you see,” muses Clara’s mom.

Clara smiles and stuffs half a muffin into her mouth.

If only she could. Clara would love to lead her mom through her world. Then she'd understand better why Clara has little enjoyment in lifeless, man-made things. If she saw the breath of the world with her eyes wide open like Clara's, everything else would dull in comparison.

Clara twists to wrap an arm around her mom's hip and squeezes her. "I wish you could see it too."