Open Writing

That afternoon I took a long rope and my neighbor’s son Ban and walked along the cliff tops. I soon spotted the falcons feeding their young in the nest on the ledge.

The drop from the top of the cliff had no handholds but I explained to Ban that if I lowered him, secured by the rope, he could then take the biggest of the three fledglings and I’d haul him back up.

“You will need this gauntlet to hold it,” I told him. “They are natural born killers and biting and striking with claws is what they do best.”

Ban nodded and donned the gauntlet. I lowered him down the cliff face. The parent birds wheeled around him crying out their distress and snapping their beaks at him. Ban fended them off and reached the nest.

With one hand he drew the chicks’ attention and with the other seized the largest chick from above, pinning her wings. I drew him back up the cliff.
I took the young falcon and placed it in my jerkin next to my skin. The warmth of my body and my heartbeat seemed to settle it and we walked home without incident but got in late. I put the bird under a basket in the shed and went into my house to bed. Aoife was already asleep.

Next morning, I was awakened by a cool hand on my head. It was Aoife, removing a piece of grass from my hair. She held up my jerkin, which bore grass stains from where I lay at the edge of the cliff supporting Ban.
Aoife looked at me, eyes narrowed. “Where were you last night might I ask?”

“I was arranging for some new vestments for Father Cuthbert,” I replied.

“Lying in the grass?” she said. “A likely story.”

“You must trust me, Aoife. Things aren’t always what they seem.”

“Men are such notorious liars,” she said, flouncing off to get me some breakfast. The girl servant, Mae, at the bedroom door, glared her disapproval at me. I glared back. She flounced off, too.

My life as a Christian has its tricky moments.