The Honeytree flock

Hi. Here is the opening to my novel the Honeytree flock. I posted it yesterday but didn't receieve any feedback. I'd be happy with a skim read and a basic yay, nay or I'd read on yes please thanks a lot. I;m not after in depth critique and analysis. Thanks for looking!

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?”