Mille and the Bird

High in a tower hiding behind an overhanging jagged rocked mountainside, in a small room at the very top, lived a beautiful woman.

No fairytale name such as Rapunzel or Beauty or Belle - she was simply Mille and she had been the prisoner of an evil haggard old witch for a very long time.

Mille had no recollection of how long she had been imprisoned or how she had even been captured in the first place.

All she knew were the four faces of the moon, the four colours of the leaves of the one tree outside her tower and the movement of the stars that watched with her as she waited in her small room. The only voice she ever heard had been the wind as it howled, sang, whispered and coo-ed through the seasons.

One morning she awoke in the small room at the very top of the tower and looked out her window down at the overhanging jagged rocked mountainside and over the grey barren valley at the foot of the mountain. The leaves on the trees had burnt orange and yet the morning mist still hung insistently from each one. Mille could hear the wind as it coo-ed and aah-ed its good morning.

Today however the wind was almost singing.

It's not yet time for a wind song, thought Mille, the leaves have two other shades to grow before then and Mintaka was still hanging overhead in the twilight. However the wind’s song was sweet and beautiful and seemed to be coming from just outside her window.

Mille went over to her window and almost expected to actually see the wind singing when all of a sudden a brilliant ball of blue and yellow moved onto the closest branch of the tree that stood steadfastly outside her window. The ball fluttered in the filtered morning sun, basking in the limelight, shook its wings triumphantly and crooned even louder.

Mille’s heart missed a beat, as she looked at the most beautiful bird she had ever seen.

His chest was fluffed red and his eyes were a brilliant emerald green. In spite of her presence, the small bird continued singing and before she knew it, Mille was humming along like she had heard this song before. It was so familiar.

Mille and the small bird sat together lost in melody until the sun faded from the day and the deep blue crept across the horizon beckoning Mintaka back above the tower to once again stand guard.

The next day, the bird flew onto the window ledge holding a fresh sprig of rosemary in its beak. Mille held out her hand and the bird carefully dropped it in. It smelt of a long lost spring, of fields not yet explored and of a warm smile.

Every day the bird delivered a small token into Mille’s outstretched hand.

Three small tubed purple flowers, one black feather, a dried maple leaf, half a blue bus ticket, a jacaranda bud, a ripped section of an old newspaper showing the word THIRD and a small seed pod.

Until one day…………….