Sultana

I have seen many amazing things in my relatively short life—the great pyramids at Giza, the tomb of Egypt’s most famous pharaoh in the Valley of the Kings, the fantastical palace of the last sultan of Spain, the mind-boggling castle of the mad king of Bavaria.

But lately there is something else I’ve seen that gives me pause, and makes me wonder at the ways of the world, and of the mind.

Last year I wandered through a lush forest, teeming with life. As I hiked through waist-high ferns, a small wooden shack appeared in a clearing. From a distance I heard a noise, sounded like a struggle. The erratic clamor grew louder as I drew closer, and I was compelled to investigate.

I called out to see if there was someone in the shack, perhaps injured, perhaps needing help. There was no response, but the ragged noises continued sporadically, leading me to believe that whatever was inside was of a wilder origin than human. The rough door sat ajar, and offered no resistance as I gingerly pushed it open.

The noises paused as I poked my head inside, temporarily blinded as I moved from sunlight to the shadowed interior. Moving slowly while my eyesight adjusted I cautiously looked around, not wanting to startle the inhabitant. As my vision cleared I was treated to an odd tableau, and I puzzled over it trying to understand what it was I was looking at.

The first thing I recognized was a medium-sized old birdcage on a rough wooden table. The cage once was a shiny brass, but now it was rusty and corroded, the metal dim and cracked. In the past it might have been intended to house a small song bird or two, but as my eyesight grew sharper I saw there was no simple song bird imprisoned within, but instead there was a hawk.

He was a handsome fellow with auburn, cream, and black feathers, but I could see that the simple cage was not large enough for him to move about in—indeed, he couldn’t even spread his wings fully, although he had tried. I could see dried blood on the bars from where he beat against them.

I was so surprised at first that I couldn’t believe my eyes! Why would a predator be in a cage? Even raptors bent to the will of a human weren’t kept confined like this. Anyone who keeps a fierce bird knows not to cage them. And yet, here he sat in front of me, with the most intelligent eyes—no bird had ever looked at me like that before. Suddenly he burst into a frenzy, wings beating against the dull, uncaring cage, bright feathers caught and ripped out, dotted with fresh blood. My heart leapt in my chest as I startled, but outwardly I remained calm and unmoving, afraid of provoking further injury.

Eventually the hawk calmed, rage spent for the moment. He subsided, stopped punishing his wings against his bounds, but his chest rose and fell from his exertions, and a fire remained in his eyes. Strangely, I didn’t fear him. I knew his outburst was not directed at me. Slowly I circled the table, wondering what, if any, action I should take. The hawk, surprisingly calm for the show he had just offered, watched me with his fierce, bright eyes. As I completed my circuit, I spied the door to the cage and halted, nearly stumbling in shock. The door to the prison containing the proud bird within was tied with a simple piece of string. That’s all. Tears welled up in my eyes as I tried to stifle a gasp, fingertips to lips.

Who knows what that string represented to the hawk? Perhaps to a young bird, it was an overwhelming barrier, back when he was small and weak and the fibers were stiff and strong. Perhaps he had simply given up on worrying at it, thinking that it would remain forever a barrier to his freedom—a freedom he obviously still desired.

My heart was bruised, I wanted to pull that cage apart and release the hawk into the sky, into the life he was born for, to fulfill the instincts coded into his very blood. But I knew that the cage holding him was not the battered metal bars on the table. Only *he* could break loose of the very real bonds holding him.

I reached forth, and at the risk of loosing a digit, hooked a finger around the string. The hawk didn’t move a muscle, but stared at my hand like it was the only thing in the world. Slowly, and deliberately, I pulled back, and the fibers gave way one by one, breaking into tiny ghosts of dust. The cage door swung outward, creaking. Still, the hawk remained motionless. Making no noise, I willed the bird to understand, and moved back to the entrance of the shack. The hawk swiveled his head to look at me, silhouetted against the bright mid-day sun.

I stepped outside and propped the door open and left the clearing, wiping away the tears that had gathered in my eyes and hoping, hoping.

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"Love is a snowmobile racing across the tundra and then suddenly it flips over, pinning you underneath.
At night, the ice weasels come." -

Matt Groening

My goal? To fulfill my potential.