The Magic Cottage

She nodded, then teased, 'Still nervous of the countryside, Mike?'

'It's all them wolves and bears out there.'

'And the wood demons. Don't forget the wood demons.' Her words were almost slurred as sleep stole in.

'I wish you hadn't mentioned the wood demons.' I bent lower to kiss her forehead, then straightened. Midge's eyes had already closed when I looked down on her.

Quietly leaving the bedroom, I went out to the small hallway over the stairs and bolted the door there, then descended to the kitchen. Ridiculously, I had made myself jittery with talk of wolves and bears, not that I imagined for one moment that there were any such animals out there, but because now that the sun had sunk completely and it was pitch black outside, I had begun to appreciate how isolated the cottage was. Talk of wood demons hadn't helped either.

I bolted the downstairs door, then went to the open window, sticking my head out to feel a cool breeze against my skin. I could hardly see a thing, only the vague shapes of the nearest trees. Clouds must have hurriedly covered the stars as they'd switched on after sunset, and there was no moon to outline even the rolling edges of those clouds.

Even more uneasy, I ducked my head back inside, closing the window and setting the catch after me. I stood watching my own ghost reflection in the glass for a little while, then shivered.

'Dumb bastard,' I called myself and went back upstairs whistling a less than happy tune.

I woke suddenly, as I had the night before. Only this time I was immediately alert and apprehensive. I could hear Midge breathing evenly beside me, still lost in sleep.

My whole body was tensed as I lay there wondering what had roused me, only the luminous digits of the alarm clock and dim outlines of furniture giving relief to the oppressive darkness.

I thought of nudging Midge awake, but that would have been unkind as well as cowardly. When I'd returned to the bedroom earlier that night her clothes were in a heap on the floor and she was beneath the blankets, sound asleep. There was no smell of toothpaste when I kissed her lips. The move and the frantic weeks leading up to it had caught up with a vengeance, I remember thinking.

Noises. From above. And familiar.

I nudged Midge, but she didn't stir.

I looked up at the dark mass that was the ceiling. Someone was creeping around up there!

Still craning my neck back, I raised myself onto my elbows, unsure if the room was cold or the goose-bumps on my skin were caused by something else. The sounds were muffled and I realized they were not coming from the room directly above, but were from the loft. My sigh of relief was cut off halfway. Surely birds would not be moving about in the middle of the night? Then what the hell was up there? My pernicious mind immediately suggested rats and I sank back into the bed, pulling the covers up to my chest. Maybe mice? I wished I could convince myself, but mice would never make that much noise.

Forget about the hero who leaves his bed in the dead of night to investigate mysterious noises, that guy who mounts the creaky stairs up to the attic, flashlight or candle lighting the way and, if he's a movie star, creepy music keeping him company. He's a figment of some idiot's imagination: I'm me, and I was bora with a modicum of sense.

There was no way I was going to leave that cozy bed to look in the loft. No way. It could wait until tomorrow.

The strange thing is that I didn't stay awake for much longer. I listened for a while, my heart jolting with every fresh sound—and I'd become aware of plenty of other creaks and groans around that place, although I told myself these were merely the settling of old timbers after a warm day—but soon tiredness overcame even fear.

I sank away, fingers crossed so the boogeyman wouldn't get me.

RETURN VISIT

'MIKE, COME on, wake up!'

I'm not sure how uncivil my response was, but it didn't stop the hand tugging at my shoulder. I opened my eyes and daylight trampled in.

'Mike, I want you to see,' Midge persisted.

Her face was close to mine and looking considerably brighter than it had the night before. In fact, Midge fairly bristled with life and her touch must have sent volts shooting into me because I came alive in a rush. This was the second morning I'd awoken feeling vital and refreshed and, as already stated, this wasn't my usual condition at all. I was becoming a born-again early riser.

I pulled her down on top of me and she laughingly resisted.

'No, I want you to come down and see!' She pulled away and grabbed my robe draped over a chair, tossing it at me and sweeping back the bedcovers.

I swung my legs over the edge and slid my arms through the sleeves of the robe. 'You mind telling me what all the excitement's about?' I groused, but faking it.

'You'll see.'

She was laughing and tugging at me, drawing me from the bed and toward the door. The white nightshirt she wore (one of my old collarless shirts with the sleeves rolled up) flapped loosely around her bare legs, a pleasing sight first thing in the morning.

'Nice day again,' I observed as we passed by the window. Our friendly neighborhood birds were making their presence known.

'Every day is nice here.'

I saw no gain in pointing out that we'd only been resident for two days, and allowed myself to be hauled to the stairs.

'Oh, Gudgeon, this'd better be good.' The stair carpet we'd had laid before moving in was soft and springy beneath my bare feet, but the wood underneath was good and firm. O'Malley had missed nothing.

We reached the kitchen/dining area and Midge stood aside, waving me through. Hands in my robe pockets, I stood there expectantly. The room looked exactly the same to me.

I turned to say something to Midge when a fluttering of wings made me jump. The bird flew across the room and landed on top of the sideboard. It chirped a greeting or a warning, I'm not sure which.

'How did that get in here?' I'd already noted the window was still closed.

'He's the mistle thrush, stupid. He's the one who had the broken wing yesterday!'

I gaped at her, then at the bird, which was jauntily hopping along the sideboard top. It launched itself into the air again to find another perch over the window.

'That isn't possible, Midge. It can't be the same.'

Midge laughed, pleased by my incredulity. 'Check the box. You won't find the thrush in there.'

'But it isn't possible,' I repeated, actually going over to the cardboard box, which was still tucked away in a corner. The mistle thrush over the window begged to differ by flying onto the table where there was a pile of breadcrumbs, presumably put there earlier by Midge. The bird pecked at them, its appetite as healthy as its wing.

'Midge,' I warned. 'Are you having a sly joke with me? Is this one of your friends from outside?'

'I promise you, Mike, he's the same bird. Isn't it fantastic!'

'I don't believe it.' I was shaking my head, watching the thrush and still suspecting I was being fooled. 'There's no way, Midge—no way— that its wing could have mended overnight. As a matter of fact, the break was so bad I thought the bird would be dead this morning.'

'You were wrong.' Midge moved toward the table and our robust friend stopped pecking to watch her. She picked up a crumb and held it toward the bird who, to my amazement, beaked it from her fingers, showing no fear whatsoever.

One bird looks much the same as another if they're of a breed, so I couldn't tell if this really was our patient or not. But the question still begged, of course: If this was a different thrush where was the injured one? It was