From the Cuckoo

And I can listen to thee yet;

Can lie upon the plain

And listen, till I do beget

That golden time again.

William Wordsworth, ‘To the Cuckoo’

I’ve been here on the island for more than fifty nights now. I arrived and those first nights were so cold that the arches of my feet between my toes stuck stubbornly to the morning hoarfrost of the branch. I’d flown far, just like the year before, but this year settled here, which was somewhere new to me.

More precisely, here is this small alder tree that stands alone on the grass as it makes its way to those jagged rocks that go down to the sea loch. That loch acts like a painted backdrop to my domain, confining me to what’s in front of it. To the right there’s a concrete jetty that leads up from the water to the remains of an old blackhouse, of which all that exists now is the first two or so feet of the thick, stone walls. To the left is a strong stone house with everything in perfect symmetry save for the chimney at one end. The house is bordered by a vegetable garden sheltered by two tall, black poles arched together like a giant whale’s jawbone with a fine net carefully pulled over it like a taut skin. Behind the house, a hill leads into more hills into the distance and back to the village; today each of those hills was pockmarked by rivulets that sometimes become full streams right down to the sea loch when the rains are truly in.

The couple arrived at the house five nights ago. A man and a woman old enough to choose a holiday like this but not so old that the walk from the village over the hills to the house caused any issues. They carried large rucksacks on their backs and shared the load of a large shopping bag of supplies by each taking a handle and carrying it between them.

That evening they arrived they came outside with drinks as the sun began to disappear. They sat on the old wrought-iron bench and looked out over the sea loch. I listened from my alder and they spoke softly. There was an exhaustion to their bearing: not physical but mental. There was much shared and carried over that hill with them.

I sounded my voice.

I saw his acknowledgement. He looked over in my direction and raised his index finger to her to gesture for her to pause, not as an admonishment, but quite the opposite: he wanted her to hear me, too.

So I called again.

He pointed towards me. He asked her if she’d heard it. She had. He asked her if she knew what it was making the noise. She told him she didn’t, and he told her what I am.

We were sat only twenty or so metres from each other but with the dense blur of leaf coverage and my grey color in this fading light against the scree of the steep mountainside on the other side of the sea loch, there was no chance of them seeing me here in this alder. I knew that.

They returned to talking. He listened to her and also watched out for me.

*

On the second morning he sat down gingerly on the old bench, placing his mug of coffee on the grass, making sure it was squarely set so as not to topple, and positioned a pair of binoculars on the seat next to him. These belonged to the house; I would often see them sat in a bowl by one of the windows. After a minute or so of staring out as if to wake himself, he picked up the binoculars, removed the caps, and arranged the eyecups and brought them to his eyes. He looked out, scanning the horizon, across the sea loch to the other side and then down into the finger-end of the loch to the fish farm. Four placid annulets would be all that was really visible and it would be impossible for him to understand the energy going on down inside them

I made my sound.

He swiveled and set his sights back on the alder. I thought I could see the wrinkles in his forehead as he strained to find me.

I sang again. His binoculars moved to the left a twitch. And then another. He was on me, but he couldn’t see me.

He sat there poised for minutes and then lowered the binoculars away from his face and picked up the mug of coffee. The steam rose over his eyes before being whisked away back towards the house in the light, cold wind. He shifted his body back into the depth of the bench. Out of the house came the woman. She stood behind him with her arm on his right shoulder. He pointed towards me, explaining to her where I was but that he still couldn’t see me. She gripped his shoulder tighter for a second and then moved away. He remained for a few minutes and then moved away too, looking back towards me longingly as if I would release myself now I thought he was leaving. I did not.

*

He would sit on that old bench and look out each morning and some evenings when they returned from their day out. Sometimes she would join.

They weren’t there looking just for me. There was much to see out in the sea loch. Some mornings, a boat would sail over to the fish farm and a man in deep-blue coveralls and a green jacket would step off the boat and onto the ledge of those annulets. One morning an otter appeared, and I was, rightly, forgotten as the two of them stood working together, on double duty, indicating to the other when they saw the sleek body appear in the water again. Another day the rain was so fierce that waterfalls appeared on the far mountainside, and they stood indoors with the binoculars, occasionally accidentally knocking them against the window.

Each time they were out there I’d sound my note and they’d seek me out with no success.

Our exchange clearly had rules, I came to realize. If they really wanted to see me they could have moved towards the alder and ousted me from this tree by threatening my refuge. Yet that was never on the cards. I knew that about them.

I started to feel myself malevolent. I could hear some of their conversations and they were a young couple here to escape and to rejuvenate their minds and bodies. I began to question whether I should simply offer myself up and float right up and out of that alder before them like a giant, dull hummingbird. After all, they showed me so much care and attention.

But then I decided against that. Our call is beautiful and our actions are wicked. To them I am the stuff of fiction, of art and of poetry. But in truth we’re ugly things to behold. Our bills are thin and pointed; our eyes are haunting in their crazed yellowness. We’re grey. We fly without grace. I’d be a disappointment if they were to see me. We’re the sirens of the trees.

And so I carried on calling to them each day from my hiding spot until they left with their rucksacks. As they had listened to me, I had listened to them in their anticipation of the golden time that would not come from me.