Chapters (35)
And? Douglas asked from the dark. He was waiting now for more.
That’s all. Kevin shrugged.
He could have told Douglas about Ovid’s version of the myth, or how kingfishers didn’t really nest on the water, and certainly not in winter, but instead he stopped there. The ocean was churning in the dark, the night colder now. The dinner had been a success, and for that Kevin was thankful. He rose and stretched, then locked the window against the chill and started across the room, but stopped and came back to the window seat.
Are you coming? he asked.
He held a hand out in the dark; and Douglas, silhouetted momentarily against the sea, nodded and reached for his hand and said, yes, he was coming at last to bed.
In April, he perched on a witch hazel. . .
In April, he perched on a witch hazel branch, shivering, one eye closed, waiting for the sun to warm his wings. The night had been particularly cold, the winter long, the fishing scarce.
He’d been alone all the time.
When the sun appeared, the warmth felt good on his wings. He lifted from his perch, wheeled, then cackled over the river, studying the surface for the slightest flash: a trout, a small shad, a frog. He lit on a willow snag downriver and sunned himself, raised his tail, shat, and called again. The days were growing longer now, the alewives ascending the streams. The year before, he’d built his nest near the estuary in a seam of clay, and soon—if she returned—the time would come for a new nest along the bank.
The kingfisher fished all morning. He returned to the willow snag at noon; slept, then woke shortly after, startled by the call. Was it she? They hadn’t seen each other since the summer before.
He dropped from the branch, called, winged downriver, his image doubled in the water. He heard the call again, closer now. If she returned, he’d dive into the river, greet her with a fish, fly around her, feed her beak to beak. If she returned, he’d begin to excavate a new nest, claw clay out of the earth, arrange the perfect pile of fish bones to lay their eggs upon.
He pumped his wings harder now. He heard the cackle closer, louder, more insistent. He recognized her voice. She was hurling her way upriver.
Any moment now: she’d fly into his vision.