Note: Another very beautiful chapter by Pendragginink.
Chapter 11
Parrot Eyes/They are beautiful/ Margaret thought, watching Hal play with the little lorikeet parrots, deep jewel colors of red, green and yellow, and that was just the wounds on his face. Same colors as the tiny birds, just not as bright. Hal thought the birds were beautiful. He said so, but then, he thought most things were beautiful, except his own face. That was the only thing they disagreed on, well, that and fresh fig juice.
Hal hated figs in any form she knew. For her, the pale fruit was food and the green juice was juice. Lizard juice, he called it, Poisons pretty pirates. And dried figs reminded him of lizard skin. Can't stay beautiful eating ugly food. He had laughed. She wondered at that. Food was just food. She eaten raw lizards, and seen small children sold for sale as food in the marketplace. What place beauty in that?
It was the power of the thing, she decided. It wasn't so much that he wouldn't eat figs, he would relish them quickly enough if starving. It was simply, that he didn't want to. And the power was in knowing he had the choice.
The lorikeets festooned the branches over their heads, like clusters of exotic tropical blossoms, and flickered about watching Hal's nimble fingers fashion a cup from a folded leaf and pour it full of fig juice from the ubiquitious canteen Rashjid insisted be dragged along as his idea of the perfect refreshment.
Margaret saw that Hal had noticed she was watching him . He smiled, only slightly, because it hurt to smile, she knew, and he did not turn to look at her. She could see blood bright and new on his lips; the wounds left by the fish hooks were not healing well.
At least 15 little birds came to sit on his head and shoulders, turning their heads upside down at the wonder of him filling the cup. Several of the bolder birds shuffled their way down his arm jostling for position , squabbling over a spot from which they could sip the heady contents, their eyes closing in pleasure.
Margaret was pleased as well, but it was not the birds she watched and wondered about. It was the manner of the man. She sat entranced watching him totally absorbed in feeding the greedy feathered-ones . The restless little parrots now fought and hopped about his shoulders, pecked at his scabs, marched along his arms, tugged at his stitches, hung upside down from his ears, fussed and twittered in his hair braids, made love to the fascinating trinkets and beads woven into the plaits, and waited none too patiently for a chance to get at the fragrant syrup. Pretending to ignore their insistant chirps, Hal refilled the leaf cup with careful precision.
/I understand what he is doing, but why does he do it? Where is the gain/ Margaret could see no purpose in what he did. . The birds were capable of caring for themselves yet here he was, feeding them and grinning over it, tearing his lip to pieces, but for what? For having found a use for the fig juice? Pouring out the juice would dispose of it and it would feed the ants. The satisfaction of having so good a thing as the fig juice to give them?
His efforts did have a purpose she knew, she could feel it in the intensity of his concentration, he was working towards something. He had enticed the birds, true, but what was that? They were more irritating than anything.
"Yi, parrot." /Just look at that now./ Hal shoo'd a parrot grimacing at the small guest having just poohed in his pocket.
Margaret laughed.
Hal's face lit, delighted, and his eye was merry as He held the cup out as far to the side as he could reach, trying not to grin at the little birds all turning as one, little parrot eyes following as he balanced the fig friendly cup on the girls knee. Grinning hurt his lip.
/So, this is what fun looks like./
The indignant little birds fussed and squawked at him; Hal just pointed to the cup, one finger nearly touching it. One of the pouting little birds soon gave in and walked along his arm to his hand, dangled upside down over the cup and sipped the juice; it was but a moment till the entire parrot crew moved over to claim a share, stopping now and again to chirr and trill at both of them what they thought of the whole business.
"It is good to hear you laugh, Minette."
"How good?"
"Paradise. What shall I do next to make you laugh?"
"Try explaining to the 'parrot eyes' surrounding us that the fig juice is gone."
And, later, after Hal managed to outrun the last of the parrot attack, there was much laughter indeed, and Hal answered Margaret that , yes, that's what is mean by 'having fun and did she like it.'
"It was pleasant enough at the time, ..."
"Minette, when do you play?"
"Play?"
"Play, you know, have fun. Take it easy." Hal fell silent as it dawned on him that for this child, no, not child, child she had never been, for this... one, nothing had ever been easy.
"You are talking about having fun."
"But the fun always ends, is that it? Can't have fun and good times all the time, can you? How would you know what a good time was if thats all you had?" Hal stopped in the road, faced her, fearful of what her blunt wisdom would say.
If 'fun' for its own sake must surely end, would it not be wise then, to avoid 'fun'? And would you not be happier, not knowing you were not happy?
"So, you found the catch in it."
But I wonder. Is there a catch?