And so, last August Darci drank her chamomile tea and said her prayers and sent herself to bed early for another silent, empty sleep guarded only by the sweet crickets. But the Moon was New that evening, leaving the stars in charge of all the skies. The stars loved poor dreamless Darci, because as a child she had spent many long-forgotten Nights gazing at them and wishing upon them.

She no longer gazed, nor did she any longer believe in wishes. But the stars are the champions of wishes, and they never forget. And on this Night the Moon was dark, gone--leaving all the sleepers and all the hunting animals in the world unprotected. Like any unsupervised teenagers, the stars met together in secrecy, in joyful conspiracy, shrouded by their own sparkling, youthful whispers.

They must have drawn straws, or flipped a coin, because only one star among them had the good luck of falling, streaking, becoming a shooting star.

This one star flashed across space as quickly as a smile, toward the window wherein lay Darci on her crystal-cool white sheets. It touched her nose briefly, then vanished, disappearing into the place where candle flames go after they are blown out. And all it needed was a very brief touch, for indeed, it had carried with it a very brief gift. The stars had never woven such a beautiful dream as this, that now sat on the nose of a chained and muzzled woman who had for so long been dreamless.

For a woman who has been trapped in a stolen life for years with no opportunity to escape or to breathe, there could never be a sweeter vision. There were no children demanding toys, clothes, money, car rides. There was no husband moaning about his day and whining for sex. Nobody asked her what dinner would be. Nobody set unreasonable deadlines or turned down another request for a well-deserved raise.

There were no high-heels, pantyhose, bras, or makeup. No perfume or hair gel, no poorly-designed tampons. No anorexic models claiming to be the epitome of womanhood. No laws against creativity. No PTA meetings. No grocery lists. No rush-hour traffic.

There was a field, endless, wide and green and vibrant, like in the travel photos of rural Ireland. Darci had always wanted to see Ireland. Hills rolled far and away, and she stood at the crest of the highest one, naked and Sun-bronzed, up to her knees in feather-soft, emerald grass. The wind skated up the hills, then sailed down into the deep valleys, then spiraled right up into the peak of the glacier-blue sky.

Every particle of land and sky vibrated in rhythm to the same wild tune that tells the waves in the sea how to rise and sink. Darci could see into the very depth of each drop of air, and the sheer openness of it, the way each tiny curl of wind had the freedom to move all over, into her nose and out to where the horizon became the sky, made her laugh so hard that the entire dreamscape shuddered with joy! So this was what life was supposed to be!

Ahh! … I can breathe!

Thrilled, she lifted right off the hilltop. The grass slid away until Darci was herself one of the curls of wind. She soared high then low, combed through the emerald grass, pushed against the underbelly of the universe. The thought began to come back to Darci that wishes are real living things--and with that thought, she became a wish. She was lighter than air itself.

When she looked up through her sea of wind, she saw the Moon, waxing gibbous, and the Moon saw her. She did not know how this could be, since the Moon had no eyes--but then, she was out of practice with dreaming.

Darci was joined in the vision then by a most fabulous host: in a sound like ten thousand horses running, all the birds in the world burst up from the grass as though they had been hiding there. They poured upward into the sky, racing toward and then overtaking Darci. Their wings spread an eternity, from crows and vultures to hummingbirds, sparrows, parrots. Doves fluttered up, hawks and eagles soared above, toucans trailed their tails behind them. They kept on coming, thousands upon thousands, the thunder of wings becoming a cacophony so loud that Darci feared it might wake her.

The sky should have filled, but it didn't. There were birds all around, but she was not crowded. If anything, there seemed to be more room. More space. Sweet empty space, open for Darci's free movement. And the roar of the birds' wings filtered into one continuous sound, a white noise that sent a laser of silence shooting all throughout her head. She spread her arms to the Sunlight and the observant Moon, closed her eyes and felt the warmth of her fellow winds of freedom. She opened her mouth to laugh, or cry, or scream all hell

--and there was the ceiling. So close she could touch it. So close it nearly touched her. No longer cool, but hot as reality, the white sheets were wrapped and knotted about her clothed body. The red digital numbers of the alarm clock glowered at the corner of her eye. Her husband was poking her groggily.

"Plug my coffee in, OK?"

Wailing, as if shot, she jerked away from him and pulled the wretched, hot sheets over her head. He poked her again. "Dar? Y'okay?" Darci whipped her head about and bit his hand. She was too weak with despair to break the skin.

He yelped and swore at her and stumbled into the bathroom to dress his imaginary wound.

She covered her head again and wept into the airless pillow. Her children came in and out, asked for money, offered her sandwiches or chicken soup. Darci did not hear them, nor did she hear her own weeping; only the lonely silence echoing bird-wings found its way to her ears.

Widows do not mourn so--at least, none I have seen. Days passed, but they all looked like Nights from behind the shades, beneath the sheets. Her boss called to fire her, but he had to do it over the answering machine, for nobody really heard the phone ring anymore. Her husband slept on the couch, to avoid disturbing her. The children came in to leave offerings of flowers and get-well cards. Her mother visited with soup and family gossip. The doctor tried to examine her, but she had locked the bedroom door and would not even say hello. Everyone begged for a confession as to what was wrong. She was silent.

For a week Darci ate nothing and drank little. She had withered swiftly; she was pale. Her hair was matted and her skin oily. Her mouth tasted foul. Her body odor filled the room like incense. She noticed none of it. She spent much time asleep, dreamless once again. Now she remembered why she had stopped dreaming: the wake-up was too unbearable. Death seemed a beautiful alternative to a life that was not really a life.

If she had known that she would receive another dream on the eighth day, she would have immediately swallowed every pill in the house. As it happened, it was a surprise.

The dream pulled her kicking and screaming into itself. It began with her bedroom, and she stood weeping before the door, her hand on the knob. Another woman stood beside her, dressed in raw skins, with blossoming twigs holding back her long, Earth-colored hair. The wild woman stared and, with her eyes, made Darci turn the knob.

The wild one took Darci by the hand and half-dragged her into the hallway, down the stairs, out the door. "You haven't been listening to a word I've been saying," the wild one scolded over a shoulder. It was Night; the Moon, now first-quarter, watched the pair approvingly. "I'm sorry to do this to you, but death is only for the dying," said the woman, and they walked out into the street.

Fireflies danced all over and the trees bowed obligingly for the wind. Crickets kept their melodious vigil and the stars winked innocently, seemingly with hands behind their backs and eyes mischievously averted. The wild one glanced up at them and shook her head, rolling her eyes. "Will they never learn?" she muttered with a smile.

Their pace was swift and their bare feet touched the ground firmly, determinedly. The wild one led the weeping Darci straight through town and out into that wide, uncultivated field. They marched through, surrounded by the pulsing swarms of fireflies. Not for a moment did they pause (though Darci would have stopped in a moment, given the chance) until they reached the center. There was a bare patch there, and the soil was rich.

"You would drown in your own tears if I let you," muttered the wild one, and she made Darci kneel in the bare patch. Her knees sank into the rich Earth. Then the wild one scooped up a fistful of soil and poured it into Darci's cupped hands. It was warm, dark. It smelled like life.

Darci snuffled and stared at the Earth in her palms, caught between one claustrophobic sob and the next. She could see into the very depth of each particle of soil, air, water. Mesmerized, she smelled it again, then again. She rubbed it onto one arm, then onto the other. She looked up to thank the wild one

--and she was awake. The world was pink with dawn, and Darci was lying alone, barefoot, in the field outside town, with soil rubbed into both arms. Her face, her throat, her ribs… her whole body hurt from the crying.

She rose, brushed the soil from her clothes, rubbed the sorrow from her eyes, and choked back the last sob.

"The Moon and All Birds" Copyright © 2002 Marybeth "Background" Barton. All rights reserved. MINE!!!

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