Tanto pica la pega en la raiz del torvisco, hasta que quebranta el pico.
The saying teaches that things shouldn’t be taken to extremes. And we won’t lie, we took a liking to it because of the broken beak, long before the dictionary enlightened us. Who knew that magpies also flew under that pseudonym? Certainly not us. The dictionary also told us what a flax-leaved daphne is. Such a harmful little shrub. It had us wondering whether the magpie would actually have a chance to break its beak before the poison took effect.
In the forest there is a magpie pecking at the roots of a flax-leaved daphne. The daphne asks why, and the magpie says that he has heard that the daphne is bad; that she harms others, and he has to protect the forest.
The flax-leaved daphne tells the magpie that she too has heard things about him. That he snatches shiny things that don’t belong to him. But the magpie pays no attention to her and keeps pecking with all his strength. Until his beak breaks, and the daphne says that, in the end, the role of protector fell on her. Because with a broken beak the magpie won’t be able to snatch anything anymore.
*It should be obvious, but just in case, the words shiny and protect led to knights in shining armors and the dragons they protect against.
Every day Life takes a little bit more shine off my eyes. My soul. My name. Whatever you want to call it, I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for that magpie. Stealing. Borrowing. Once again, whatever sounds better to you. But I learned my lesson when my heart didn’t magically heal itself. It scarred. Uglily. Shutting the light, the warmth, everybody else, out. I am all that I have left now, and I won’t put my faith in magic ever again. My magpie is right. The world is full of shiny things, and it’s better to replace what’s broken before it has a chance to scar and add to the darkness that is Life at heart.
Do I wish I could breathe fire? Sure. It’s a nice trick. But being a poisonous evergreen shrub also has a perk or two. Come autumn, there are no red leaves on the ground. Nothing disappears in a puff of smoke. My poison doesn’t waver like the moon, it is more faithful than the sun. Whether there is air in my lungs or not, I am still poisonous. I am always myself. And even the brightest flames pale in comparison to that certainty.
I wish I knew how to fend that magpie off. But comparisons are merciless things. They worm their way into your heart, and they beat you. Every second. Every minute of every day. Comparisons are a song that rots your blood. But my magpie doesn’t know any other song. Starlight gets lost in blue skies, and my magpie has taken a shine to the rotten nights that course through my veins. I had a home. It wasn’t the best. It wasn’t the worst. But I would never have known that if it weren’t for that magpie and the shiny glances it keeps stealing of other people’s homes.
My flowers are white. My fruits are red. I don’t care how you describe dragon fire. White-hot stars. Red-hot souls. It doesn’t matter which words you use, there is nothing dragons have that I don’t have too. Do you believe that they are larger than life? That they breathed the stars into the universe? I have my own clusters of flowers, thank you very much. If there is such a thing as Fate, I am writing my own. And even if the opposite is true; even if Life is all there is, and we are forged in fire, dragons aren’t the only ones that can shape those they come into contact with. I have my own red fruits, and poison spreads more thoroughly than flames.
Do you like my teeth? You are welcome to them. My childhood is almost over, and it is only a matter of time before they fall out. I would rather you flew them far away from me. Are there stars in your nest? I bet there are. You came for my teeth, and that proves that you are a discerning little bird. Don’t be shy. Take as many teeth as you want. Take them all, while they still shine. I don’t want to look back one day and redefine my childhood. My teeth may have roots, but they don’t belong in the dirt, among all those worms and bones. I have been happy. And I won’t let anyone make me believe that I wasn’t. Not even myself. So, fly away, little bird, and keep any stars you take with you out of my sight.
Give it time. A lot can happen in a thousand years. Lowly worms can grow into mighty dragons. Don’t give up just because your poison hasn’t spread beyond the horizon yet. I like your words. They taste like the color red. Like fire. Like destruction. Have some faith. But if you can’t wait; if people are giving you a wide berth, and you feel like air. Invisible. As if everybody were walking right through you. Then I will lend you a hand. I will be the fire to your air. You will see, you will worm your way to the horizon in no time. And it won’t be long before you poison everything under the sun.
Do you see that worm? Sometimes I wish I were a magpie. I wish I only had eyes for shiny things. Things that could help me burn the aftertaste of life off my mouth. Because swallowing doesn’t do the trick. I didn’t have unrealistic dreams. All I ever wanted was to live my life. I never followed the sun beyond the horizon or the stars out of this world. I kept my feet on the ground. But I am not a worm; I can’t keep feeding on rot every day. It was only a matter of time before distaste set in, and I closed my eyes to start wishing everything away.
Do you know why I like people better than animals? It’s because they know best. They don’t listen to advice. They don’t learn from past mistakes. They are determined to live their own lives and make their way in the world. And that just means that poisonous little shrubs like me will never run out of fun.
I am confused. Not unlike magpies, I too have a weakness for shiny things. But I didn’t want to be led astray. I was afraid of losing myself, and I did my best to nip that weakness in the bud. I gave up my wings, all the shiny, white feathers that I had. I did it for myself, and I was praised for it. But then, not unlike a knight in shining armor, I got rid of the poisonous shrub that was the scourge of that forest. I defeated a mighty dragon, and I was condemned for it. But I still don’t see the difference. Is it because that forest wasn’t only mine, and I took it upon myself? Is it because I didn’t slay that dragon in my lady’s name? Is that the real reason no one praised me the second time?
If I were a dragon, I would be covered in evergreen scales. There would be pearl-white flowers in my claws and the aftertaste of blood-red fire in my mouth. From tail to snout, there wouldn’t be an inch of me that wasn’t poisonous. I would dive into the sky. I would fly, until my lungs ignited, and the clouds couldn’t hold a candle to my flowers. That’s my definition of freedom. Knowing that no one can touch my imagination. That no one would even dare.
Life isn’t black and white. I have lost count of how many times I have heard those words. They aren’t wrong. Magpies like me can’t help stealing. Shades of blue from the sky where we fly. A touch of green from the ground where we sing. But colors bleed. Blues into white. Green into black. I used to have many dreams. But only ever one hope. Closing my eyes and forgetting that there was dirt beneath my feet. No one seemed to understand that I wasn’t interested in living a life. I was trying to protect the most fragile part of myself. I was doing my best to write a fairytale. Black words on white paper. Because the magic wouldn’t work otherwise. And I was willing to use up all my feathers because I had to try. At least once. To grow into anything other than just another dark shade of grey.
Umbrellas may take after dragon wings, but dragons have fire, and I would never be so foolish as to take shelter from the rain under those wings. Fires have to be fanned. And even though I don’t know where dragons keep their flames, whether it’s in their lungs or in their stomach, I can only imagine that fire demands both hands. Devotion. One’s all. Not just half a heart. If I were to bat my eyelashes, and a dragon took me under its wing, its fire would resent me. It would try to burn me because it wouldn’t be all-consuming anymore. And if that dragon succumbed to my poison so easily, it would be no match for its own fire. It wouldn’t live up to its promise to me. There would be no protection. And in that case, I would rather brave the rain.
I know what happens to thieves. But I was a magpie. I didn’t have hands, and I thought that I would never meet the same fate. After all, I didn’t steal bread. Only shiny, pretty words from other people’s mouths. And, strictly speaking, it wasn’t even stealing. Because they told me that they loved me, and they gave those words freely to me. But for some reason my feathers started falling off. My flesh started to rot. I used to think that only happened to teeth. But most of who I used to be has already fallen out. And the only reason you don’t see me crying my eyes out is because those words were sweet, and their aftertaste still hasn’t soured in my mouth.
To me, breathing fire lost its shine a while back. There was no real challenge, it came naturally to me. All the knights burned to a crisp, and I was left wanting more out of life. So, I started a garden on the tip of my tongue. A garden of poisonous evergreens, that find poisoning as easy as I find breathing. And I can’t wait. What you hear isn’t my stomach growling. It’s my heart sparking. With anticipation. Because this promises to be the fight of my life.
When I was young, someone warned me about the dangers of flying too close to the sun. But most of my feathers were already black, and I had faith in my iridescent blues and greens. Who knows, maybe if I had had a touch of red, and I had pledged loyalty to my beloved, I might have retained more of myself. My heart wouldn’t be mine anymore, but there was a chance that I might have retained my wings. Maybe if I had ever bled for someone else, I would still recognize myself today. But my colors were endless blues and hopeful greens. I thought that I could replace the sun. That I could do better than it. The blood dripping down my spear didn’t mean anything to me, it had no hold over my heart. And I didn’t even realize when my name took wing, never to be seen again.
You must have mistaken me for someone else. I am not a cat; I don’t play with my food. If I were a dragon, I wouldn’t even have to use my sharp claws. One breath, a touch of red, and smoke would snatch the life from my prey’s eyes. To bury it deep in the sky, without the word mercy ever having come out of my prey’s mouth. See? I am a nice little shrub. I don’t have wings. I don’t seek anyone out. I have poison. But you can’t call it playing. Not when I am not the one that initiates contact.
When my brother died, I inherited his shining armor. His will. I have nothing against that poisonous evergreen. But my brother died and, apparently, I am duty-bound to pick up where he left off. I would never say that he got what he deserved, but nobody forced him to fight. He took it upon himself. There was always a possibility that he would fail. And he should have made peace with that outcome before facing his foe. But everybody seems to think that he did the right thing. Resentment is the name of every ghost. And everybody expected my brother to foist his armor on me.
Poor magpie. Soon your bones will join those of the birds that have tried their luck before you. Are you sure that you want to peck at my roots? Your iridescent feathers tell me that you are special. I can see that you have a weakness for shiny things. What would you do if I told you that you could outshine all those other birds? All you would have to do is steal a little bit of fire. Green leaves are no match for red flames. I would burn down. And my smoke would retaliate by poisoning you, of course. But you would be the crown on that pile of bones. What do you say?
Countless magpies have died at the feet of that poisonous evergreen. Its roots have drunk their blood, they have fed on the rotten wings of my brothers. But the sky remains blue. Hollow. Unable to feel the loss of those birds. And I wonder when the sky’s name became my own. Maybe all these years of flying have finally taken their toll on me. I no longer know what I am fighting for. The wind polishes my feathers, my armor, in preparation for the day I join that fight. But my heartbeat rings hollow. It doesn’t tell me to avenge my brothers. That bluest of hearts only tells me to do my duty, dulling me from the inside.
I have always dreamed of getting a bird’s eye view of this forest. What do you say, pretty bird? I promise to behave. I promise to keep my poison to myself. If you uproot me and fly me somewhere else, I will stay there. I am immune to homesickness. I have never liked being touched. That is why I became poisonous to begin with. I won’t seek your company or any other bird’s. And I like your iridescent feathers. The ease of your blues and the hope of your greens. Don’t you think that it would be a pity if my blood got all over them.
You won’t discourage me. You won’t warn me off. My armor is shining blindingly, and I have the sky on my side. I have the sky’s blessing. You won’t find a magpie with bluer feathers than mine under the sun. I will prevail. Evergreen is just a name, and soon your leaves will join the bones of the birds that came before me in the ground.
Hahaha. Look! Another magpie has died at my feet. I should be flattered, shouldn’t I? They don’t learn. They don’t give up. I am starting to think that I am brighter than the sun. The shiniest thing in this world. Those birds only have eyes for me. And I just wish the sun would agree to teach me a trick or two. Because poison is a poor excuse for a deterrent. But it’s all I have. Hahaha. I don’t want to be grateful for all this love. I don’t even want to call it love. But dead birds keep piling up at my feet. Like bouquets of flowers. And I don’t know what else it could be. Hahaha.
Do you know what the wind has just whispered in my ear? That there is strength in numbers, and nobody expects fights to be fair. That magpies are mostly black, and if we took wing at the same time and stayed airborne, we could easily prolong the night. The wind says that you need sunlight. That only a foolish bird would peck at you and risk getting poison on his tongue. That nobody lives by a code of honor anymore. And I know that the wind is right. It won’t be long before I too take wing and join that flock of magpies in the sky. But a small part of me, the touches of green that don’t have the courage to confront all that black, wish the wind had never changed.
Why do you blame me? I am a plant. I have roots. An invisible cage. I don’t move unless the wind rattles my branches. Just because I am poisonous it doesn’t mean that I am at fault. I don’t reach out. There would be no harm done if others didn’t touch me. If they didn’t feed on me. But that is too much to ask, isn’t it? Birds like you are born for the sky, and you believe that it entitles you to everything and everyone under the sun. But who am I to tell you otherwise? Just another poisonous plant, that won’t feel sorry for anything.
Grey isn’t my color. Blues and greens keep my black feathers alive. Their iridescence is my beating heart. But desolation is the name of my white feathers. The sky infected my wings with its emptiness a long time ago, and every time I fly, I feel that white dying to spread. If I had fingers, you would see blood under my nails. Red desperation. But I have already told you where my heart beats. I have black-tipped wings. And I strive to keep that white contained. So, you see, I would never don that grey armor you are offering me. Because emptiness spreads. A little star has told me that the universe expands, and I have to protect myself.
I am a dragon; I am supposed to be larger than life. Why would I willingly breathe fire? Do you know what fire does? It steals the show. It charms. It enthralls. It holds the audience spellbound. My audience. Have you seen my scales? They deserve to glisten like stars in the night. Fire would just bury them in smoke. And I would rather roar, drowning out every other noise.
Everything would be easier if I were a black-and-white bird. I would don a black armor, and I would polish it every day. I would become a starry night and stay that way, feeling comfortable in my place in the universe. But my feathers can’t make up their mind. I have nothing against the color green. Flying wouldn’t be the same if the sky weren’t blue. But I could do without iridescence in my life. I need to feel safe. I need to know myself. But everything I think I know feels like a trick of the light. And it wouldn’t be so bad if I were just another clockwork moon. If I went from black to white, and back to black, on a schedule. But iridescence cannot be trusted. It leaves me vulnerable. And I hate being at its whim.
Don’t you dare mention that magpie and its poisonous evergreen in my presence. I am a dragon. I don’t defend myself. I am the first to attack. I have fire in my heart. And I would never waste my life reacting to someone else. The scales that fall off my body and I don’t bother picking up are the stars you see at night. If anything, I was born to dictate other people’s fate.
I fell in love during my first fairytale. I don’t remember how it ended. I only had eyes for that knight in shining armor, and my heartbeat drowned the rest of the world out. I remember wanting that armor for myself. The safety it promised. That weight that would keep me on the ground. Home. I was a little bird, and I didn’t like the sky I was being groomed for. I hated the idea of having to fly. Far, far away. To a safety that supposedly was waiting for me beyond the horizon. It made me feel homesick. I hated my wings. And I fell in love with that shining armor because I wanted to stay. Because the thought of giving in to those wings was making me sick, and I needed to fight. Those wings off. I needed to fight. For my home.
I don’t care what that poisonous evergreen calls herself. Let her be a dragon, it’s no skin off my nose. If I had to choose a plant to describe myself, it would be a cactus. I don’t care if poison burns like fire. Look at me. I have spines. Sharpness as far as the eye can see. Teeth. Horns. Claws. Fire isn’t even red, and I prefer drawing blood because burning others to a crisp doesn’t make me feel alive.
I was afraid. I didn’t want to die on that battlefield. I polished my armor, desperately, until all the blood was buried under my nails, and my armor outshone all the others. I prayed. For help. For a magpie to come steal me away. My armor was too heavy. There was too much blood drying on the floor. My guilt wouldn’t let me run away. I needed someone else’s help. Someone I could have blamed. Someone that would have let me pretend that I would never have run. But my shining armor didn’t catch the eye of any magpies. I radiated fear. And I just wish someone had reminded me that fear isn’t a pretty sight. Because then I wouldn’t have wasted so much time polishing my armor before I died.
Have you ever seen a flying lizard? And before you get cute with me, gliding doesn’t count as true flight. I used to have wings. I used to dive into the sky and not surface for days at a time. But the birds didn’t like that. The blue you see today is just an empty husk. The Sky died a long time ago, and some bird was made king. His subjects complained, and he decreed that wings had to go with beaks. And since I didn’t have one of those, my wings were pecked to shreds. And I don’t care if you call it petty spite, I would have loved to see the beak of that magpie break for good.