Black Feathers: Dark Avian Tales: An Anthology(14)

Ben says, “Oh, right. The picture of the bird head. Jeez, I’m sorry. I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to, I mean, I didn’t realize—”

Marnie: “We understand your enthusiasm for Mr. Wheatley and his work, but you didn’t honestly give a second thought to sharing publicly a picture of an admission ticket to a private gathering, one hosted by someone who clearly values his privacy?”

“No, I guess I didn’t. I never mentioned anything about the party, I swear, but now I feel stupid and awful.” He is telling the truth; he does feel stupid and awful, but mostly because he understands that Marnie is here to ask him to take down his most popular Facebook post. “I’m so sorry for that.”

“Do you always react this way when someone shares an invitation to a private party? When they share such a personal gift?”

“No. God, no. It wasn’t like that. I posted it to, you know, drum up some pre-interest, um, buzz, for the interview that I’m going to publish tomorrow. A teaser, right? That’s all. I don’t think Mr. Wheatley realizes how much people in the horror community love ‘Something About Birds’ and how much they want to know about him and hear from him.”

“Are there going to be further problems?”

“Problems?”

“Issues.”

“No. I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think so?”

“No. No problems or issues. I promise.” Ben backs away unconsciously and bumps into the small island in his kitchen. He drops the pipe and it clatters to the floor.

“You will not post any more pictures on social media nor will you include the picture or any mention of the invitation and the gathering itself when you publish the interview.”

“I won’t. I swear.”

“We’d like you to take down the photo, please.”

Everything in him screams no and wants to argue that they don’t understand how much the picture will help bring eyeballs and readers to the interview, how it will help everyone involved. Instead, Ben says, “Yes, of course.”

“Now, please. Take it down, and I’d like to watch you take it down.”

“Yeah, okay.” He pulls his phone from out of his pocket and walks toward Marnie. She watches his finger and thumb strokes as he deletes the post.

Marnie says, “Thank you. I am sorry to have disrupted your evening, Benjamin.” She walks to the front door. She pauses, turns, and says, “Are you sure about accepting the invitation, Benjamin?”

“What do you mean?”

“You can give back the admission ticket to me if you don’t think you can handle the responsibility. Mr. Wheatley would understand.”

The thought of giving her the bird head never once crosses his mind as a possibility. “No, that’s okay. I’m keeping it. I’d like to keep it, please, I mean. I understand why he’s upset and I won’t betray his trust again. I promise.”

Marnie starts to talk, and much of the rest of the strangely personal conversation passes like a dream.





WW: I’m well aware of the role of birds within pagan lore and that they are linked with the concept of freedom, of the ability to transcend the mundane, to leave it behind.


BP: Sounds like an apt description of weird fiction to me, Mr. Wheatley. I want you talk a little about the odd character names of the children. Sometimes I’m of the mind that the children are filling the roles of familiars to Mr. H______. They are his companions, of course, and are assisting him in some task . . . a healing, perhaps, as Mr. H______ is described as having a painful limp in the beginning of the story, a limp that doesn’t seem to be there when later he follows the children into the woods.


WW: (laughs) I do love hearing all the different theories about the story.


BP: Are you laughing because I’m way off?


WW: No, not at all. I tried to build in as many interpretations as possible, and in doing so, I’ve been pleased to find many more interpretations that I didn’t realize were there. Or I didn’t consciously realize, if that makes sense. In the spirit of fair play, I will admit, for the first time, publicly, Benjamin, from where I got the children’s names. They are named after songs from my friend Liz’s obscure little punk band. I hope that’s not a disappointment.


BP: Not at all. I think it’s amazingly cool.


WW: An inside joke, yes, but the seemingly random names have taken on meaning too. At least they have for me.


BP: Let me hit you with one more allegorical reading: I’ve read a fellow critic who argues there’s a classical story going on among all the weirdness. She argues that the Admiral, the Crow, and Kittypants specifically are playing out a syncretic version of the Horus, Osiris, and Set myth of Egypt, with Mr. H______ representing Huitzilopochtli, the bird-headed Mexican god of war. Is she on to something?


WW: The references to those cultural myths involving gods with human bodies and bird heads were not conscious on my part. But that doesn’t mean they’re not there. I grew up reading those stories of ancient gods and mythologies and they are a part of me as they are a part of us all, even if we don’t realize it. That’s the true power of story. That it can find the secrets both the writer and reader didn’t know they had within themselves.