The Hawk: Part One Read online

  When Eric stirred, he noticed the need to urinate, and that he was alone. And that the room smelled differently; had Lynne used new laundry soap, or something in the bathroom, or…. He struggled to sit up, then inhaled deeply. Then he cringed, remorse bubbling in his guts. Pulling back the bedding, he gazed at his legs, several pieces of gauze taped along his shins. Now he remembered her tending to those wounds, which had occurred during a fight with another…. Why had they been fighting? Usually Eric didn’t get involved with other…. He sighed. It had been over food, for he hadn’t wanted to come home on an empty stomach. He had only wanted to land, return to normal, then…. Making love to Lynne would have occurred first, but she hadn’t been home. And as soon as he’d realized that, he remembered the painting. He hadn’t even finished that painting before….

  He stood, his legs still wobbly. Walking to the bathroom, he sat on the toilet, emptying his bladder, taking deep breaths. Those four days had been some of the roughest in a long time, in part from the awkward transition, which he had never before experienced. Usually he knew when it would happen a few days before it did, the feeling of flight blurring the edges of real life, the scent of the wild strong in his nostrils, his vision improving. Then his limbs would start to twitch, as if reminding him there was no way to halt this alteration. He was completely helpless during the transition, and that it had begun right after making love with his wife had haunted him the entire time he was conscious, even if soaring through the air provided exhilarating freedom, the feel of nature so deeply entwined within his soul, the focus drawn away from human experience. If not for how he had left Lynne, and the painting, Eric would have reveled in those four days. Instead, he had encountered a deep sorrow that had never previously intruded. It interfered with how he reacted with other birds, as if they sensed his depression. That had led to the fight with the falcon. Eric usually hunted only to satisfy his appetite, and he had been hungry, but the falcon had been following him. Eric had ignored it, until both had spied the collection of mice, scurrying back and forth from an old barn to stacks of aged hay. Eric had perched in a nearby walnut tree, observing the mice, also the falcon, which had chosen an oak not twenty feet away. Eric was larger, and his instincts were sharp. The falcon would use his beak to attack, but Eric only relied upon his claws, which would grasp a mouse, then slice its throat. Eric preferred to end their suffering quickly, no need to be brutal.

  But the falcon hunted as most birds did, without thought to their prey. As the falcon dove for the kill, Eric did too; several mice would mean plenty for both birds, but the falcon was greedy, or just didn’t like Eric. Instead of scooping up dinner, the falcon aimed for Eric, scratching his lower body. Eric reared up, then mercilessly ripped a hole right through the bird’s back. The falcon spun to the ground, crying in pain, but Eric heard only the rustle of mice into the barn. The falcon flapped furiously on the ground, then limped away, as Eric caught his breath, returning to the tree, his heart pounding. He didn’t notice his wounds, scanning the area for any possible food. All other animals had taken cover, and Eric hadn’t stayed for long, as night was falling. He flew away, staying relatively low to the ground, until a small squirrel scampered across the dirt. It was no match for a hawk, and Eric pounced, gobbling within minutes all but the fur and tail. He didn’t like squirrel, preferred mice, when he had to eat. He had then rested in a tree, considering the remaining distance to his house. Then he thought about his wife. He was exhausted, and wanted to sleep, but Lynne was waiting. He was aware of the time, in that it had been four days. He pressed on, not stopping for more than sips of water, until light broke, and his home was in sight.

  Now again he was a man, which almost seemed ludicrous, when compared to his recent existence. He stood from the toilet, flushed it, then stared into the mirror. His eyes were human, although his vision was still sharp. He backed up, gazing at the objects behind him in the reflection; to the left was the tub, to the right was the door. And standing in the doorway was his wife, a trembling smile on her beautiful face.

  He turned to her, wondering why she stood there. Why did she love him, why had she stayed? He had never wanted to fall in love, never wished to burden anyone with this, but she had seen him change, and hadn’t run away screaming. He couldn’t recall what she had initially done, other than softly call his name, as he had flown away from her, hoping to God that when he returned, she would be gone. But she had waited for him, and when he stood again as a man, she embraced him, again whispering his name, and that she loved him. They had been young, perhaps that had enabled her to stay with him, thinking he would change, thinking…. He stroked her face, which was damp from tears. Then he gazed at her eyes, which were red. He concentrated; blood vessels were large, she had wept for some time, but not that recently. Still, her cheeks were streaked, or maybe these were the remnants, for she cried every time he came home, hopefully due to relief. Did she cry when he left, Eric wondered, tenderly caressing her face, wishing he could present her with immutable proof that this was the last time, and that he would never hurt her again.

  “I love you,” he mumbled, profoundly ashamed of himself. Even if he had no recourse to stop the transformations, why had he subjected her to this life? Why had he kept seeing her, marrying her even, aware of what he could not change. Why had this woman penetrated his shell, why, why….

  She nodded, her eyes refilling with tears. She blinked, the liquid splashing down her face, and he caught those tears, rubbing them between his fingers that weren’t claws but digits, like every other human being. Yet hours ago these hands had mangled a squirrel, had injured a falcon. They had gripped tree branches, or were tucked up as his arms waved through the breeze, but not as limbs. Wings had spread far from his torso, covered in feathers. Just one day ago he had been a hawk. Now he was a husband, not a very good one, he felt, for how hard his beloved was sobbing.

  Yet she remained close to him, and didn’t bother wiping her face, snot collecting at the base of her nose. He removed that with the back of his hand, then set his palms along her warm, wet cheeks. He wanted to kiss her deeply, but would wait until he had eaten a meal, maybe two. Brushing his teeth wouldn’t mask the taste of his last victuals, but why was he like this, why had this happened to him?

  “I love you Eric, I’m just so glad you’re home.” Her voice was weak, but her tone relayed relief.

  “Why?” he said, wondering not only about her feelings, but curious as to what drove them. What in her makeup permitted this atrocity, for he was erroneous. He was….

  She gripped him, stopping that train of thought. Eric had no way to battle her love, passed through that embrace, or the words she slipped into his ears, gentle and soothing, also brutally truthful. He nodded, for she never lied, except to protect him. She was honest, even if it hurt her. And it did; at times loving him wasn’t pleasant. It was scary, wearying, and dangerous. Yet, she was always here for him, or within hours she came home. Eric wanted to smile; sometimes it was Lynne returning to him. She always did, even if his arrivals were far more uncertain.

  They parted, for she needed to blow her nose, and he couldn’t stand for much longer. As she pulled sheets from the toilet paper roll, he stumbled back into their bedroom, sitting on the edge of the mattress. Within a minute, she joined him, grasping his hand, but not with undue force. Sometimes his bones ached for days after returning, especially his bad left foot.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “My hands don’t hurt.”

  She nodded. “Have you been awake long?”

  “Have you?” He stared at her, then stroked her face. “When did you wake up?”

  “A few hours ago. You were sound asleep.”

  He wanted to speak to that, but what was there to say? He sighed, then kissed her cheek. “I love you.” The words seemed insignificant, but were all he had.

  “I love you too. How do you feel?”

  He knew she meant his physical bearing, but he longed to be truthful, exposing his heart instead. Yet per
haps that weight would suffocate her. Eric wore a wan smile. “I’ve been better.”

  She nodded, then sighed. “When you feel like eating something, let me know.”

  “Sure.” He wasn’t hungry at all, but perhaps by nightfall. Then he winced. Nightfall was a term for when he was a hawk. There was no consideration to hours or minutes, just the variances of dawn, daylight, twilight, then nightfall. At that moment, while his form was human, his thought processes remained in flux. His sight was keen; his sense of smell was too. “I think I’ll need to flip the mattress.”

  The room smelled of paint, but more was the aroma of hawk. He wondered if she smelled it too, but maybe not, for she had made love to him with that odor in his nostrils. But then, she had made love to him while he was still unclean, and spattered in paint. She hadn’t flinched, not that he had been aware, then he shuddered; perhaps she had hidden her disdain, allowing him to take her with that layer of fowl still on his skin. Eric stood abruptly, then stared at his body. It was that of a man, but only hours ago, he’d been a creature. And he had lain against his wife, with the remnants of whatever he had been still lingering.

  Yet, when he returned to life as a man, all he wanted was her, for he needed her. Days of flying, nights spent hunting, then a break taken as he slept, but through all that, Lynne was foremost in Eric’s consciousness. He had no choice when it came to turning into a bird, equally he could never eliminate his wife from his considerations. And when he was once again a man, all those musings coalesced into the most vigorous physical longings, which she always accepted, seeming just as needy of him. Was she? He faced her, his cheeks red with shame. Hers were dry, her eyes becoming clear. “Eric, are you all right?”

  He knelt in front of her, putting his face in her lap, shaking so hard, he wasn’t sure if he could stop. The tremors weren’t like those he experienced as the transformation began, these were purely human, and from the deepest mortification. How could he impose himself upon her like that, and why had she let him? A few times, after he had finished a particularly emotional painting, he had sought her out, requiring a sexual release that seemed to complete the art. In those moments, and they had been few, she had always acquiesced, not caring if he got paint on her. But that was an artistic action, resulting from creative powers. What he did to her when he came home stemmed from his basest need, like he still was a beast of nature. How in God’s name did she let him….

  “Don’t,” she said stiffly, but not moving from where he still knelt. “I love you Eric, please, just let that be.”

  He glanced up, finding anger on her face. “How can you?”

  She shook her head, then stroked his. “I love you, why can’t you understand that?”

  “How the hell am I supposed to comprehend any of this?” He wanted to move away from her, to no longer sully her. But she had wrapped her arms around his back, caressing his skin, and he needed those touches, he needed her. Did she feel that way too, could she love him as she said?

  To Eric, Lynne’s most remarkable trait was how she could read his thoughts. Maybe that was tied into her endless patience, or her constant forgiveness. But those were actions of the heart, and Eric would never try to ponder that muscle’s enigmatic power. Yet, how she understood his mind had little to do with her soul, or that’s what he assumed. It was bound to another mystery that rested within her, more associated with rational processes, although nothing about Eric Snyder was normal. He traced around her lovely eyes, then ran his fingers through a few hairs along her temples. She held him right against her beautiful, warm body, and he began to shake again. She did love him, which washed over him in healing waves. But why did she love him this much?

  Lynne bent over him, reaching her hands as far as she could along his back. She was gentle where the gauze remained, but her fingers were sensuous, and he moaned, aware of her desires. It wasn’t just him needing her when he came home, for she had never refused him. “Eric,” she whispered, but she said nothing more than his name. Yet in how sensuously his name wafted into the room, he could only nod, accepting her bountiful grace, for he had no other word to describe it. Eric wasn’t a Christian, but at times he grasped the salvation accepted by those who believed. Yet in his case, it wasn’t a deity bestowing redemption. Lynne leaned back, taking her hands from his skin. He looked up, as she undid the buttons of her blouse. He nodded, traces of hawk still coursing through his blood. As she lay on the bed, he removed her skirt, taking the next step in the healing process.

  Eric woke to his wife in his arms. He kissed her head, then smiled, as she nuzzled against his chest. He closed his eyes, only for a moment, then took a deep breath, his heightened sense of smell the last to linger. To his great relief, he couldn’t detect fowl, not on himself, or in their bed. He wanted to ask if she could smell it, but didn’t wish to….

  “You slept some,” she said. “I love lying in your arms while you sleep.”

  “I did nod off.” He smiled, gripping her. “Why do you like being near me when I sleep?”

  She tried to meet his gaze, but he avoided her eyes. He still wasn’t certain why in the world she loved him, but this too was the final trace of his recent absence. In a few days they would be back to all of their usual activities; she would tend the sick, he would paint, cook, and wait for her to return. He allowed a small smile. Lynne went away far more often, but for shorter spaces of time.

  “Eric, I wanna talk about what happened. When you’re ready,” she added. “This time was….”

  “Different, I know.” He sighed. “I don’t know why though. I didn’t even feel it until….” Until it couldn’t be stopped. He stroked her head, then wound her hair around his fingers. They were just fingers now; he sensed no notion that they had been anything else. Was that how she had asked him to touch her with these hands, begging him to lay his digits along her skin; was that part of being made back into a man?

  “Eric, I just want us to talk about it. I know there’s nothing we can do, but I want….”

  She stopped speaking right as he was about to lay a finger over her lips. It wasn’t the request, but the agony in her voice. Asking him to discuss this was as painful as the conversation would be.

  “Lynne, soon. Tomorrow, or Sunday maybe. Can you wait till then?”

  She nodded, but he sighed, for she had no other response. She always gave in to him, no matter what he requested of her. Or what he demanded, and he shivered. Then he sat up, positioning her the same. “Honey, I’m sorry. Ask whatever you want. I’ll give you the best answers I have.”

  “No Eric, it can wait till you’re ready.”

  He shook his head. “No, because I ask things of you and you never refuse me.”

  She kissed him, then set her palm in the center of his hairless chest. “I love you. I don’t wanna make this more difficult.”

  He wanted to laugh, for she was the only easy part of his life, except for the guilt that loving her stirred. Then he ached deep in his guts. It wasn’t merely guilt, but a hollow, cold pain. He set his hand to her lower belly. They no longer talked about a baby, yet it wasn’t her fault, it never had been. He wasn’t normal, and perhaps that made their infertility less agonizing, but it never lessened how much he wanted a child with her, even if his oddness would be a detriment to fatherhood. Not long before the falcon had started following him, Eric had witnessed two hawks in free-fall. That mating dance, as Eric like to think of it, was one of the most beautiful manners of reproduction, and over the years, he had witnessed it several times, usually between the same pairings of birds. Not all hawks were monogamous, but some species gravitated to the same partners, and Eric would fly on, happy for that particular couple. Within a year, the female would lay eggs, both parents caring for their offspring. If Eric could have fathered a child, he would, despite his abnormality.

  He touched her torso for only another second. Then he put that hand over hers, which remained on his chest. “Ask me Lynne. Ask whatever you wanna know.”

  But
she choked instead, too many questions, and the worst wasn’t why he had changed, but why after all this time, they still couldn’t conceive. Perhaps he could read her mind as well as she read his. Eric pulled the blanket over them, as she warbled half-formed sentences strangled between deep sobs. Her words had nothing to do with him changing into a bird, then reverting to his human form. She repeated one phrase that ripped into him more deeply than the falcon had: Why can’t I have your baby?

  Chapter 5