The Third-Floor Bedroom
He was an only child. He always had been, and always would be. His mother had died only moments after her final request--that he be called Henry.
Henry lived a relatively solitary, but content life. His mother’s family was wealthy, and her estate was left to him and his father. Henry’s grandfather (for whom he was named) had been a first-generation American, having migrated from Germany, and had a stroke of luck when he opened a mail delivery service, using pigeons as his carriers. Everyone knew that he had a natural gift for dealing with animals. What they did not know was that he was really a magician.
Henry loved the birds in his room. They were not real birds, of course, but somehow they always seemed to comfort him at night, when he was sad. They were painted with gold on his walls, long ago, by his grandfather. Having learned to read at a very early age out of boredom and loneliness, Henry loved to visit his grandfather’s library and read the old stories about the pigeons that carried mail. No grownups ever told Henry stories out loud at bedtime except for his nurse, Maria, and even hers did not compare to his grandpa’s stories of those seemingly magical creatures that were able to carry messages far, and wide, and faithful.
It all began when someone left the window open. It was probably Maria, always trying to get Henry to go outside. She said that some fresh air would help Henry get some meat on his bones. Henry would always think, “why would I want meat on my bones? Is Maria planning to eat me?” (He knew Maria meant well, but he often made up stories for himself about what she was plotting to do next.) He silently walked to the window and looked out. Maybe Maria was a little bit right; it was very tranquil on the lawn today, but Henry stood on tiptoe and extended his small arms as high as they would go in order to reach the top of the window, and pull down with all of his might to close it with an impressive-sounding crash.
Henry stood in front of the window for a moment and considered his reflection. (Maria did not allow mirrors, saying, “I will not raise a self-centered child!”) He had feathery, golden hair, a round face with healthy cheeks (despite his otherwise relatively gaunt figure), and blue eyes as deep as the ocean, like his mother. Sometimes he liked to imagine that any strength he did have came from his eyes; since the ocean was so strong, his eyes must be, too. Even his hardly-present father agreed with Henry about this.
Suddenly, Henry was startled by something behind him in his reflection. He spun around to face his bedroom wall with the golden birds painted on it. One was missing! Having the naturally vibrant imagination one finds in a five-year-old, Henry gasped, “it must have flown out my window!”
Henry heard a small, golden voice in his head. “Yes, she did. Turn around.” Cautiously, he turned to see another winged creature peeling off of his bedroom wall.
Startled, he jumped back. “Please, don’t you leave me, too!” he cried.
“Shh,” said the voice in his head. “If you make a ruckus, that old hag Maria will hear! You can talk to me inside your head, too. You have the gift like your grandfather did.”
“How? What gift?”
“Just try it. Think golden, and I’m sure it will come to you,” said the voice.
“Okay,” said Henry. It seemed to work; the bird looked pleased.
“Very good,” it said. “My name is Bartholomew. Now that we have that down, we had best be on our way. Would you mind opening that window again?” Henry, not knowing what else to do, padded back over to the window and opened it. Bartholomew appeared to stretch his wings, then flew out of the window.
“Wait! Please don’t leave!” Henry said in his head with all of his might.
“You’re supposed to follow me. Didn’t your father tell you anything?” said Bartholomew. “Think golden. You’ll know what to do.”
Henry found himself plummeting to the ground from his third-floor bedroom window. “Help!” he cried.
“GOLDEN!” said Bartholomew. Henry concentrated. He found his arms extending. Somehow he caught the air and began soaring upwards to the height of the bird. It would have been a strange sight: a golden bird and a flying, golden boy.
“Where are we going?” asked Henry.
“To find someone,” said the bird. “Just follow me.”
“Did you know my mother?”
Silence, for a moment. Henry strained his ears. There had to be a reply. “Yes. We all knew her. When she was a girl. She lived with her father, sort of like you do,” Bartholomew answered. “She was lonely, without a mother. So, your grandfather made us for her.”
“He made you?!” Henry was beginning to feel excited. He didn’t feel alone.
“Yes, didn’t your father tell you? He should have known.”
“No,” said Henry in a small voice. His father was not always the most tender and loving, but he was still his father. Henry felt sad for a moment, but then remembered that he was flying. “I’m flying!” he said excitedly, unintentionally changing the subject.
“Yes, you are,” Bartholomew said. “You will remember this day forever. I remember the first day I flew. It was the day your grandpa made me. Your mother was there, too.” Henry did not know what he should say next. This was the most he had ever heard about his mother.
They did not talk any more until they had reached their destination: a solitary, huge tree in the middle of a field, in The Middle of Nowhere, America. As they approached the tree, Henry could see that it was hollow. This tree did not seem lonely, even though it stood alone. Henry looked up and saw hundreds of shimmering, gold, winged things perched, asleep, in its branches. He whispered, “are those--”
“Yes,” Bartholomew answered. “They are like me. And, there is who we are looking for!” One of the birds, apparently the only other one awake, swooped down from the branches and landed gracefully--goldenly--on the ground in front of Bartholomew.
“Is he the one?” Her voice seemed golden inside Henry’s head, too.
“Yes. Henry, this is Georgina,” Bartholomew explained. “Well, now that we’re all here, it is time.”
“Time for what?” asked Henry.
“That’s why we need you,” Georgina began. “I guess the simplest way to explain is just… snap your fingers. And remember--think golden.”
You may be thinking that five-year-olds don’t know how to snap their fingers, which is true. But you must remember: Henry knew how to do many things that most five-year-olds cannot. In fact, Henry had mastered snapping one rainy day alone in his grandfather’s library. So, he snapped his fingers and thought as goldenly as he possibly could.
Wonder filled his eyes. He felt like the ocean. The most magnificent thing he had ever seen was the sight of hundreds of golden flying things descending from this majestic tree, and perfectly lining up on the ground before him. “Wow,” he said aloud. “Now what should I do?”
“Give the command!” instructed Bartholomew.
“The command to what?” Henry was simultaneously extremely disoriented, confused, and having the most amazing day of his life.
“To deliver, of course! We have years to catch up on!” said Georgina, like it was the most obvious thing possible.
“His father has not told him anything,” whispered Bartholomew to Georgina.
“Oh,” said she. “Well, you just say, ‘deliver,’ dear.”
“Deliver!” was Henry’s command.
Suddenly, the tree began overflowing, somehow, with mail. The birds began to each choose a piece, and each flew off in a different direction, automatically knowing where to go. Bartholomew carefully chose a letter addressed to The Little Boy in the Third-Floor Bedroom, Vogel Estate, Almond, New York State, but Henry did not see this. As he began to stretch out his wings in preparation to take off, he was halted by the small golden voice of his master. “Are you going to leave me?” said Henry.
“Of course not,” said Bartholomew. “Follow me.”
For the whole flight, Henry made notes of landmarks and ways he could remember to find his way back to the not-lonely tree. He was, after all, the most intelligent and resourceful five-year-old who ever was. Henry became so absorbed in remembering how he would return to the tree that he did not realize to where they were flying.
***
Henry woke up the next day, neatly tucked into his own bed in his own pajamas. He had had the most wonderful dream last night, in which everything was golden, and he was very strong. Henry sat up, rubbed his eyes, and surveyed his third-floor bedroom. It was exactly as he had left it the night before, and all of his favorite painted golden birds were in their places on his wall. Or was it?
There was something on his dresser that was never there before, but seemed familiar. It was a letter. It was addressed to him. He opened it.
Inside, it read:
Well done, my Henry. It is just beginning. You do not have to be alone. Take care of the birds for me. You will be golden. You will be strong like the sea. And you will not be alone. It is your turn now. Think golden, and you will know what to do.
I wish I could be with you now, but this is all I can send. Do not be sad!
All of my love,
Mommy
A happy tear rolled down Henry’s cheek, and he smiled for the first time. He was not alone in his third-floor bedroom. He was not alone.
