My Uncle's Hummingbirds

Subtle Magic

I became a man at the turn of the century and my indoctrination into the world of unspoken things came shortly after, but my introduction was many years before.  During the summer of my tenth year the English had forced the country to abandon slavery, not that many of us were affected.  It had long been an archaic practice and largely relegated as a show of wealth, never mind the long-standing proclivities of both sides to interbreed. 

My uncle had taken ill with an unknown malady and relocated his living space to his study in an isolated hall of the family manor, where he had spent long hours reading books on the science of ‘God’s good Earth’ as he called it.  My uncle had an obsession with all matters scientific but birds held an especially prominent place in his heart.  By God’s design they defied the boundaries that kept men’s feet planted on the ground.  I had spent countless days with my uncle, perusing his many journals of his travels and discoveries.  The drawings of his birds always brought me happiness and wonder. 

Outside the study window he had hung a contraption filled with seeds and nuts and honey and sugar water that attracted small birds especially the ones he called Colibri, hummingbirds you call them.  They did not tweet or sing but the air buzzed with the beating of their wings, so fast it was beyond my eyes to capture. 

As the months passed my uncle’s health took a turn for the worse and he fell into a deep sleep.  I overheard the doctors say he would not wake from this slumber.  Everyone had been forbidden save for the venerable servants and they would keep their visits brief.  This is why it was so easy to hide from the Mistress Abigail.  Not months before she had been contract bound into servitude to the family and as it so happens, she was the half-sister of my father and uncle. 

Bereft of any decoration long since removed the abandoned hallway had become a forlorn place save for the summer wind taking a stroll through the family garden.  The song and warmth of the breeze drifted through the open windows the servants attended when the sun rose and closed as the sun set.  Death and illness were not foreign concepts to me at that age.  My own birth had claimed my mother and illnesses ravaged master and servant alike.  The previous winter had claimed three of my cousins, two of which had been servants. 

My intention was to peruse any of my uncle’s belongings that the servants had overlooked and perhaps, to spend some quiet time with my uncle as we had done so many times before.  I swear by all things holy I am not a vulture, as much as my uncle was an influence on me and despite what he meant to me there was little to nought I could do for him.  My concern was the same as my uncle’s, family or not, things tend to go missing when the servants start moving them and my uncle’s collection of books and knick-knacks would be of considerable value to someone. 

I turned the ornate knob and pressed my weight against the heavy door to the study.  My uncle lay still in his bed, his eyes closed and the only sign of life was his labored breathing.  For all the impression his gaunt appearance impressed upon me I was more surprised to see a woman sitting on the setti, staring out the window where sunlight invaded the sickroom as a golden shaft. 

She was a pale woman but enough olive in her skin to prove she was local.  She was a creature beyond my childish mind’s ability contemplate.  By any metric I had at the time she was neither of wealth nor a servant, yet by my poor childish standards I marked her as being pretty in a commoner way.  Flaxen locks denoting prestigious Spanish roots that would make her the envy of everyone, done up in a bun as the working women do and a simple cotton dress in colors so vibrant I thought them painted.  My uncle had told me of his travels to the north where he visited the American States and the indigo they grew there but I could not fathom the beauty of such a deep blue.  The green of her blouse also stood out but my uncle never spoke of such colors greener than any tree I had ever seen. 

Her head tilted towards me with a grace I thought reserved for royalty. I realized I was no longer hidden behind a cracked door. While I had been mesmerized, the door had swung fully open, though how is beyond me and my memory. 

“Hello,” a simple word and phrase that escaped her lips and danced through the still air like an uncaring butterfly on a spring day and my youthful self suddenly felt the desire to swear an undying fealty to her every whim.  I could only impishly smile believing this woman to be a heaven-sent entity to comfort my uncle in his last moments before escorting him to Heaven. 

“Are you a friend of my uncle?” I finally managed to ask. 

She smiled at me and the invading sunlight seemed to pale in comparison to that glory. 

“Your uncle is a kind and generous man,” she said, “We may be friends, but I am merely a benefactor of his great kindness.” 

“You don’t look like a beggar...”  Thinking back now I shudder at how slowly my social graces had developed. 

Rather than being offended she tucked her chin and giggled.  Recovering herself she smiled once more in my direction. 

“I am no beggar child.  Though I am not bound by pride to refuse gifts.  I am an actress and a dancer.” 

“Oh,” I said.  My heart sank a little.  My father and aunts had told me about the players in the theater and about dancers and had used some colorful language I was not allowed to repeat. 

Ever so slightly she frowned at me and I thought the world would fade into shadow. 

“Do you not like dancers?” she asked. 

“No... I mean yes... I mean,” I fumbled my words as I desperately tried to explain myself.  This prompted another giggle from her and as the heat stormed my cheeks I stared at the floor. 

“Do not tease me,” I said dejectedly. 

“Poor thing.  I have upset the young master.” she replied with mirth. 

For all my years I had taken pride in my privileged birth it was the first time I had taken shame in my haughtiness.  It was also the first time I decided to act out in response to my bruised pride.  I straightened my posture and faced the young woman catching her gaze. 

“Shame you should feel indeed,” I declared, “I demand restitution.” 

The woman spryly jumped to her feet and gathering the length of her dress between her fingers made a graceful curtsy. 

“How shall I make amends young master?” 

It was an impulsive thought, “You danced for my uncle.  Will you dance for him again?” 

The woman raised her head slightly to meet my eyes.  Never before and never again jad I seen such a look.  Neither then or now do I know what lay behind the eyes that looked at me, what I do know is in the beat of a heart I had been measured as a human being.  There was also a question, one I felt compelled to answer. 

“My uncle loved his books and he loved his little contraptions.  If you are his friend then I am sure he loved your dancing.  This room has been soured with gloom.  My uncle, and myself would appreciate some joy in here.” 

A moment passed as the woman measured my words and the smile that reflected the light of the world returned.  With a flurry of motion, she twirled in place.  As her dress lifted, I could see she was barefoot and again the heat in my cheeks rose.  She faced me again and made a dramatic bow stretching her legs and resting low.  I admired the grace and the strength of the act to hold that position for as long as she did. 

She stood up straight with her arms in front, stretched to their limit and pinned by her clasped hands, her fingers interlocking.  All at once the motion started as she began to spin and twirl.  Her arms though no longer clasped seemed to remain ever together and as she spun her steps slowly began to arch into a circle.  Around and around she went, the arc of her circle expanded and threatened to crash into me, half mesmerized I traversed into the center of her storm. 

Eventually her movements slowed and her twirling stopped, finally ceasing with her between me and the door.  Her eyes caught mine and I was frozen in time.  A strand of her hair had come loose during her dance and hung loosely by her cheek.  She had slowly by degrees inched closer to me but hypnotized as I was, I didn’t notice until I was staring up at her face and my hands had been captured by hers. 

My reverie was short lived as was my spatial awareness.  I was pulled back by her one step and then found myself in the embrace of her storm.  A flurry of moves in a dance I did not know yet my feet never failed to find the right steps.  Again and again I was spun and the she led me in a circle that encompassed the entirety of free space.  So focused was I on the brightness of her smile and the cheer in her eyes that I failed to notice that the lyrical notes of her laughter had an undertone.  A lower alto I was unfamiliar with.  And then I realized that I too was laughing in tune with her. 

The dance came to an abrupt end as she released my hands and I spun a couple more times before finally stopping at the door.  I braced myself against it with my hand, laughing and breathing heavily.  The woman had flitted away onto the setti, still laughing.  The bun in her hair had been completely unraveled and the wave of blonde hair rippled with her mirth. 

A knock at the door sharp and loud forced my heart into my throat where it decided to cease moving for longer than I cared for as I sprang away.  A sudden breeze from the window struck me full force and the dust and pollen caused me to wince.  The sin of dancing in a sick man’s room had obviously come to collect as all my senses were assaulted. 

“Young MASTER?” Abigail’s voice rang out, “Are you fooling around in ther?” 

Panic seized my limbs and with a will unknown to me I spun to face the woman only to find her presence completely absent.  Instinctively I turned to the window to see if she had absconded via the trellises.  One of the hummingbirds had descended onto the window sill and was carefully grooming its plume. 

Abigail opened the door and entered the room.  She was tall and broad but but still shapely, a fact that had gotten her approached by several suitors both welcomed and despised.  As headmistress to the heir of the manor she conducted herself as one would expect; strictly and with every manner of etiquette permeating every action. 

“What devilry are you up to in here?” she asked. 

“No devilry auntie, I swear,” my routine response was so practiced it had descended almost to mockery. 

“Do not call me auntie, it is ma’am.  While I am your mistress you will always display proper decorum.” 

“Yes ma’am.” 

“And do not lie to me.  Your clothes are disheveled and you are covered in sweat.” 

“Yes ma’am.” 

“Your uncle is very sick and you ought to give the poor man some peace.” 

“Yes ma’am.” I chanced a side glance at my uncle.  His breathing had soothed to a whisper and he had attained a manner of grace and peace in his smile I had never seen outside of church. 

“Come now.  You need to get washed up.  You have studies and then a recital for your parents.  They spend good money on your education and you will show them good efforts.” 

“Yes ma’am.” 

“Am I talking to a loro?  Go.”  She raised her arm and pointed to the desolate hallway.  I chanced one last look at the window to see that the hummingbird had flitted away.  The hall seemed more despairing than ever as I began my march. 

My uncle passed that night, and the hummingbirds never returned.