Little Red Bird

By Abigail Hyacinthe Woelk

Cold cold cold. All I feel is cold. The warmth I knew is gone. All I am is cold. 

***

Her mother was of the Snowing Wood. Her mother’s eyes were cold and her fingers were icy, but she loved like anyone else. She had a snowy husband and her eldest son was also of Snowing Wood. 

The second child, however, was rather odd. 

There were many strange things about the child’s birth, but three outshone the others. The first strange thing was that the snow clouds parted and she was born into a ray of sunshine. The second strange thing were the mockingbirds that sang to her cries. It seemed there was always a mockingbird outside the second child’s window, mimicking her cries and giggles. The third was the red bird. 

As she grew, her second child grew more and more strange. 

She ran with the birds when they flew south, stopping at the shores of the Great Lake of Ice and watching them make their way to Spring. She would bring fruits home for the family to eat. It was as if every tree she touched would suddenly bear the sweetest of fruits. Even the mulberry trees at the end of the Wintery Wood would flower and bloom when she climbed them. The second child would brush the snow off the branches and pick off the berries that would grow underneath. She would take them home and bake them into tarts and pies for anyone to enjoy. 

She would sit under a tree, and rabbits and foxes would come sit with her. They would curl into her warmth and even the trees reached to her. 

Then there was the bird, the little red bird, that accompanied her everywhere she went. It would sit comfortably on her shoulder, chirping away to the Summer child. Many did not like the bird, but it had talons and it would not allow itself to be separated from the Summer child. It never hurt the Summer child, and she loved the little red bird her entire life. 

***

The wind whips my cheeks, bites my nose, freezes me slowly. It hurts. It’s just so cold.

***

The warmth that seemed to follow her was strange, and many of the Winter children did not understand the Summer child. She would return home from school and cry tears of fire and light. 

Her mother would say, “Don’t cry, my sweet child. The Storm will blow this over.” 

The Summer child always believed the Storm would blow her over, for the Storm was a Winter Storm, and she was a Summer child. 

The Summer child thought the Winter children were fascinating. She would watch them play in the snow. Laughing when they pelted each other with snowballs. She would make a snowball of her own, trying to join the fray, but when her snowball made impact, the Winter child would cry out. 

“It’s frozen! It’s frozen!” The child would cry. 

For the snowball would melt in the Summer child’s hand and freeze again in the air, creating a shell of ice. 

The Summer child always felt bad for the other children. She had hurt them, but she could not apologize. They would not listen. 

Uncourteous, they called her. The children building snowmen and the children making snow angels would quietly talk back and forth about the Summer child. 

“Her bird attacked me once.” A Winter boy hissed. 

“Which one?” Another asked. 

“The red one.” He glared at her where she sat under a tree, speaking quietly to the little red bird. “I bet she even knows what it’s called. We had very few birds before her, my mother says.” the child huffs. “It’s rude of her to bring them. Uncourteous, my mother says.” 

The little red bird hopped on the Summer child’s knee. 

Yes, my little red friend. She thought. I hear them. His mother calls me uncourteous. But my mother says I must not fear them. The Storm will blow this away.

That was the Summer child’s first experience with the word uncourteous. It was not, however, her last. 

She was with her mother the second time. The same little red bird sat upon her shoulder, clutching the folds of her yellow shirt. The other Winter child’s mother appeared. 

“Hello.” The Summer child’s Winter mother said pleasantly. 

“Hello.” The other mother said. “I have a query for your… child.” 

“She won’t answer.” Her mother said. “Perhaps I can.” 

“What kind of bird is that?” The other mother asked. 

“A cardinal.” The mother said. 

“We never had cardinals before.” 

The Summer child shook her head. Her Winter mother laughed. 

“Of course we did. Cardinals are Winter birds. They like summer more, but they are quite resilient. My daughter has nothing to do with them.” 

“Well, that particular cardinal attacked my son last week.” She said the name of the bird slowly, as it was an unfamiliar word to her. “I would like her to apologize.” 

The Winter boy’s head peeked around his mother’s legs. The Summer child shrank back. 

“Well, apologize, dear.” The other Winter mother said. 

The Summer child, filled with panic, turned and ran, back toward the safety of the trees and the birds. 

“How uncourteous.” She heard the other Winter mother say. 

Her Winter mother found her, hours later, sitting under a frosty pine. The cardinal was still perched on her shoulder, and an arctic fox had come to lay its head on her knee. She rubbed the fox’s ears affectionately. Her tears were hot and burned 

“Don’t cry, my sweet child.” Her Winter mother said to her. “The Storm will blow this over.” 

But the Storm was coming. And the Summer child was not prepared. 

A Summer child is unlikely to survive a Winter Storm. The Summer child is soft rays of light and a gentle, blanketing warmth. A Winter Storm is cold and dangerous. 

The Summer child fears the Winter Storm. 

“Winter children look forward to the Storm,” says her Winter mother. “The Storm is a bringing of the future. It weeds out the weak. Those who are blown away by the Storm are sent to the Autumn border. They bring about Winter, but live in a warmer space.” 

There is disdain in her mother’s voice when she says it.

Is it such a bad thing to go to Autumn? The Summer child wants to ask. 

“Spring, however, is a beautiful thing.” It may be the end of our season, but it’s your father’s season.” 

This is true. The Summer child has a Spring father. Early Spring, still cold, but the sun is out more and the trees are beginning to bud. The Spring father understands his Summer daughter more than her Winter mother, but he doesn’t quite understand her intensity. 

He likes to sit by the Great Lake of Ice, but he doesn’t follow the birds like she does. He likes to look around and visit the world around him, but it doesn’t reach for him as it does for her. He is not warm like her. He is not Summer. 

But he understands more than her mother does. 

“She doesn’t wish to hurt you,” he murmurs to her. “She just doesn’t understand.” 

It still hurts. She wants to say. 

“You are the person in the world who can hurt me most.” The Winter Mother said once. 

The Summer child had shrunk back. She wanted to run. She wanted to run far from that place and sit with her little red bird. Her little red bird never said things like that to her. 

“Wait,” her mother had said as the Summer child turned to run, “wait. I don’t mean it like that.” 

What do you mean? The Summer child wanted to ask. How can I hurt you more than anyone? 

Her mother never explained. Her father tried to. 

“She simply means that she loves you. The people we love have the most power over us.” 

The Summer child decided that explanation had to be enough for her. She truly believed she would never get anything more. 

But she did. 

There was a Winter child at her school, a friend of hers. The Winter child loved the warmth the Summer child brought. They never had snowball fights or made snow people. Instead, they sat by the trees and talked to the Summer child’s little red bird. 

“Hello, little red bird!” The Winter child would say. 

She would pick up the little red bird and hold it close. The bird would sit for a moment, then chirp loudly and try to escape. The Summer child would let the Winter child hold the little red bird for a moment more, then gently open her hands and take the bird back. The Winter child would be sad for a while, but she would get over it and they would sit under the tree with whichever critters the Summer child could call out. 

The Summer child grew to love her Winter friend, but the Winter child was not a good friend. The Winter child was obsessed with the Summer child’s little red bird. One day, the Winter child took the little red bird and did not give it back when the Summer child held out her hands for it.

The Summer child was forced to take desperate measures. She pushed the Winter child over so her little red bird was free to fly. After they managed to separate, the Winter child frowned. 

“I wanted to hold the bird.” 

The Summer child did not respond. 

After that incident, the Winter child did not speak to the summer child ever again. The Summer child missed her friend, but she decided the safety of her little red bird was more important. 

***

The hail pelts my skin. The snow is a blanket of frost. The silence is so so loud. And the cold is encompassing. It hurts. It hurts so much. And it’s so cold. 

***

A Winter Storm can come in many ways. Winds that blow harsh and cold. A heavy fall of snow that encompasses all. There can be lighting or silence. There can be ice or hail or sleet. 

This Storm was all seven. 

As the snow began to fall, the Summer child raced around the Wintery Wood, making sure all of her animal friends were safe and good. She helped the little ones into holes in trees and the big ones into caves. 

“Come home!” Her mother called. 

But the Summer child pulled a bear by the paw into a cavern by the river. 

“You’re not safe out there!” Her mother called. 

But the Summer child moved a rock out of the way so two foxes could curl up under the overhang. 

“The Storm is coming!” Her mother called.

You think I don’t know that? The Summer child wanted to scream back. I have to help these animals. If they were hibernating like they should be, they’d be fine. 

The Summer child looked at her little red bird, chirping to the other little birds in the sky. 

If I weren’t here, they would be fine. 

The little red bird went silent and looked at her, as if he heard her thoughts. She didn’t notice him. 

The Summer child fell to her knees in the snow in despair. The little red bird gave a little tweet. 

I brought this upon them. I have caused their deaths. 

As the storm picked up, so did the squawking of the little red bird. The winds blew. The little red bird screamed. The snow fell. The little red bird hopped around panickedly. The sky flashed and hailed and sleet. The little red bird cawed loudly enough to catch the attention of a large bear. 

As the Summer child sank into her mind once and for all, she heard crashing steps and a warm weight settled on her back. 

***

Slowly, warmth returns. The sun shines on me once again. I take a deep breath. I have survived.

***

The Summer child wakes. There is a brown bear settled next to her with one large arm covering her whole body. The Summer child sits up slowly. The bear looks at her and almost sighs in relief. It removes its arm and helps her up. 

“Ah, you’re awake,” says a voice the Summer child does not know. 

She turns toward the sound. Leaning on the tree is a child dressed in red. Her cloak seems to imitate feathers. Her nose is pointed and her eyes are pitch black. 

“Thank you, Bear. You are welcome to return to your cave.” The little red child says. 

The bear rises. It bows deeply, first to the little red child, and then to the Summer child. Then, it lumbers away into the Wintery Wood. 

The Summer child looks to the little red woman. 

“Hello, Summer child.” She says softly. “You’ve done so well. The Wintery Wood is not a safe place for a Summer child. The storm came and I expected you to hide out with your mother. But instead you tried to help the animals.”

Did they live? Are they okay? The Summer child wants to ask. 

“All of the animals are alive and well, because of you.” The little red child says. “You’ve done very well.” 

But I’m the one who made them come out in the Winter. If I wasn’t here they would never have been at risk anyway. 

“Risk. What a small price to pay for the wonder of being loved.” The little red child says, in a voice so soft, the Summer child wants to wrap herself in it like a blanket. 

The Summer child falls silent, staring at the little red woman. 

“You have loved these animals in a way they have never been shown love. That’s why they come to you. That’s why they respond to you. They have loved you as you have loved them.” The little red woman smiles and approaches the Summer child. “Your love has made us what we are. Your love has given us the ability to think and feel. For that, we are thankful. But, while we were Winter once, we must now travel away. Your love has made us what you are. Summer.” 

The Summer child smiles sadly. Her little red bird, ready to leave the nest. 

“Don’t cry, Summer child,” the little red child wipes away a tear. “You are invited to join us. Come with us to the lands of Summer.” 

But my mother- 

“Let us go speak to your mother. Come. Be a bird with me.” 

The little red child hands the Summer child a cloak of blue feathers. She pulls it around her shoulders and adjusts it until she’s happy. 

Then, the little red child shows the Summer child how to become a bird. It is painful. It is difficult. Drops of red blood soak into the snow around her as she ruffles her wings and new feathers. 

But she turns into a bird. 

A cardinal and a bluebird cross the sky and make their way to the Winter mother’s home. They land and the Summer child returns to human form with a stumble and more of that red blood. She wipes it away and knocks on the door. The little red bird perches on her shoulder. 

The mother rushes out the door. 

“Oh, my sweet summer child. We were so worried.” the Winter mother says, pulling the Summer child closer. 

When she releases her, she looks at the Summer child. She notices. 

“Something is different.” Her mother murmurs. Her father steps out from behind her and places a hand on his wife’s shoulder. 

“It’s time,” he says softly. “It’s time for you to go.” 

The Summer child nods. Her mother is weepy. The goodbye is tearful. 

The Summer child squeezes their hands in a promise to write.

***

Once upon a time, there lived a woman who was odd. She lived in the lands of Summer with a little red bird who was sometimes a little red woman. She danced with the leaves and played in the water. And every year, she would don a cloak of blue feathers and red blood to fly down to the Wintery Wood, where her mother lived. Her mother would welcome her and her little red bird. 

The Summer woman was odd, but she was quite happy with her little red bird and her frequent trips to her family. You can cry. She would say to herself. The Storm has blown this over.

Abigail Hyacinthe Woelk is a young writer in St. Charles, MO. They write what they love, and love what they write. They hope to make the world a better, more hopeful place with their loving words. They have previously had work published in Worlds of Possibility and Plot Twist Press.