SOREN WILLIAMSON
The dove soared through the heavens on wings that caught a steady breeze. His beak upturned, he skimmed along the cloud tops and rose up towards the expanse of blue that caught his eye and made him blink. The visage that captured the stern face of the father looking down upon them. With a spurt of speed, he gave chase to the other denizens of his home, each plumed in white and each with songs of joy sounding from their pearly breasts. Yet all their voices did fail to compare to the resounding voice of the father, sending pulses of thundering wind in swirling gusts.
But the dove did not sing. Instead, from his throat, came a soft and forlorn sigh. To him the voice had grown monotonous, repeating its speeches, day in and day out. He had begun to resent it.
As he joined the others in their swoops and dives, his eyes flicked down towards the canopy of cloud and the ground that lay below. Although the place around him was full of light and song, a deep-rooted yearning began to worm its way into his heart.
He planned his flight with delicate and quiet care. Never thinking aloud, never changing the pattern of his flight. But he was patient and waited out the days. And all the while the excitement in his heart did swell. The roots sunk deep, as the seed of desire flowered into a passion that filled his body.
Soon the opportune moment came, and when it did, the dove was ready. The sky split open as the clouds were ripped apart. The light that was held tightly above the ground, spilled down towards the place below.
In that moment, the dove hurtled himself through the air, spreading his wings and arcing below the clouds. He caught his first glimpse of the place below. Dusty ground, marked by a river which flowed through and bisected the land. And against the shoreline stood a crowd. And in the river were two figures, emerging from the water.
Then they were gone, as the dove caught the wind and was propelled forward. Into the distant horizon, with the Earth spread out before him. He was free.
*
The dove soared along an empty starlit night, feeling his excitement melt away with the fading sun. The descending haze of silence brought with it a measure of peace, granting some perspective.
The wind was soft here and did caress his feathers with a gentleness that spoke of welcoming and ease. Flight did come easily within that first night, carrying his wings with a careful touch. The dove’s stomach began to squirm, pleasure and fear overlapping and twisting into a knot that sunk into the depths of his chest.
The dove looked up with a tentative glance. The darkened sky loomed above him. Questions filled his mind. Could the father still see him down here? Was that pale face his? It hung in the sky, half-turned away, as if in shame. Were those his teardrops, glistening and scattered across its black surroundings?
The dove shuddered, then beat his wings with a determined force. He had been pressed to stomach too many thing. Things that he’d been told were necessary. But now, here amidst his freedom, he could see the truth. He was rid of that foolish and idle place and could look forwards to the horizon and his future. This cloudless night heralded nothing more than the possibility that laid before him. He could find a new place. A place where he could truly find himself.
*
Darkness fell again on the fortieth day of his flight. The dove was lost.
Somewhere along his path he had taken a turn and discovered a land so unlike his home. The ground was made of sand and dust, littered with bones and dry plants. Eggs left shattered, the young left slumped, and vermin crawling about both. The cold descended and claimed all who were not prepared.
The birds sang with foreign tongues and flew with reckless abandon. They descended upon dying animals, stripping them of their flesh and pecked hopeful plants from their rocky roots.
The dove sought warmth and food in the boughs of a fig tree, but upon entering its branches, he found it infested with locusts. The tree was long dead, having withered away by some strange power that none of the surrounding creatures could explain.
No one offered the dove any respite. They all blocked their tunnels and nests with rocks and twigs. He was forced to rest his head against the rocky ground, his pure white feathers becoming matted with dust and filth.
When the dove woke, the darkness still lingered and the cold had grown worse. He was met with the sight of a familiar shape hovering before him: Another dove, a long-forgotten brother. The brother did offer the dove some temporary solace. A familiar song and a path to follow. His appearance resurfaced memories within the dove. Memories of a place of song and joy, of flight unhindered, and of a voice that controlled the winds.
But when the dove did speak of these with his brother, he was met with scorn and mockery. For within the brother, a hatred had grown. A frustration born of jealousy and pride that coalesced into a vindictive fury that burst out of him. The brother raged against the dove, striking fear into his heart. The dove took flight once again, looking to the brightening horizon and pursuing it, onwards to morning.
And with the morning, came hell.
*
The sun burned. Hot and searing.
The dove could not find his way, his mind completely empty of all thought but the misery that dripped across his body. The dusty winds tore at his wings and scourged his back, breaking him down until he was almost flightless.
The winds had abandoned him, and the dove was left to painful toil, endlessly pumping his thinning wings to stay aloft.
The dust pierced his eyes as he flapped through the relentless heat, feathers drifting off his body, spinning and dancing through the air, leaving his bloody and raw skin exposed to the scalding light. The swirling sand revealed faces that taunted him, biting and tearing at his face and beak.
Another feather detached, and it was one feather too many. The dove fell.
He could no longer fly and could barely stand. His tongue was dry and choked him. And as his tired soul began to drift away, memories once again returned. Penetrating through his cracked skull and resting within his absent mind. Memories of who he used to be, before the temptation had taken his heart. Of the speed at which he used to fly, and the joy that came with the songs that he could sing.
And in the distance, almost too far to discern, something rose above the dust. It was tall and amorphous, and pure white. It stretched from the ground towards the peaks of the sky, impassive and silent.
The dove stared for a long while, then slowly struggled up and began to shakily flap his wings. Once, twice. Leaning forward and thrusting himself off the ground. He staggered through the air, wobbling in an abnormal pattern. He steeled himself and pushed forwards in the direction of the distant pillar.
As he struggled towards the pillar, he noticed that it didn’t change as he got closer. Then he realised that he wasn’t getting closer at all.
The pillar was moving. As the dove moved towards the pillar it drifted away. It was leading him somewhere.
*
The pillar stopped upon a mountain, towering above the surroundings.
The dove persisted doggedly towards it, almost falling from the air on several occasions. But each time he pumped his wings harder and managed to stay up. As the dove made it to the top of the mountain, he saw a group of figures upon the ground. Exhausted, the dove could barely make them out and instead turned towards the tall pillar.
As he got closer, he saw it for what it truly was: A cloud, tall and mighty, reaching up towards the canopy of white overhead.
The dove reached the mountain’s peak and tilted his beak upwards. The heavens parted and the dove witnessed the light pouring from above. Eyes streaming with grit and tears, he forced himself upwards. As he did, a gust of wind met his wings, strong and sure. The dove found himself brought further up, leaving behind the dusty ground.
As he rose, he felt a presence by his side, rising with him, towards the place above.
The dove was welcomed back with open arms and open hearts. His beak was cracked and his wings were torn but they lifted him along in a shower of abundant song and grace. Dazzling light streamed about and the Father’s voice overcame them all with his overpowering delight.
The dove was pleased to return and relieved at the end of his suffering. He was nestled within a nook to rest, soon returning to health and was then able to soar again with the joy that he used to possess.
He settled back into his place and was content with the flights and the songs and the resounding voice, for he knew of the reality of what was below. Peace reigned within his soul and he was fervently happy. For a while.
After time had passed, and the songs had become familiar, and the dove had flown the same paths. A feeling began to creep within. A boredom, a curiosity, an undeniable compulsion to do something new. His memories of below began to change. He had seen it all before, perhaps he could do better this time?
And so, with a swift turn and tight shift, he curled up his wings and sank beneath the clouds again.
Soren Williamson is a Creative Writing student who writes fantastical and imaginative stories that explore morality, faith and growing up. He firmly believes that the “only imaginative works we ought to grow out of are those which it would have been better not to have read at all.” (C.S. Lewis)
