The Seagull Messenger
by Michael Barley
The boy perches on a log, alone at the edge of his beach, stick-thin legs poking awkwardly from faded cut-offs. A pair of dusty flip-flops lies on the sand below his feet. A slight breeze ruffles his longish, sun-bleached hair.
Gulls glide in an almost cloudless sky, riding on invisible masses of rising air warmed above miles of sand that stretches almost to the horizon. In the far distance the tide begins its long, smooth turn for its run back to the land’s edge.
A man appears, scanning logs and grass at the top of the beach. His face is shaded by a narrow-brimmed hat. When the man’s head turns toward him, the boy can’t see his eyes. The man stops, waves, shouts something that is lost in the hundred or so yards separating them. The boy says nothing, remaining still.
The man walks towards the boy, his long, measured strides rapidly closing the distance between them. “Your mum’s askin’ for you,” he calls. “I’ve come to getcha.”
“Who are you?” the boy asks. He sees a dark-complexioned stranger, brown jacket flapping loosely from broad shoulders, a pony tail dangling behind the hat.
A lone seagull turns away from the water’s edge, circles toward the man, the boy. It can see them both very clearly across the sand.
“I’m a friend of your mum’s,” the man explains. “She’s down the beach a ways, flying kites. She wants you to come see.”
“Why didn’t she come herself?”
“Dunno. Guess she figured you’d come along with me.”
The gull manages an awkward landing on the soft sand. It squawks a warning: “Don’t listen to him.”
“Huh?” The boy is suddenly wary. “A talking seagull? No way, Hosay!”
“Come on, kid. I ain’t got all day,” the man insists.
“Uh-uh. I’m stayin’ here. With my... my new friend.”
“A seagull? Your mum’s gonna be pissed.”
“I don’t care. She took off after breakfast and didn’t say nuthin’ about it. “
“She can’t fly kites anyway,” the gull throws in.
“She can’t fly kites anyway,” the boy repeats.
“Mebbe that’s why she wants you.”
“No way,” the boy mumbles. “She doesn’t want me... never really did.”
“She does, too, kid. Trust me, I know women. And she wants you to... to go fly a kite, ha ha ha.”
“Don’t listen to this crap. He’s conning you.” The gull is convincing. In the boy’s mind at least, there is no doubt the bird is right.
“Listen, sonny. I don’t want to have to carry you.”
“You ain’t gonna carry me nowhere, mister. And don’t call me sonny.”
“No way!” adds the gull.
“Oh, hell!” the man replies. “Why me?”
“So you should bugger off!” The boy fakes bravado he doesn’t really feel. Did the gull wink at him? He is sure it did. He looks around for something, anything he can use if it comes to some sort of struggle.
“Very sharp stick right behind you.” The gull’s voice has a raucous overtone that pierces the air and is not to be ignored. The boy reaches for the stick, grasping it firmly. “Attaboy. Now, watch his left arm. Careful...”
“Your mum said you’d be a pain in the ass. Said to bring you screaming if I had to. I’d sure as hell prefer you come easy. She’s just down the beach, not far. Come on now, okay?”
“She never said no such thing. Ain’t goin’ nowhere with no strange dude. So bugger off!”
“Watch out. He’s going to—”
The man reaches down for the boy’s legs, thinking maybe he can grasp him around the waist and hoist him over his shoulder. He doesn’t see the stick jabbing upwards toward his face, toward his left eye. The broken end is as sharp as a small kitchen knife and penetrates faster than he could dodge had he seen it coming. He screams in agony, half-blinded, falling across the boy’s small torso, rolling over the log, coming to rest in a crumpled heap. The boy twists himself away, out from under the man’s body, away from blood and mucous streaming out of the ruined face.
“Had it coming,” the gull squawks.
“Bugger!” shouts the boy. “Is he—”
“For sure. That one’s not going kite-flying today.”
“Huh. So now what?”
“Now, nothing. Just go play down near the water. Your mum will come looking for you soon. Forget about... this.”
“I just... killed this creep.”
“Go play on the beach. I’ll fix it all up. Get some my friends to help. Don’t worry, kiddo. It’ll work out.”
“A talking seagull. What the hell? Never heard of a bird that can talk. Except maybe a parrot.”
“There’s a few of us around. Now, go play.”
His mother turns up three hours later, finds him following the incoming tide. He has stripped to his shorts and is half swimming, half crawling in the sea water that rushes across the sun-warmed sand. “It’s like a bath,” he tells her. “You’ve been flying kites, I hear?”
“Been looking for you all morning. You just disappeared after breakfast. Your dad might come down this afternoon and take you for a while.”
“How come? I thought he was with his girlfriend.”
“I called him. They found a man’s body up the beach earlier, and we agreed it might be better if he takes you home with him for a while.”
“A body? Holy shit!”
“I’ve told you not to talk like that.”
“So why do I have to go with Dad?”
“There’s police all over the beach. They’re asking everyone questions. I don’t want you to have to go through any of that.”
“Why would they ask me questions?”
“They ask everybody questions, about who they might have seen or talked to.”
“I saw a man with a ponytail.”
“You saw... what? A man with a... oh... my God!”
“He said you sent him to get me. I told him to bugger off.”
“What did he look like? Did he have a leather jacket? A hat?”
“I talked to a seagull.”
“You... what?”
“I talked to a seagull. A big one.”
“The man you spoke to... did he tell you his name?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Did he tell you... anything? About... me?”
“No way. And I’m not going to Dad’s stupid apartment!”
“Don’t be difficult. Dad’s on his way, so I need to get you back to the cabin and pack your stuff. He’ll bring you back in a few days, I promise.”
“But I don’t wanna go!”
“You’re going. End of story.”
A seagull swoops across the beach and almost collides with the boy’s mother. She stumbles backwards, clasping her hair with both hands. Both bird and woman let out terrifying screeches which the boy understands as both greeting and farewell.
The gull vanishes into the afternoon’s bright glare.
Copyright © 2023 by Michael Barley
