The only window in my room is an arrow slit, which I can slip my hand through. I can see the ground through here, but my shoulder stops me slipping through and jumping to my death.
Every night I count the stars through this window. I sleep when I reach the seventy-third star, and I wake when the sun strokes my cheek. This is when my pigeon joins me. I call him Fuzzby because he has a feather that sticks up on top of his little head. He calls me Coo.
He lands on my pillow.
’Fuzzby,’ I say, ’your feet are forked like the Devil’s trident, but your step is light as an angel’s breath.’
’Coo,’ he replies.
’I’m here,’ I say. I tell him this, even though we both know I’ll always be here. I’m not going anywhere.
He trills a gentle song as I dance around the room, my hair trailing behind me like a wedding veil. I dream of a man in my arms, a handsome man with arms strong and eyes blue.
I dance until my stepmother comes up the stairs. She puts a key in the door, and then goes away. I know that, despite the key, the door will be locked. It’s always locked. Yet still I try. I rattle the handle, and thump the wooden frame, and stamp on the floor, and yell for her to come back. Eventually I drop to the floor, drying my tears on my hair.
Fuzzby nestles into my lap until my crying stops. Then he tilts his head and says,
’Coo.’
’I’m still here,’ I say, but on the word here Fuzzby flies away. He slides through the slit and before long he is a drip of ink in the distance. I cry again until my hair is too sodden to dry any more tears.
He returns the next day. I rush to him; there’s something in his beak, which I take from him. He flies off again the moment the object is mine.
He’s brought me a pencil. I press a finger against the tip and gasp as the sharp point pierces my flesh. I scribble on the walls. I twirl it around my fingers. I stare at it so hard that I don’t hear my stepmother put the key in the lock, and I forget to scream and cry and yell.
The next morning I wake at dawn and sit by the window, waiting for Fuzzby. He arrives with a tiny square of paper in his beak. The note reads:
Prince Charming seeks Damsel in Distress. Must have fairytale looks and dream of a happy ending, needs g.s.o.h and to be d.t.e. Prefer n/s, s/d.
Fuzzby hops from my leg to the pencil, then rolls the pencil to me with his beak.
’But how will I send it?’
’Coo,’ he says, sticking out his leg. A small blue ribbon is wrapped round his foot.
’Oh Fuzzby!’ I cry. ’Oh Fuzzby you cupid, you Eros, you master of love!’
And so I begin.
Hello. I chew the end of the pencil. A friend passed me your invitation for suitors. You seem like a dapper fellow. I should be rather – I tap the pencil on my knee –delighted to hear from you further. I live alone, so your correspondence will brighten my day.
I fix the scroll to Fuzzby’s leg.
’Coo,’ he calls as he flies away.
The next morning he returns with a new note.
Hello mystery lady, it reads. Your writing is light as heaven’s clouds. I presume you would like some information about myself. I enjoy fox hunting, admiring tapestries and playing cricket. I am currently living the high life that is afforded a nobleman, but am looking to find a new career. I was thinking perhaps social work. Please respond promptly, as I crave to know more about you.
I reply:
To dear, kind sir. I’m afraid I have no more paper, so I must write on the back of your letter. Your life sounds most marvellous! Sadly, my life is dull in comparison. I do only what my confines allow me to, as I am doomed to spend eternity in a cursed tower. Please tell me of your life of freedom, as it helps me to feel like I am living.
I send Fuzzby away, but he doesn’t return the next day. He doesn’t return the day after that either. I don’t sleep, I don’t eat, I don’t dance, I don’t cry. I just wait.
Weeks pass. I make an effort to sleep, but the slightest sound wakes me. Soon I feel that I can’t lift my arms to brush my hair, or my lungs to let in oxygen.
Then one night, just as sleep finally fills my veins, I hear a fluttering.
’Coo.’
There he is, sitting on the windowsill!
’Coo,’ Fuzzby says again. I lunge across the room, but just as I reach him he leaves once again. I peer out the window, and can see Fuzzby on the ground, walking in circles around a dirty, scratched man. His clothes are ragged and his feet are bare.
’Is it you?’ I call.
’It is I,’ he responds. ’I have come to rescue my damsel in distress.’
’Thank you,’ I say, ’but there is no way.’
’I’ll climb to your window.’
’I have nothing for you to climb.’
’Your bedsheets.’
’I have only the one. Even if I tore it, it wouldn’t be long enough. Besides, it would not be strong enough to hold you.’
So the man begins to cry. He says,
’I have walked so far, I have searched for so long. Finally your pigeon brought me to you. Surely there must be a way!’
I join his crying. I reach for my hair to dry my tears, and as I hold it I realise that it has grown considerably. It’s thick as rope, and surely as long. Gathering my hair up, I feed it out of the window.
’What are you doing?’ he calls.
’Take the end!’
I stand with my back to the window, bracing myself against the wall. His hands grip my hair. He is heavier than I expected, but I bite my tongue against the pain. As he climbs, his huffs of breath get nearer and nearer. Then suddenly the pressure on my hair loosens. He has an arm through the window! I try to move away, but my hair is partially trapped under him.
’Don’t move!’ he says. ’I’ll fall if you move!’
I stand very still, my back to him, my hair pinned between his body and the tower wall.
’This window’s too small!’ he says. ’I won’t fit through!’
’Oh,’ I say. ’Of course you won’t. We really should have thought of that before.’
So we stay, me terrified of moving an inch, and him gripping the wall through the window. Bit by bit, his arm slips. I cry tears I can’t dry. They fall free down my cheeks as we both wait for the end.
© Angela Trevithick, 2008
Fuzzby and Coo was read by Lynsey Pow at the Liars’ League Lore & Legend event on Tuesday March 11th, 2008.
Angela Trevithick currently lives and works in London. Her stories have appeared in America, Australia and England. In 2005, she was the Young Writer-in-Residence at the Katharine Susannah Prichard Writers Centre in Western Australia. Angela is currently working on a novel.
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