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Dear Ghost Bird, today I saw a hawk and thought of you. Well, who am I kidding, I always think of you. More than I should. They told us that names are dangerous here. Along with technology, and all the things we left behind. First, I didn’t believe it. After all, there is nothing but untouched wilderness here. What would it care about our private lives? But now I’m starting to see it. We are spies in enemy territory.
Still, I can’t help thinking of you. Sometimes I imagine what you are doing while I write these words. Usually, I write late at night, when you would be going out for your evening walk. If I didn’t know you as well as I do I would have thought you were cheating on me. But I do know you Ghost Bird, and you barely care about people.
I wish you trusted me with the secrets of your night walks. It’s difficult for me to understand why you wouldn’t want that, the way I want to tell you about every second of my day. The irony is that I can write down everything I want to tell you, and you will probably never read this journal.
The biologist stared at the journal, bewildered. The bold, blocky letters standing with a precision left over from military service were undoubtedly her husband’s. The problem was, that she had left this journal behind when she began her journey up the coast towards the island, along with her own. Yet here it was, lying inconspicuously on a rock, open in the middle.
She didn’t dare touch it, only crouched beside it like a curious animal to read the pages. The appearance of it was so unusual, she couldn't help treat it the same way she would if she had found a mushroom by the side of the trail. She could barely refrain from carefully taking a sample into a glass vial. She had read the journal from cover to cover, of course, so the words were familiar. Weren’t they? She struggled to remember if the exact phrasing of the sentences were the same. Was there an expression she hadn’t encountered before? Or was the brightness confusing her memories or her perception?
She had a slight headache, no doubt because of the growing brightness inside her. She realized that it reacted with excitement to seeing the journal. It was almost like the words on the wall of the tower. She wanted to reach out and turn the page to keep reading. She wanted to follow her husband’s words wherever they led her, but some primal self-preservation instinct warned her of an unknown danger ahead.
She contemplated taking the journal with her, but she didn’t quite trust it, so she left it lying on the rock, and after a short rest, she continued her journey.
***
It was the next day when she saw the journal again. She had stopped for the night as the sun set and made camp. She made a fire in the twilight and prepared her evening meal from things she had foraged. Suddenly, there was the sharp cry of a bird, and something was flung out of the sky at her.
The biologist covered her head with her hands, but the object missed her and landed with a thump next to her on the ground. It was her husband’s journal. The impact had opened it in the middle, but it was significantly more worn than the previous day.
There were pages missing, torn out, leaving jagged edges, and the cover and spine had deep indentations of something sharp. There were words written on the visible pages, in her husband’s handwriting. But they weren’t written with the usual blue ballpoint pen. Instead, the words were traced with black ink, and it was smudged in some places.
This time, she couldn’t stop herself. She picked the journal up and cradled it gently in her hands as she read.
Dear Ghost Bird, you might be wondering about why I volunteered for the expedition. I told myself it was because I like to help people. I’m at my best when I’m at the front lines. When I’m the first at an accident. When I’m part of a greater good. You knew me, and you know it’s true.
But there is no one to help here.
This might be the only place in the world that doesn’t need help, and this is where I ran away.
Maybe I just wanted you to make me stay. I know now that the Southern Reach wouldn’t have let me go, but I can’t shake the feeling that there was a needy part of me that did not respond to hypnosis. That part of me just wanted you to want me enough to stop it, to beg me to stay.
Or maybe I always knew what would happen, and I relished the idea of becoming part of a place you would find interesting. A creature existing in its natural habitat, only vaguely aware of your relentless, all-encompassing attention observing its every move.
The journal fell out of the biologist’s grip. It was like watching a replay of an accident. The realization of just how much her husband had loved her crashed into her and she could do nothing to stop it.
During those last months, after their relationship became strained, she always assumed he was mad at her. Annoyed that she didn’t fit certain expectations. She was convinced he wanted her to change, that the only thing that could have saved their relationship was for her to change, and she was no more capable of it than a bird changing its feathers.
And now that she was irrevocably and fundamentally changing, to learn that he had loved her the way she was… it was almost unbearable.
That night, she slept with the tattered journal under her coat that she rolled up as a pillow, but by the morning, it was gone.
***
The biologist continued her journey towards the island with renewed hope and purpose, even as the brightness grew ever stronger inside her, making her skin glow even during the day. She felt no surprise, only joy when she spotted the familiar journal in the hollow of a tree.
Its covers were closed, but there was a feather tucked into the journal, showing her where to opened it.
Dear Ghost Bird, let us stop talking about the past. What happened doesn’t matter now, that you’re here, now that I know you’re coming.
I’m waiting for you.
The journal pages were intact, and the biologist flipped through them with greedy fingers, but the rest was empty. She examined the feather instead. It was a grayish-blue color, and if she had to guess it belonged to a bird of prey, but she had never seen anything like it before.
There was a patch of dried black ink at the end. She left the journal in the tree but tucked the feather into her hair as she continued on.
***
It took her three more days to reach the island. Each day the journal would appear in various conditions, with messages from her husband. The writing was increasingly difficult to read.
It became easier to deal with the brightness as if they had made an unspoken deal about reaching their destination.
Once she reached the island, she scanned her surroundings, squinting against the strong sunlight. There was the broken silhouette of a lighthouse and the jagged edges of the rocks, but there was no sign of any human activity.
She circled the lighthouse cautiously. Suddenly, something blocked the sunlight for a moment, and she heard the beating of strong wings. When she stepped out from the shadow of the building, she saw someone standing on the beach, and her heart leaped into her throat in recognition. It took but a couple of steps to close the distance.
“Ghost Bird.” Her husband’s voice was filled with warmth and a calmness that she had never associated with him.
He looked older. His dark hair had streaks of gray in it. She quickened her steps on instinct, a sudden surge of emotion pulling her forward. She had already thrown her arms around him when it registered that those streaks weren’t hair.
They were feathers.
She pressed her cheek against his neck and only squeezed harder, the brightness inside her rolling with her emotions.
She realized suddenly that she did not remember his name.
She didn’t remember her own either.
“You’re my Ghost Bird,” she said instead, tears clouding her vision.
He laughed, and it had an edge to it now, like the sharp cry of an eagle.