The day we met.
I could feel the heat coming into my pink bedroom though the window screen. The smell of my mother’s roses was strong; already they were nodding their heads as if to say, it’s even too hot for us.
Stay home.
I had to go that day, even though the fire was out of control on the hills behind our two-bedroom fibro. The school was only open for us kids whose parents had to work, as mine did. Mum had said goodbye with a kiss on my head. Nicotine-stained fingers handed me a lunch box with the odd array of leftovers I didn’t eat for dinner and I wouldn’t eat for lunch.
I gently patted my ceramic birds goodbye. They may be ornaments, but they were alive to me. Lined up from tallest to smallest, a currawong to a blue wren.
As I rode my bike, socks pulled up to avoid scratches from long dry grasses, ash fell on my hand. It smudged like a melted snowflake.
The school corridors were empty. Only one room was opened for us.
The teacher reminded me of the roses, head tilted and an aura of pathetic weakness.
Stay home, go home.
There were three other kids my age, two giggling about a magazine, the other listening to a radio with tinny sounds of pop music I didn’t recognise.
The gigglers met my eyes and raised the magazine to hide their faces. My stomach flipped and I hurried to get my own book from my suitcase-shaped school bag and hide behind it.
‘Do your work, children.’ The teacher squirmed, head resting heavily on one hand. A useless attempt to stop the giggling.
‘Excuse me, ma’am.’ A giggler raised a hand with chipped black nail polish. Earnest with wide eyes.
‘Yes,’ the teacher almost yawned.
‘Will we die?’ she asked in a sweet voice.
‘We all will one day.’
My breath was higher in my chest. Something was happening. I knew this was going to be uncomfortable. Why would she ask that, I wondered.
I am the kid that is always hiding like a worm from a bird. Ducking down my hole to escape.
‘I mean the fire, miss.’
Then, on cue, the radio went to a news break. The voice spoke of flames as high as three-story buildings.
I moved to the edge of my seat. I wanted to go home. I had to get my birds.
We listened in silence until the music came back on.
Go home.
‘We are perfectly safe here. Do your work,’ said the teacher.
But she had done her work. My mouth was dry, I was counting to five under my breath. Fingers tapping on my leg in a rhythm. Numbers became words. Birds’ names.
Wren. Wren. Wren. Wren. Wren.
Then the windowpane shook and the gigglers screeched in harmony.
‘What was that?’ asked Radio Kid. A pause and they all ran to the window.
Even the teacher raised her head for moment. ‘Probably just a bird, back to your seats.’
A bird.
They looked at me.
‘Bird girl, you have to do something.’ The gigglers seemed serious.
Someone had left a maroon cardigan on the back of a plastic chair and I grabbed it on the way out the door. I needed it to throw over the bird, to keep it calm.
All the bird rescue theory I had devoured came back so quickly it blurred in my mind. Unable to catch any of the meaning.
I. Had. To. Save. it.
Outside was hot, like when I took a cake out of the oven with the fan on. The sort of heat that hits you hard and dries your eyeballs.
The trees were bending in the hot wind and the asphalt was radiating heat though my sandals.
Quick calculations of which window was the classroom, and I found you. Your head to one side and a spot of red blood on your soft grey feathers.
I stopped. My feet were betraying me. I wanted to pick you up. Wondered where to bury you. Faces appeared at the window. The gigglers and teacher. They couldn’t see you because you were against the wall.
Then you moved so slightly that I thought I imagined it. I got closer and could see you were young with soft feathers, independent but still reliant. And startled, not dead. I put the cardigan over you and held you close. You opened your amber eye and looked at me. Then closed it again. I noticed ash on my hand from your feathers. You were flying away from the fire. I could feel your heartbeat.
The words came back to me and I could see them in my mind.
Warm. Dark. Quiet. Safe place.
The gigglers saw us and were pointing. They jumped up and down and indicated to come inside. They wanted to meet you.
To see you, dead or alive.
Not like I saw you. I knew you were clever. You can recognise yourself in a mirror like a primate can, and use tools in your beak to break food for your young.
I knew that I couldn’t save you at school. It wasn’t quiet or safe.
So I took you.
Home.
Katie Munro is a neurodivergent writer with a Masters in Writing from Swinburne University. She has a background in journalism, focusing on disability advocacy. Her creative work explores themes of neurodivergence and her connection to history and the natural world.