Week 29 - Blood Feather

Blood Feather

Matthew Ryan Fischer

He dropped deeper below the surface. What was it that spurred him on? What was the driving force – to push his body, to see what he could achieve? Or was there something else, something greater, or something primal that he had to see to? Harder and harder he pushed. Lower and lower he went. One inch at a time, further, always further. One kick more, heading for something, always just slightly out of reach.

He had seen something in the water. It had just been a glimpse. Something in the corner of his eye. What? What was it? What had he seen? Red. The color red. He thought he had seen something red, but he wasn’t sure.

He looked around, but his vision blurred. He didn’t have goggles. He didn’t have any swimming apparatus. He never did. Not here. Here was a local river, just off the road. A river he had played in as a boy. A river, hidden in the woods, mere yards from the city, but it was worlds away. It was dark and murky. He didn’t think about that. The river had shown him something and the river had taken it away. He tried to find it. He had to find it.

There... floating. Just floating there. So close. How had he not seen it before? Just out of reach. Red. Maybe it was a fish, but it wasn’t moving. It seemed like a leaf, but it was so deep and there was only this one. Silently still. Just sitting there. Like it had been waiting for him.

He moved slowly. He didn’t want to swim too quickly and push it away. It simply remained where it was.

It was a feather. A lone red feather. Deep in the river, somehow immune to the currents. He reached out and touched it, then wrapped his palm around it. Just a feather. Lost in the water.

It was colored red like blood. It had been alive, not some molted thing. There had still been life inside it when it was lost. Some poor bird has lost its wings. Lost its life. But there was no bird. No carcass. Nothing. Just the feather; a blood feather. It looked like life, but felt like death, its master missing. He suddenly realized just how deep and alone he really was, here far below the surface. It was just him, deep and dark and hidden away.

He let go of the feather and let it float away, free. Slowly it began to leave him. Slowly he lost sight of it. He watched, eerily calm, strangely out of touch with the world of water around him.

He thought of an angel, passing along, lost, dying or drowned. A tragic collapse as she struck the water, gasping for air, gasping for flight. But wings didn’t work under water. They just soaked through and helped to drag her down. A poor lonely little angel.

He was brought back to reality by a dull ache in his chest. Air. His body wanted air. It was telling him it needed to breathe. His body didn’t care about feathers or angels or random shadowed glimpses.

He very nearly opened his mouth.

Finally he moved. He had to move, or he would drown. He had to return to the surface, but instead he pushed forward momentarily, hoping to see the feather one last time.

But the feather was no more, nowhere to be seen.

It was getting harder. He was exhausted. No matter how hard he pushed himself, he was slowing down, fatigue setting in. He could feel the top of his left shoulder, right where it turned into his neck, and his right side underneath his armpit. The strangest parts ached. Not all over. Not all at once. Just little parts, letting him know they were sore, out of oxygen, shutting down.

The pressure got worse and his ears began to ache. He could feel it in his lungs and in the back of his throat and his nose. He wanted to breathe. He wanted to take a big gulp of air. There was no air here, but his body didn’t listen to reason. It only knew what it needed. It wanted to try to breathe anyway. Maybe he would spontaneously have gills, and maybe they would work. He didn’t think so.

If this were a movie some mermaid might arrive and blow oxygen into his lungs. This wasn’t a movie.

Dark all around him. He had lost the sun. He had lost the surface when he looked where he thought up should be. Below, there was nothing but shadow. He couldn’t tell how deep it went.

Turn back, he thought. Turn back. But where? Which way was back?

So instead, he simply pushed and pushed. He was sure he still knew up from down, surface from depth. He was sure. But he wasn’t that sure. This was no test. This was not some simple physical challenge. He had seen something, felt something. He had to make himself keep going.

Deeper and deeper still. He could almost see her, almost reach her. But he never could. And he never would.

He needed air. He needed air or he would die... He had to return to the surface. He had never been able to swim fast enough, go deep enough. He had never made it. He pushed himself as punishment. He pushed himself to make sure if he was ever given a similar situation that he would not fail again. But he could only go so deep. He needed air. He had to breathe.

She would wait. She would always wait. Down at the bottom, she wasn’t going anywhere.