The Birdman Project: Book One

by E. L. Giles

  The similarity between my story and Dolores’s leaves me speechless. It makes me wonder who the unificator-turned-guard was: a unificator, a rebel, or both? Was he one of Marcus’s closest friends too? The way Alastair used to be? Did Marcus tell him about this place? And was the unificator-turned-guard about to reveal to me the existence of this house before he died?

  The more answers I get, the more questions I have and the more lost I feel.

  “But O’Hare, how did they—”

  “It’s complicated,” says Dolores.

  I guess she doesn’t want to start in on the subject of a rebel living in the same house as an ex-unificator, though I don’t really get why, if Alastair has long since left his past behind him.

  Dolores stares at Alastair through the window, the corner of her lips raised in a smile, lost in some unknown reverie. Her eyes are soft as she follows his movements as he walks around the yard, his arms full of logs he chopped. Happiness emanates from her and fills the room. Yet her happiness doesn’t surround me. Am I immune or am I just doomed to be unhappy?

  I notice I’m still holding the cup of tea. I haven’t touched it since Dolores handed it to me, so I sip at it, letting the now lukewarm liquid fill my throat. It’s amazing how relaxing it is, the taste and the smell. All my muscles relax, and my head feels lighter—less inclined to fall prey to the dark thoughts and tormented nightmares that still linger. I even surprise myself, suppressing them with brighter thoughts of a future for me here. I see myself sitting around the fire, talking and laughing with them all. I see the wavering light of the flames glowing with orange rays of light on Josh’s face. I see Josh and me walking around in the woods. I see snow covering the yard and the treetops. I see myself calling this place “home.” I see a place where I belong—but I now realize all of this is useless unless I can make amends with Josh. Josh…why do you keep haunting me this fiercely?

  “You know what’s funny?” Dolores asks suddenly. I jump, splashing some tea onto my chest. “There’re so many similarities between Josh and Alastair, it’s like he’s his father.”

  His father… I nearly spit out my tea. How weird. The idea of a mother raising her son already sounds like it comes from another world to me, so the idea of a father in the picture too sounds totally absurd. But there’s something intriguing about it too, the image of a mother and a father both raising their son. For some reason, it feels natural to me, like things are supposed to be that way, and it makes me feel envious.

  Movement in the underbrush catches my attention, breaking me away from my thoughts. Something is edging toward the front yard. Alastair turns around quickly, the axe fisted in both hands, and we all stare as O’Hare steps out of the bushes, two dead ducks in his hands. A sigh of relief escapes both Dolores and me. In a moment, Josh will step out of the bushes too, and I’ll be able to explain myself, to clear all the confusion and start all over again, like a new beginning for both of us.

  A few seconds pass, and Josh still doesn’t appear. A conversation between O’Hare and Alastair starts and slowly heats up as they both share some quick glances in our direction. I turn to Dolores and notice the creases in her forehead. She looks overwhelmed.

  I feel an indescribable sadness growing inside of me, filling my body with a black hole that sucks in everything resembling hope, quiet, or happiness. All that is left is a pang of guilt, a reminder that everything happening here is because of me.

  “I’ll be back,” says Dolores, pushing her chair back and heading to the door.

  She steps outside, letting the door slam behind her. Her tousled hair blows in the wind and whips across her back. She looks rougher today than yesterday like she’s aged years in a matter of hours. She even appears to have new wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. As she heads toward Alastair and O’Hare, she folds her arms over her breasts, her hands clamping her biceps, and I notice the white marks that appear under her fingers as they press into her skin. Her pace is determined. I hope she doesn’t come back to me that way.

  I can’t hear a single word that is said between them. I can only see their gestures and facial expressions, and I am certain it’s not relief I see on their faces. Dolores turns red as she screams at O’Hare, while O’Hare gestures toward Alastair, who looks be on his last nerve, shaking a hand and then clenching it into a fist. I squeal when Alastair grips the axe handle with both hands and lifts it over his head in a fast movement. I then relax as he digs the blade of the axe deep into the tree trunk he uses to chop the wood. What else was I thinking he would do with that axe?

  I stare at Alastair’s back as he disappears into the underbrush, where O’Hare came from a few minutes ago. O’Hare still holds the wild game in his hand, his face reddened like Dolores’s. They don’t look at each other, and as they both come back to the house, they don’t say a word.

  I wonder if I’d be better off leaving the house for a moment to let them clear things up, but I’m far too interested in knowing what’s going on with Josh. So, I stay. They both enter the house, O’Hare opening the door for Dolores, who snorts past him, elbows tucked beside her like she’s trying to contain herself. O’Hare then heads to the counter and starts plucking the ducks, grunting undecipherable words. He’s probably swearing. Dolores comes to the table and takes the chair across from me. She puts her elbows on the table and then rests her chin on her closed hands.

  “He’s not coming back, is he?” I ask her discreetly. I don’t want things to get worse than they already are.

  “Not yet,” is all she says, with an edge to her voice that’s clearly meant to bite at O’Hare.

  O’Hare turns around, a knife in one hand and a fistful of feathers in the other. “Dammit,” he says through gritted teeth. “He’s nineteen, Dol—”

  “Twenty,” Dolores corrects him before he can finish, which only draws a frown from O’Hare.

  “Whatever, he’s old enough to make his own decisions. He’s not a kid anymore. He can survive in the wild like no one else. You know this.”

  “It has nothing to do with that. It’s different now,” she says, “You would know if you had a kid,” Dolores says.

  “Yeah, I would. But it’s a luxury I could never afford apparently,” O’Hare replies with the same tone that Dolores uses. Then he adds bitterly, “Better off Alastair than me anyway. It’s me who should have gone to the borders and Alastair who should have gone with Josh, not the other way around.”

  O’Hare turns on his heel, digging the knife into the wooden top of the counter, and strides past me to the door, slamming it open. A second later, he’s leaning against the handrail, a tarnished flask in hand. He brings it to his lips.

  Dolores returns to her previous position, her chin resting on her closed hand, tears swimming in her eyes. I risk reaching a hand out to her, and she instantly takes it like it’s something to hold onto. It feels strange to do that, since a week ago such an act would have merited a report or worse, but here it’s different, and I’m already starting to get used to it. All that is missing is the warmth from Josh’s arms around me and the deep tone of his voice vibrating in my ears as he speaks. Where are you Josh? Why haven’t you come back? Why?

  Chapter Fifteen

  Dolores shows me how to light a fire in the oven and how to feed it enough not to choke it. Once the embers are hot enough, she brings the ducks out. We gather vegetables from the garden in the backyard—they have a garden! Dolores has me boil the carrots, mushrooms, and onions in a tall pot. She even teaches me how to know when everything is ready to serve. It’s way different than what I was used to—pulling the ready-meal out of the refrigerator, putting it in the microwave, peeling off the plastic film that seals the plate, and eating it. It doesn’t smell the same either. Where I was used to the weird smell of plastic and bizarre spices, here each ingredient has a distinct scent, each one fresh and delicious, tickling my nostrils.

  As Dolores pulls the pan from the oven, I start setting the table with three—four—plates, as Dolores requ
ests.

  “Four?” I ask.

  “Alastair rarely eats with us,” she says.

  She then thinks Josh will come back soon. I hope she’s right. She has to be since I have nothing else to hold on to for the moment.

  We eat in silence. Silence is good sometimes, but not always. Not right now, when worry and concern and apprehension fill the house. It’s palpable; I can feel it—even if Dolores says everything is all right. I apologize to Dolores for the hundredth time for the mess I’m responsible for, but she remains insistent that it’s not my fault.

  If so, then why did Josh leave?

  What’s on O’Hare’s mind? What keeps him from eating, from speaking? Dolores and I may not be eating much, but we have eaten something. O’Hare doesn’t pick up his fork even once, contented to sigh and mumble indecipherable things. I swear, a dead body would be more alive than him.

  And then there’s the fourth plate, mocking me with the warmth of its contents. I sigh as I imagine him sitting here, talking and eating with us. If only Anna could be here by my side in this time of need. It’s killing me to not have her with me.

  Eventually, we clear the table, but we leave the fourth plate where it is. Dolores brings water from the well outside with a weird-looking faucet she has to pump up and down. At the sink, she scrubs the dishes vigorously and way too fast for me to wipe them dry correctly. Once the dishes are cleaned, I realize there’s nothing left to do but sink back into my worries. The house feels awfully empty.

  O’Hare lights a fire outside and chops the remaining logs that Alastair left untouched to feed the fire. Part of his expressionless face appears in the wavering light of the flames. I guess solitude is his way of grieving his lost friend, unless there is more than that troubling him. Maybe later I can sit with him and we can talk.

  Later. Maybe.

  Dolores stands by the window, a cup of hot tea in her hand. She offered me one as well a few minutes ago, and I accepted without hesitation. I want the peacefulness it brought me the first time to come back. But as I go to Dolores’s side, who stands like a guard at her post, and I sip the tea, this peace of mind I was seeking doesn’t come. It’s simply hot liquid flowing down my throat. That’s it. What was so special about it before, that it filled me with relief?

  Minutes turn to an hour, which turns into another, and still, Josh doesn't return. The moon glows eerily across the elongated black clouds, outlining the contour of trees that look like sharp teeth. The moon also brings a dim, blue light over the landscape. I wonder at the sky, remembering having often watched the stars in Kamcala but never having seen that many scattered across it. It’s like I’m not even on the same planet. Is Josh looking at them right now too? Is he looking at the very same ones I am? If only they could talk to me, or to us, they could tell me where Josh is, what he’s doing. Or they could tell Josh how truly sorry I am.

  I don’t know what time it is when Dolores finally decides to go to bed. She probably couldn’t stay awake a minute more, or the sight of O’Hare, asleep outside beside the fire, convinced her it was useless to resist the exhaustion. Apparently, Josh isn’t coming home tonight, but I can wait a little longer, just in case. My eyelids feel heavy, but I can resist. And if Josh comes back, we’ll have more than enough time to talk, without anyone to disturb us.

  To help me stay awake, I compose a speech where I apologize in every possible way. I look at my reflection in the window, imagining that I am sinking my eyes into the melting paleness of his as the light from the oil lamp dies, and test my apologies all out in my mind. None sound convincing though and I sound off. I don’t know if it’s the image of my reflection that distracts me too much, or if it’s the traits of his face that haunt me. I guess I’ll need to let the words flow when I’m with him. Though improvising isn’t my forte.

  After a time of struggling with myself about whether to keep on watching or not, I give up. It’s clear he won’t come back tonight. I should go to bed, like Dolores, and I hold onto the hope that he’ll come back tomorrow. I wonder if I should wake O’Hare though. He’s still asleep beside the fire, a blanket pulled over his body. I guess he decided to sleep there tonight.

  I limp-walk to my bedroom, using a tall stick that Dolores found for me to help me along. There’s no more light in the house, which makes it difficult to maneuver through the unfamiliar halls. I’m still used to the layout of my apartment. The wall I’m trying to sidestep proves to be the corner of the counter, and when I think I’m about to get to my room, I find myself standing in the middle of the living room. I turn around but see nothing helpful to guide me through the darkness.

  I finally manage to make my way to the red couch. The makeshift cane tapping loudly on the floor as I go. I fear it will wake Dolores so instead of my room, I opt for the couch since it’s closer. I sit carefully, and then lie on its soft cushions, folding my knees up to my stomach and resting my head on the hard armrest. The couch smells like dust and old fabric, but I’m too tired to care. I hope I don’t have any nightmares tonight. I close my eyes and repeat to myself, please, no nightmares. Please, no nightmares until everything goes black.

  +++

  I stand at the edge of a cliff with guards standing ten yards behind me, rifles drawn. A group of less than a dozen people walk a tight line. From where I stand, I can’t see their faces, but as they get closer to the edge of the cliff, I can finally see their features and their expressions.

  It’s Anna, Marcus, the unificator-turned-guard, Stephen, the little brunette servant who cleaned the broth on the floor, and some faces I recognize from the convoy. One by one, they place themselves in a precarious position, swaying dangerously across the void beneath their feet. In unison, they all turn their heads toward me, then one by one they turn and jump off the cliff. I see their bodies fall through the open sky before they impale themselves on the tall spikes that are elevated from a wall that surrounds the ashes of a burning city.

  As the very last one stops spasming on the spike that has perforated his chest, another batch of people passes by the cliff. At the sight of them, my panic turns to desperation, and as I try to run to them, I find my feet are stuck to the ground like the roots of a tree. Each takes their turn, moving toward their fate. Alastair jumps first, and his head cracks on the sharp edge of the studded wall. Then it’s O’Hare who jumps, followed by Dolores…and then Josh.

  He doesn’t jump instantly but stays there, a few inches from the sucking void, the long gray coat unbuttoned and flapping in the air like wings. I stand there, emptied of air, nearly suffocating as two guards move to him, rifles aimed at his head.

  “Jump!” they both shout.

  He shakes his head. I try to cry his name, but I have no voice.

  “Jump!” they repeat. The barrel of a rifle presses into his back, between his shoulder blades. Josh jerks and turns his head, noticing my presence. Terror contorts his face, and his eyes swim with tears.

  “Why?” he asks before jumping off the cliff.

  The sudden aching in my chest is unbearable. I cry his name: “Josh! Josh!”

  But it’s too late. He has already been impaled by the spikes; his blood is being drained.

  I keep on crying, “Josh! Josh! Josh…”

  +++

  I feel two arms lift me into a sitting position. I struggle at first until a soft female voice speaks soothingly into my ear. The voice belongs to Dolores. I open my eyes and blink away the tears that blur my sight. All I see is the contour of her shoulder and her neck. I can’t hold back my sobs. I pull myself closer to her, and one of her hands massages the back of my head as I cry. I realize then that it was just a nightmare. The pain in my chest is still there though. Terror still overwhelms me, but slowly, Dolores’s presence and touch calms me, and I begin to drift back to sleep. I feel safe. Dolores releases her hold on me and sits at the other end of the couch. She motions for me to rest my head on her lap. I do. If only such closeness could be allowed in Kamcala. If only it would have been allowed wh
en I was there. How things would have been different...

  I succumb to tiredness, her fingers combing through my hair, and total darkness surrounds us once again.

  +++

  I wake to the sound of shattering glass. O’Hare stands there, with his tousled hair sticking to his sweaty forehead, and a broken cup of tea is splattered all over the floor at his feet. It makes me think of Andrew back in Kamcala. I still see the files and the tools from the tray all over the floor and Andrew standing among the mess, catatonic, frozen in place. It’s exactly how O’Hare looks right now.

  Dolores rushes by him, a cloth in hand, and wipes the tea from the floor. Things still appear strained between them, like they’re each holding a grudge toward the other. Neither of them speak, and neither look at the other. I don’t know what the tension is all about, besides Josh’s absence, and I don’t dare ask.

  O’Hare finally thanks Dolores when she has finished cleaning the floor. He then heads to the counter, where he pours more hot tea into a new mug, and leaves the house without another word. He takes the place that Alastair occupied yesterday and starts chopping logs, his cup of tea lying on a flat rock not far from him.

  “He’s still not here?” I ask.

  From the empty ache in my gut to Dolores’s concerns and the silent screams of his absence, I already know the answer.

  She shakes her head and shakes it that way every single day that passes after that. As the days pass, Josh doesn’t show up anywhere except in my thoughts—every single thought. Alastair doesn’t bring any news, and day after day, the house feels emptier and emptier. Dolores’s concern grows, and she and O’Hare barely speak to each other. I wake every morning in Dolores’s arms, hopeful and anxious to see Josh sitting by the kitchen window, but every time I step outside my bedroom, guilt strikes me like the butt of a rifle on my jaw, the pain like an old friend, never leaving me. It feels more like an enemy, to be honest.