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| Photo credit: Wolf on Pexels |
I hear the doves calling my name from the cliffs.
“Coo-ee-va! Coo-ee-va!”
Nobody is listening. Down here, at knee height, the clamour of human rage is
deafening. Angry ones surround me on all sides. The ones on the right have given
all they own to crush those on the left. The ones on the left have spun their half-truths into dragnets to capture the ones to the right. The ones in the middle
are shooting in circles hitting everyone who stands in range.
Some signal their entitlement, waving banners printed with ancient
riddles. Others sport visors of privilege, rushing against the ranks of the peddlers of falsehood, carrying secret swords weighted with words. Faceless
mercenaries are kettling them all, persuading them with pikestaffs and promises,
right, left , centre, slantwise towards the sea.
I won’t howl, for that would sound to them like despair. I
will not whimper. Yet, how else can I touch them?
Some from the right dig in
their heels, as they are dragged under the feet of those left-lingerers. I can
see some on the left trying to climb the walls to escape. As soon as they get half way up, they turn
back to unleash their mockery on the heads of the right-ramblers, faces
contorted with scorn below. Nobody cares if they fall in their fury. They get
to call it victory. The ones in the middle are no longer safely centred. They are
being spun like scythes in a whirlwind, first right, then left, always slicing,
always dividing, always falling and failing.
I am running, here, there, anywhere I can still see daylight
between them. They are fluttering, battering themselves against one another
like moths in a funnel of fire, melting into mayhem. Why don’t they love each
other any longer?
I must reach them. I can’t see who is who. Bodies blur. I can’t
check their identities, allegiances, alliances. What would it matter to me? Every
last one is in my heart. Every last one fills a gulf in my soul.
So I’m pushing forward, the hairs on my body brushing between their
kicking legs, narrowly avoiding their stumbling soles. My ears are full of
their yelling, their screeching for vengeance, for violence, for retaliation.
I
nudge a hand with my muzzle. It hangs limp. I lick the cheek of a pale one fallen. She doesn’t move. We are almost at the cliffs now. Some are charging along the edge,
but the mob of them has grown so wide, others spill into the breakers and fall
silent. I cannot catch their eye again.
“Coo-ee-va! Coo-ee-va!”
High and far, in the fragile light bouncing off the salt waves, I hear
the doves. This time, the people hear it too. It means nothing to them. Yet the
sound makes them all unstiffen their necks and raise their heads to the sky to
see what this strange cry might mean. They halt as one, inches from the
cliff edge. I sense they are confused. Why are they all standing together? Who has messed
with their differences? Who dares play peacemaker? The doves are not giving
them entertainment, or predictions, or tokens to spend. What could possibly be
their worth? But no matter. They stand still anyway. The thrift flowers blow
kisses of pink petals to soothe raw ankles and scarred heels.
A trill, a squeaking as the creak of a door from the sea.
“Coo-ee-va! Coo-ee-va!”
Half of them turn their heads to where the sun is cracking her
golden yolk into the salmon-flecked ocean. The other half listens without understanding,
to the song of the dolphins offshore.
I nuzzle the palm of a young child as I melt away. Her
mother hears her giggling and lifts her up shoulder-high, dropping her weapons to ricochet off the rocks and come to rest in a rockpool.
“Mummy, did you see the white wolf?”
“There are no wolves in this land,” says her mother. “That's just silly talk, little one. Let’s get you home.”
“Her name is Caoimhe. She is for us and for our peace. The doves and
dolphins told me.”
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