Sarah loved to watch the birds. She spent long afternoons in the woods, playing with birds rather than the other children in the village. Folk thought her odd but let her play.
She learned the voices and the faces of the birds, but not their names. She didn’t ask the hunters or the woodsfolk or the birdwatchers of the villages what the birds’ names were. She had no interest in the names, and she was shy. She stayed quiet when among other human beings.
She stayed quiet among the birds as well, but she was different out there in the woods. People from the village would hardly have known her, quiet little Sarah, if they caught sight of her out in the forest. Her dreamy, downcast eyes grew sharp and bright. Her slack silent face had a light about it. She learned intention. She listened with her head slightly on one side, listened for hours to the birds. She listened without moving.
It was wrong to say she didn’t learn the names. Eventually she learned the names the birds called themselves, though she knew no human words to put to them. Still she was quiet, but she began to know the birds as if she was one of them.
The village ornithologist tried to interest Sarah in her work. She showed the girl books, illustrations, classifications. Sarah had no interest. She thanked the ornithologist politely and then scampered out into the woods. The ornithologist laughed a little, glad to see such enthusiasm, undisciplined though it might be. One day, during her walk, she caught a glimpse of Sarah sitting beneath an abandoned apple tree. Some forgotten orchard was about her, and the birds were singing in the trees. Sarah sat against the trunk of her tree, eyes open and unfocused as she watched the quick flitting movements out of the corners of her eyes. She was smiling, lips closed, and her stillness spoke of her rapt attention to the life around her. The ornithologist walked on, her heart warmed.
There is a danger in becoming too familiar with the songs of birds. In that orchard in particular the sounds carry a special weight. The birds there are more alive than others are, and they sing with a power that carries into the blood of the hearer. Long ago some orchard keeper grew too fond of birds and neglected his trees for them. Now the trees are mostly dead, save the one beneath which Sarah sits. She is steeped in the atmosphere of that sunny orchard. She is chest high in the grasses that hide the ground and the trunks of the dead trees, fading into the earth.
And now she is becoming too familiar with the birds and with their song. Now they call to her as birds call to each other. Now she is sure of their names. Now they name her their own, and with their sharp beaks they take her old name from her.
When the ornithologist passes next the young woman is gone, though the grass is undisturbed. She takes note of a strange small bird with dull plumage and bright eyes. It chirps in laughter as she passes, and flits from tree to tree, settling on a branch of the final apple in the old orchard.
The ornithologist passes the orchard by, and gives no more thought to the strange bright bird that was once named Sarah.