Black Feathers: Dark Avian Tales: An Anthology(77)
The starling thought the fox sounded a little foolish with his poetic language and the way he carried on, but the fox rolled on his back, weeping, and put a paw over his eyes. His tongue lolled from his mouth, and surely he would die at any moment if she did not help him.
The starling took hold of her longest and straightest feather with her beak and pulled. It hurt, worse than anything she had ever felt, like the stars and the moon and the sun going out all at once.
“Good. Now bring it down to me, quickly!” the fox said, jumping to all fours, even though he had been at death’s door a moment ago.
Dazed with pain, the starling hopped down to him, half tumbling as she went. She presented the feather to the fox.
“Are you saved now?” she asked him.
“Very much so,” the fox replied, and his eyes were bright.
“Then I will take my leave,” the starling said.
She spread her wings, but when she tried to take flight, she found she could not. Without her longest, straightest feather, she couldn’t fly. She leapt toward the sky again and again but crashed back to the ground every time.
The fox watched her impassively through all her attempts.
“Help me, sir fox,” she said when she had finally exhausted herself.
“Surely I shall,” he said, and stepped forward, snapped her up in his jaws, and swallowed her whole.
This is the moral of the story: You should never trust a wild animal. A fox cannot change its nature no matter how it dresses itself up, or what fine words it uses. It will always hunger. If you let your guard down, even for a moment, it will devour you whole.
iPhone Audio and Video Recording
Raymond Barrow
December 26, 2012
[The image swings, showing the floor, a man’s feet, and a desk cluttered with papers. A starling perches on a corner of the desk, briefly visible before the camera turns to show the face of Raymond Barrow.]
BARROW: There, you see, Will? I’ve been dragged kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century after all. My great-niece, Sarah’s daughter, gave me one of those infernal iPhone things. They were all over for Christmas yesterday, and spent most of the day showing me how to use it. Sarah suggested I might like to record some of my personal recollections of the good old days, something to preserve for generations to come. Ha! If the future is interested in a washed-up old has-been who failed at every important thing he ever turned his hand to, then I pity them. But there is something I want to show you, so maybe this thing will be good for something after all.
[The camera turns to face outward again, the image bouncing while Barrow holds the phone in front of him as he walks. The camera catches glimpses of an ornate entryway, a crystal chandelier, a sweeping staircase. Carvings, hangings, sketches, and paintings on the walls depict birds of all kinds. The camera approaches a massive grandfather clock standing next to a door set beneath the curving staircase. The wooden case is chased with mother of pearl, showing a heron standing placidly among a cluster of reeds.]
BARROW: You see, I did all right for myself in the end. Not that I deserved to, but life isn’t fair, is it?
[Barrow reaches for the door, holding the phone steady in his other hand. A flight of stairs leads down. There’s a rustle from behind the camera, and Rackham, the starling, flies past Barrow’s shoulder, disappearing down the stairs. Barrow stumbles, catching himself against the wall, but doesn’t fall.]
BARROW: Damn bird will be the death of me.
[The image is dark as Barrow gropes his way to the bottom of the stairs and flicks on a light. The camera shows rows of red velvet seats on a raked floor, facing a stage. The curtains are open, the set bare save for a painted screen backdrop, meant to look like a window.]
BARROW: It’s the Victory Theater. I bought up everything they could salvage after the fire and had it all restored. What they couldn’t restore, I had rebuilt, exact replicas.
[The image wavers again as Barrow moves to a row of seats halfway to the stage. He sits, steadying the camera against the back of the chair in front of him.]
BARROW: I salvaged too much, Will. I was right, all those years ago when I said leading ladies are a disease. I’ve been carrying Clara in my blood for fifty-seven years, and there isn’t any cure. All I ever wanted to do was help her, Will, but I think I know why she chose me. It’s what she said about ghosts, and loss, and sorrow. A man can’t change his own nature, but the world can change it for him if he lets his guard down. I let my guard down. I fell in love with you. I left myself open, and where did it get me?
[Barrow doesn’t move, but the house lights in the theater dim, and the lights begin to rise slowly on the stage. As the lights reach full, they reveal a woman with dark hair, wearing a beaded gown, standing center stage.]
BARROW: That’s her, Will. It’s Clara.
[There’s a faint translucence to Clara’s form, but the starling flies from behind the camera and lands on Clara’s shoulder. She smiles.]
BARROW (softly): That’s what all my love earned me, Will. A ghost, but the wrong one.
[Clara turns toward the camera, and the man behind it. Her expression is sad but fond. She smiles, but it’s pained. Clara raises her arms. As they read their full extension, birds pour forth from the spot where she stands. Her dress falls, crumpled, to the floor. Dozens, hundreds of starlings boil up toward the ceiling like a cloud of smoke. When they reach the ceiling, they spread outward.