The Honeytree flock

Hi. This is the opening to my novel, the Honeytree flock. Just after some basic opinion and readonability please. Apologies - some mild bad language. Thanks...

The Honeytree flock

Chapter 1

I am too old to fly. My wings are tattered and my tail feathers are worn. I spend my days sat amongst filth and piss on the rooftop of this vast hospital. I am able to walk only a few paces to the edge of the rooftop and look either into the city (to the east) or out into the countryside (the west). The ambulances stream in and out. People limp and stagger to the main doors. I watch them, hungry and aching all over, unable to adequately shake the fleas from my feathers. The younger birds keep me company and bring me food.

On clear days I can see the ocean to the south.

The seagulls named this place ten summers ago. Personally, I feel the hospital would have sufficed. Or the Arr-deer-knee. I believe this has a certain quality and is, of course, the proper name. But the seagulls came with their strange language and enormous wings. They imposed their ways on the place and named my home l’hospiltálet. Their enforcers, le Securoiré, are long since vanished. But in a strange way they still run the show.

I eat and I talk. The sparrows, the swifts, the crows and the swallows come to me and demand to know the history of the place. Most of them, so easily distracted, fly away once I tell them the freedom they enjoy is due to the actions of one small seagull who couldn’t fly. They want battles, culls, heroes and death. But once I tell them their liberty was brought thanks to Medeek’s quiet diligence and tapping feet they click their beaks and disappear.

Such impatience.

I step from my shelter onto the bustling rooftop and let the breeze pass through what remain of my feathers. The smell of ammonia is overwhelming. The shit is half an inch thick in places. The corpse of a sparrow lies decomposing in the filth defecated by his many brothers. The stench from the bins on the ground below make my eyes water.

What an enchanting place.

I could easily have chosen to live in the city. The rooftop of WH Smith’s provides excellent shelters plus access to an abundance of food. The people live far below. The noise and the smoke doesn’t reach the loftier heights. I was rather taken by the place.

But there were the spikes.

For this and other reasons I stayed in l’hospiltálet to see out my final seasons. I tell those who will listen the story of Medeek, the great leader who helped free us from the reign of le Securoiré. Her bravery and strength helped defeat those reprehensible birds and give freedom to our rooftops. Aleric, they say to me, was she big? Was she beautiful?

Yes, I say. As big as an eagle; as beautiful as the sun.

Did she fly all through the day and dance all through the night?

As high as the clouds; without pause.

This is what I tell those who will listen. Today, I will tell the truth.

To reach the end of life is similar in feeling to eating a large meal. You’re surprised you don’t want anymore. With this surprise comes inspiration. And I’m inspired to tell the true story of Medeek.

A chick approached me last night and demanded to be told the whole story.

“In this light?” I said. “I can’t see the trees properly at the brightest time on a summer’s day. Do you think I have resolve enough to talk long into the night? I fall over in the dark. Is this what you want? Hah? Stupid
chick.”

But he was persistent. I swore and I jabbed him with my beak, but he was clearly in love with the legend. I promised to tell him the whole, unabridged, tale today.

After breakfast, of course. I wonder what the young chick has brought me. We arranged to meet by the air vent on the east side of the roof overlooking the main road into l’hospiltálet. It is a good spot and encourages me to tell a good story. The road leads out into the city and reminds of freedom; the trees to the west spread far into the hills and reminds me of the world we have lost.

I wander into the daylight and a starling nearly knocks me onto my back as he comes in to land.

“Sorry, Aleric.”

“Buffoon. Why don’t you look where you’re going, you pig on wings?”

“Good morning, Aleric.”

I see the chick. He is waddling around on unsteady feet. Close to him is a slice of white bread. This will do nicely. I haven’t much of an appetite these days. Now that I don’t fly I find I have no little need for energy. Gone are the times when I could eat meat, fish, chip and worms. Bread and crisps are fine.

“Good morning, Aleric,” says a sparrow named, I think, Clifton. “A perfect day, I’d say. No wind and terrifically bright.”

“Don’t bother me with your piss. Fly to your brood and leave me be.”

“Good morning.”

I walk slowly towards the chick. He arrived at my shelter late yesterday and I have no idea where he came from. He looks familiar. Possibly he is from one of the newer families, but I can’t say I’ve seen him around here before. He certainly knew a lot about l’hospiltálet. His first question was do le Securoiré still demand that we eat only from the main bins at the back of the laundry.

My response may have been a little offhand. I didn’t want to encourage him.

“Is it all true about Medeek?” he asked. “Did she really once kill a man?”

Not stupid, but hopelessly misinformed. At this moment I decided to tell the truth about Medeek. The whole story from the very beginning. My decision was based partly on wanting to drive these silly rumours out of the infantile chick, but mostly because I know I may not have another opportunity. My end is near, I’m certain.

“Bread. You’ve brought me bread!”

“Sorry, wise Aleric,” replies the Chick. “Only I thought you said...”

“Meat. Fish. Worms. Are they not in abundance on the ground? Hah? I’m thinking you had yourself a very plentiful breakfast. Cheese. You have cheese in your eyes.”

The chick looks astonished and embarrassed. I snort and eat the bread.

“Hardly enough but it will do. Now. What is it you require?”

The chick clears his throat and looks at the ground in front of me.

“The story. The story of Medeek.”

I snort. “The story of Medeek is long and difficult. It will not make easy listening. I hope you have a strong heart and a strong stomach.”

“Yes, Aleric.”

“You are very young. I wonder if maybe you are too young.”

“No, Aleric. I will understand.”

“I don’t care if you understand or not. I don’t want an angry parent reproaching me for giving you nightmares.”

“I’ll be fine. Please, tell me everything.”

I stare into the distance at the trees. Clifton was correct – no wind to speak of.

“Medeek passed from the stifled darkness,” I said, “buffered by such dim warmth and comfort, into the harsh and swirling air ripping into her skin and plumage...”

“Sorry, wise Aleric. But what is buffered?”

“What? This is idle tittle-tattle. Do not concern yourself.”

“Sorry, Aleric.”

“Ahem. Skin and plumage like sandpaper on fruit, and thought only of her feet and a passion to move them to some unknown rhythm. What was
this?”

“A means to escape?” answered the chick.

“You are correct, my scrawny little child. I am encouraged to see that you know your history. Yes – even now, cold and new and alone, she thought of escape.”

“Wow.”

“I know.”

“Later, when she spoke of her passionate feet to Edie, her mother, Medeek found the action to be called dancing. Le Securoiré referred to it as tapping for worms. For those who dwelt in l’hospiltálet at that time to dance was to inhabit abandoned sentiment. It brought no food. It brought no shelter.”

“What is sandpaper, wise Aleric?” asked the child.

I breathed deeply and threw my head backwards.

“What? Please do not bother yourself with such detail,” I snapped. “Do you question the sun?”

“No.”

“Do you question why the sun warms us and illuminates our days, abandons the night?”

“I do not, Aleric.”

“It is just so. You asked me to tell the story of powerful Medeek and how she achieved her greatness, and this is what I am trying to do. How can I...”

“I am a good dancer,” said the child. “My mama is always telling me so.”

I sighed. “Go stick your head up your tail if you don’t want to listen! I would prefer to sleep under my wing than chit chat with you anyhow.”

“Please go on, wise Aleric.”