Yana Kane
Yana Kane came to the United States as a refugee from the Soviet Union. She holds a BSE from Princeton University, a PhD in Statistics from Cornell University, and an MFA in Creative Writing from Fairleigh Dickinson University. Her book of translations of Ukrainian poet Dmitry Blizniuk titled “My Fish Will Stay Alive” is forthcoming from Serving House Books. She is grateful to Bruce Esrig for editing her English-language texts.
Bird, Watching (FICTION)
Warner Hall was an imposing mansion full of mahogany furniture and portraits of stern people dressed in black, their necklines frosted with lace. The tour guide, a sallow-faced, unsmiling lady, seemed to have stepped from one of the portrait frames. As she droned on about the contributions of all the Eliases and Abigails Warner to the history of Warner County, Ellen made a polite effort to get interested. It failed. Soon, she was fidgeting and yawning just like her classmates. At last, the sallow-faced lady led them down the steps into the dappled spring garden. When the tour guide stopped by a sundial to resume her spiel, Ellen, surprised at her own boldness, edged into the thin shadows of the young-leaved branches. Then, she ran. A turn, another turn, and she slowed down. The air was redolent of lilacs. A graceful white pavilion seemed to float like a swan among the waves of blossoming bushes.
Ellen drew near and looked in through arched French doors. Dust motes danced above the gleaming floor of an empty ballroom. In the sunlit silence, Ellen suddenly sensed that someone was looking at her. She glanced across the room, through the matching French doors in the opposite wall. And there, in the green half-gloom of the lilac thicket, was a pair of enormous, black eyes. A bird—a small brown-and-black, stippled creature that seemed to consist entirely of a feathery face—was staring at her. Enchanted, Ellen put her hand on the bronze doorknob and tried to open the door. No luck. Locked. She let go and, full of curiosity and longing, just stared back at the bird.
“Ellen! I’m shocked! You’re supposed to stay with the class. Didn’t you listen?” Mrs. K’s foghorn voice made her jump. Ellen gave another twist to the doorknob, as if hoping that the door would relent and let her in, so she could run to the owl waiting in the fragrant thicket on the other side. But the door stayed locked. And there was no longer anyone on the other side of the pavilion. Mrs. K could’ve scared a stuffed turkey off a Thanksgiving table, let alone a secretive wild bird off a branch.
—
Ellen gripped the steering wheel, foreseeing an unpleasant conversation with Peter. He hated waiting, especially waiting for her. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of cheery little buttery-yellow cabins on a green slope by the highway. “Log cabins for sale! Sustainably harvested wood!” the sign said. Ellen had never thought about buying a cabin. Where would she put it, anyway? At twenty-five, she had no use for something that would tie her down to a particular place. But she found herself turning into the gravel parking lot. I just need a moment to stretch my legs, she thought, responding to the imaginary, scowling Peter.
The neat row of cabins resembled gingerbread houses set out to bake in the intense noon sun. But one little house stood apart, shaded by the spruce forest encroaching on the grassy lot. Ellen walked there, breathing in the green scent of warm tree resin, enjoying the transition from the heat into the mild coolness under a vast tree. Unlike the rest of the cabins, this one didn’t have a price sticker in its window. Ellen peered in, across the empty room, through the window on the other side. Her skin prickled. There they were—enormous black eyes in a feathery face, unblinkingly, intently staring at Ellen from a hole in the tree trunk. Ellen lowered her eyes, feeling strangely shy in the presence of the small stranger. After a moment, she started to move softly, getting ready to step around the cabin and come into the presence waiting on the other side.
Silence was shredded by the Bolero ringtone she had assigned to Peter. She rummaged frantically in her purse, fumbling for the phone. Yet she knew even before she looked up that the owl would be gone.
—
The park closed at twilight. Ellen tried to ignore her shortness of breath, pushing herself to go faster along the upsloping trail. She wished she could stop and linger here, savoring the cognac scent of autumn leaves, instead of facing a long drive to her empty apartment. But she had to hurry: the ranger at the parking booth would be inconvenienced by her lateness. As it was, she probably would be the last one out. A woman her age should know better.
Yet, when she heard the rush of water, she couldn’t help herself. So close! Just a few steps, really, she said to herself, hoping to silence the reproachful inner voice, as she turned onto a path leading to the stream. And indeed, in just a few steps, the path ended at the door of a long, low building. The walls were entirely covered in ivy that bristled fur-like in the fading light. Behind the building, the spume of a waterfall gleamed white in the blue-gray air. Ellen stood on tiptoe to reach the round window at the top of the ivy-wreathed door. She looked across the shadow-filled space to the matching door on the opposite wall. The circle of its window framed a gnarled branch. Perched on it was the familiar small shape. The enormous eyes staring at her were so jet-black that even in the dusk their darkness was startling.
Ellen put her hand on the chilly doorknob and gave it a tentative twist. It turned easily, the latch bolt sliding back with a silky click. Ellen knew that any small noise she might make crossing the room would be swallowed by the sound of the waterfall. The second door would surely yield to her touch as readily as this one. Nothing would get in her way.
Except this question: why go there now? She was well past the age of fairy tales, past the time of untrammeled explorations and the reach of foolish hopes. What was there to lure or compel her to open the door, cross the vacant space, and emerge on the other side? She was free to turn around and walk away. She could simply whip out her phone and let it tether her to the familiar world, let its glowing screen punch a hole in the twilight and dispel the disquieting power of the inscrutable gaze.
Ellen hesitated for another heartbeat.
The watcher in the gathering night kept still, waiting for her decision.