The Koha
| Anne Ranasinghe wields words in her fiction as she would in her poetry. Measured, calculated, deeply considered.  She had sent this flash fiction piece to us some time ago, and we are glad that we are able to publish them, even though she is not with us anymore. Please send in your works of Flash Fiction to Madhubashini Dissanayake-Ratnayake, C/o The Sunday Times, No. 8, Hunupitiya Cross Road, Colombo 2 N.B. Work sent to this page may be edited. |
Today Jeremy killed the beautiful koha.
She had chosen my rock-garden as her home, and there she lived amidst the ferns and crotons growing wild between the stones, and sheltered by the old araliya with its spreading branches and clusters of pink and white blossoms.
She was a very peaceful koha, distinguished by her dark grey plumage speckled with minute white polka dots. We left portions of cooked brown country rice on the lower branches, and she ate heartily, then would fly to the bird bath and drink in small swift sips. She bathed everyday, standing in the water and shaking her wings so that the drops of water cascaded in a scintillating fountain, drenching the grass; and was surprisd by the spectacle she managed to create, joyfully repeating the performance, over and over again. Always at mid-day. When the sun is high.
The koha lived alone. Or so I thought. Maybe she was old, but seemed utterly content. We felt very privileged to host her.
Having bathed and eaten, the koha would sleep, resting on the soft earth among the rocks and ferns and crotons, sheltered from the sun by the maginificiently blossoming araliya.
Today Jeremy found her. I believe the koha must have been alseep, for she made no sound as he killed, sinking his fierce incisors into the delicate throat. A few drops of blood. A dead bird.
Having killed, he lost interest.
I was deeply grieved. I confronted Jeremy. He knew that what he had done was wrong, or was wrong in my eyes. Subdued, he nuzzled my hand. Begging for pardon.
I am asking myself, why did he kill. He was neither threatened nor hungry. He did not touch his dead victim.
I thought only we, the human animals, kill for the sake of killing. And I know that Jeremy will kill again, be it a bird, or lizard, squirrel or mouse. Just as we continue killing.
It is only a question of degree.
This evening I suddenly hear the plaintive call of a male koha. It is late, and the mournful cry, endlessly repeated, trembles through the darkness as I watch the bird’s black silhouette circling the araliya, alighting on the tree, waiting silently, then resuming its dirge.
But there is no response, no response.