In a big house, on a wide road, in a square sweltering room, sat Chantal Gevieve, a boisterous young girl of the mysterious and wondrous age of six. She was quite the oddest thing, with large kaleidoscopic eyes of brown and blue that took the queer leisure in fixing themselves upon the roses that tended to wither by the callous hand of the afternoon sun. The Parisian springs were customarily of a timorous sort, but this particular year the heat of the late hours were unbearable. However, despite the many idles Chantal spends by her window, it had very little effect on her insipid skin. She was nonetheless pale and her face was of plain and simple feature. Her lips were oblique, her nose was long and as perfect as her golden hair was, it could not compliment her bowed little head.
But her white skinny legs insisted on coverage and just beneath her translucent neck; clad in viridescent veins, there lay loosely and ridiculously on her shoulders a light sunshine yellow dress.
Bending low under its own weight and adorning the brim of her forehead a rather indifferent hat floated in a flurry of indigo and emerald peacock feathers.
Behind Chantal, there unraveled a vast chamber of marble and ebony tables, velvet foot rests and wide intricately sewn armchairs and dining seats. Lining the walls, there hung gallant tapestries and curtains of bright blue pigmentation. The carpets that covered the floorboards were sprouting furs from the variant colors of black to bleached whites. Paintings, however, appeared seldom on the lime green wallpaper, and those that did, were often of the many attractive landscapes of rue de la Paix and more so of Paris itself, Chantal’s dearly loved hometown.
Though Chantal had the rare privilege to look so often and with such pride upon the painted works, she preferred far more to gaze upon the real cobblestone road and the true liveliness of the swaying trees as they lined the streets and vined themselves around the lampposts, the momentum of their eerie and yet dainty wavering leaves mesmerizing in the dry breeze. She further more enjoyed the spring sun and the sight of the blossom tree bloom and grow, its flowers drifting slowly to the ground with only the heavy restraint of the thick stifling wind to delay it’s fall.
The hours passed as slowly as they typically did and she began to hum and whistle absentmindedly whilst thinking about the sights beyond her flower box. Bored as she usually was, Chantal smoothed out the folds in her skirt and meandered her way aimlessly and adrift towards the alluring heat of the window. She propped up her thin elbows onto the sill and waited for a cooler breeze to pass and rid the air of its blistering burden. Many moments filtered through the weightful time, many glares of the sun had beaten down on the pavement, and all that thought the world quiet and calm became quickly deceived. For just as the course of the wind shifted a most miraculous sight swooped in from the depths of the bright sapphire sky and landed gleamingly on the edge of the ebony frame.
There on the window was perched a bird of most phenomenal hues, its arms still spread from its gracious land on the edge of the wood. The fledgling cocked its exquisite head to one side and took a tentative step towards the girl, her odd features reflecting awe and naïve covet. The bird hopped closer still and his brilliant periwinkle plumage rustled and shimmered in the dazzling light. As he lifted himself slightly, green and yellow feathers flashed and skipped in the astonished eyes of Chantal from underneath of his wing. He pivoted; his black eyes blinked, his grey beak flashed and then he was still.
Having been startled by the so bewildering advent of this bird, Chantal had sprung back in evident surprise, her lanky legs giving way and betraying her to the ground.
For the fraction of a moment her azure eyes enchantedly searched those black ones of the bird until finally one made its move.
The little friend set his jaunty head to one side and skipped into the arms of Chantal; and in that moment when the two touched skins a most marvelous incident occurred. The little bird opened its silver beak and chirruped the very words of Chantal’s thoughts.
“What a funny bird,” the young fowl warbled in the resonant voice of a falsetto little girl. Chantal grinned vehemently and stroked the animal’s vibrant tail feathers, their touch more eager this time, more expectant. They came in the briefest contact and then the bird jerked and spoke once more, “What are you?”
Chantal beamed and hesitantly brushed the side of its wing, catching her breath as it sang again, “Wherever do you come from?”
The animal quivered and then spiraled into the air landing blinkingly on the height of the chandelier that swung from the ceiling. Chantal followed the flight of the bird with her contemplating eyes and awaited its answer.
“My name is Aspen and I am the Sound of Silence.” The bird said. It fluttered down again and swiveled briskly on the bridge of Chantal’s knees.
The girl watched it cling to the fabric upon her thigh and tentatively sent her thoughts to the creature once more, “Will you sing for me?” She had often listened to the robins chirp and the black birds caw but never had such a marvelous thing caught her eye, and never did she think she’d see one again.
For a moment there was quiet until Aspen opened his jaw to an angle and began to trill. He puffed his little chest and it seemed that with every dipping and diving note the colors of the world would change, and as the tune would lift and soar it began to sound as if the clouds were joining in and the sky was too. Aspen cheaped and caroled and then rang and rumbled until the commencement of the sun set started and the lazy night began to clock in. Finally he was done and as Chantal felt the sleep and the drowsiness take its toll she found the strength to say this, “But you sing far too prettily for your coat or silent manner and title to do you justice, Monsieur,” Aspen relayed as Chantal tiredly dwindled with one of his feathers.
“You are cordial in your flattery but if there is anything more beautiful it is the sweet melody of your voice Madame,” Aspen said, “For it is the things we hear seldom that are the most appreciated.”
Chantal’s face fell. The darkness of the small square of night visible through her window became absolute blackness. The unnerving light of the moon dimmed and then relighted into the familiar burn of a bedside candle. Her eyes began to bat and beat and as the world began to fade and the light of the room fell obscure she felt the warm hindrances of her bed sheets wrap her and hold her to the wooden head board whose sharp carvings were cutting into her back.
The flitting bird was gone and yet inside Chantal’s head there were still resonant echoes of his song and merry melody.
Desperate to not be alone Chantal opened her mouth and tried to scream but like she had feared no sound came out. She wrenched at her pillow and with it knocked over the two candles, their flame being quickly put out by the following chink of glass and water that fell by their sides. The noise was loud and raised the sleep from the eyes of Chantal’s mother that night.
She came stumbling through the threshold, clad in a silk night dress. She shot a weary glance at her daughter and then took Chantal into her arms. “A dream?” she asked.
Chantal felt the relentless heat spill from her eyes and seep onto her face as she nodded her head.
“Next time call me with the bell like you always do,” Mrs. Gevieve smiled grimly and then took her daughter’s hand, sighed and then said, “Where did the maze of your wonderful mind take you this time?” her expression twinkled briefly with the hollowness of hope and the raw pain of sorrow as she awaited with a foolish and feeble distant belief that perhaps an audible answer would be given in response.
But none came. It never did.
Chantal’s lower lip quivered into a hesitant smile as she remembered the delicate voice she had borne so many times in so many dreams; and yet only in her dreams. Her tears hardened and she closed her eyes. Then, with the quick and fascinating movements of a mute, Chantal began to agitate her arms and animate her fingers.