The Language of Birds and Blackberries

Part 1

Cymyoy appears suddenly on her left: a tiny group of houses, gathered around the Crooked Church, like mourners. Adaryn turns up the hill, tyres coughing and growling as they grind up the gravel pathway.

She passes Mr and Mrs Jones’ ancient, little cottage - the thatch greening and blending more and more with the outside world every time she sees it. She passes Rhys and Bronwen’s old farmhouse and feels nostalgia niggle its way into her naval. She thinks of the last time she saw Bronwen - must be 2 years ago. The last time she visited for the biannual bird feeding.

Her own childhood rooftop bobs over the side of the hedge, ducking every time she tries to face it, like a playful child. She turns into the driveway and sees the front door open. They have been expecting her. Her father and sister walk out with solemn expressions and wait on the doorstep. Both look thinner. Adaryn has not yet parked, but she can tell that Ffion’s eyes are darker than they had been 2 years ago. She holds her hands in front of her, marrying them into one big fist.

Adaryn slams the car door. The locking mechanism ricochets through the trees around them. Bark, as brown as kidney beans, bounces the beep back and forth, echoing out of the forest’s endless mouth.

“Adaryn,” her father greets her with a terse nod.

Ffion’s smile is as subtle as rose scent. “Didn’t you bring any luggage?”

“I’ve got everything in my rucksack,” Adaryn says, pulling on one of the straps.

“Surely that’s not enough for-”

“I won’t be staying long. Just for the one night.”

Her father nods again and Ffion’s small smile evaporates.

They stand in silence for a few moments, facing each other. 

“As I expected,” the old man says. He tries to feign a visage of indifference, but his voice cracks slightly and he reveals himself.

“Sorry. It’s just the pub-”

“It’s always the pub.” Ffion speaks so softly that the breeze has to carry it to Adaryn’s ears, though she wishes it hadn’t. But Ffion dismisses the wind and speaks up, “Ever since mam died, you’ve not come home unless you’ve really had to.”

“Ffion…” their father starts.

“No, she’s right,” Adaryn cuts in. “But neither of you ever come to visit me either. I’m only a few miles down the road. Llanthony isn’t exactly England, is it?”

“You know why we don’t,” Ffion hisses. “Besides what would we do in your Half-Moon Inn?”

“What would I do here?”

“Adaryn, dear. We’re just worried about you,” their father interjects.

“Well, you shouldn’t be. You should be far more concerned about what’s happening here,” Adaryn shoots her words like arrows.

The chimney lets off steam behind her father and sister’s backs. Adaryn watches it rise until she can’t tell the difference between the clouds and the smoke.

“Why don’t we go inside?” their father suggests. “It’ll start getting dark soon.”