Chapter 9
Bitty flew to the Chesapeake & Ohio station on heavy wings. He landed on a stone railing that bordered the second-floor balcony. The station was shorter than a coal tipple but taller than the buildings back home. The roof reminded him of Mrs. Campbell’s flowerpots. Through the windows he could see marble floors and a spiral staircase. And down below? People. Only about two hundred people lived in Coalbank Hollow proper, and right now, every one of them would likely be asleep, preparing for an early morning. It seemed as if there were half that many people at the train station, streaming in and out of the lobby and calling to one another in the artificial light.
Bitty flew around the building once to get his bearings. Just across the tracks, he could make out a trail leading up the mountain. Beside it, catching the moon like a mirror, he saw a creek, with a small waterfall, flowing through last year’s leaves. The sound of the rushing water seemed gentle enough, but Bitty landed close to the trail, where the water moved more slowly. He lit on a rock and leaned over to take a few sips, aware of the strange moaning sounds the trees made. He took a few more sips and froze. Was someone watching him, or was he just not used to the noises here? One more sip, to pretend he wasn’t afraid, and then he zipped back to the light of the train station.
He found a nook on the balcony where he couldn’t be seen by passengers or by the snarling, winged lions’ heads that decorated the building. He heard a strange cooing sound coming from somewhere above him. It wasn’t a scary sound, but he thought it better to stay hidden than to investigate. From his hiding place, he counted people until his breathing returned to normal. Every one of those people had a destination. Bitty had reached his. In the morning, his friends would go back to work in the mines. Bitty would go to work above-ground, to try to help them.
Again, it was a train whistle that woke him. Bitty stretched his wings, stiff from the cold. The sun was shining, but its rays hadn’t yet reached the river, which was no longer a black snake but a white one. Fog rose from the water, the way steam rises from soup. Bitty knew he’d have to approach it—would have to cross it, to get to the legislators and to get to Eck—but first he returned to the small creek behind the station.
He found a sturdy rock for his perch and bent low to drink. At home, there would be a line behind him. Here, there was no one. Bitty drank without stopping. He finally paused and looked at his reflection in the water. An older bird stared back. Not just a little older; ancient. Bitty’s feathers were no longer yellow, but gray. Had his escape aged him that much? He had been sleeping an awful lot, but he remembered his aunt Lou, a confirmed insomniac, telling him once: “Sleep is for the young.”
Then he realized: the coal dust! He’d been sitting on the train for hours in a nest of coal and silt. He ducked his head into the cold water, then rubbed his face against his wing. He looked back at his reflection and saw his bright colors returning.
I’m not a miner anymore, he thought. Besides, he’d need to look his best if he was going to start hobnobbing with politicians. He began to scrub in earnest. The water was icy, but clean. It was important, he knew, to be near a good water supply. It would be nice living by the little creek, with the trail, and the protection of the mountain. Before Bitty could picture how nice it would be, something dark blocked out the sun. It torpedoed toward him, fast and heavy.
Bitty didn’t wait to figure out what it was. He dove into the creek, where it still felt like winter. Just as he went under, the dark thing changed direction and headed back toward the sky. Sputtering, Bitty climbed back to his dry rock.
The dark thing came at him again. It laughed like Mr. Stinson, one of the Campbells’ former boarders, when he drank the wrong kind of liquor.
Bitty dropped back into the water. The cold made his legs hurt. The rest of his body felt numb. He surfaced to breathe. The black thing was nowhere in sight.
“Hey,” Bitty told the air. “W-w-w-watch it.” He thought he sounded reasonably brave, despite the quaver in his voice.
“Watch it.” A voice came back at him from the trees, flat and nasal. “Watch it. Watch it.”
The black thing hurtled toward him again. This time, it landed on the rock and leaned down. Bitty found himself staring into a pair of cruel yellow eyes. A grackle. At least they weren’t the red eyes of a hawk. Bitty had seen grackles through the window at home, packs of them in pine trees. This one seemed to be alone. Bitty found another rock a few feet away and rested there.
Another grackle missile hurtled toward him. “Chck. Chck. Watch it. Watch it,” the bird cackled. Suddenly, the air seemed full of grackles, all shouting in the same mocking tone: “Watch it. Watch it.” Black grackle beaks were everywhere, and feathers, dark as coal. They swarmed around him like bees. They whirled around him like a tornado. Bitty buried his head in his chest and shut his eyes. He was trapped, just the way he’d been trapped at the mine.
And then, from somewhere beneath the shrieks and laughter, he heard a friendly voice.
“Hey!” it hollered. “Canary. Over here.”
Bitty raised his head as a grackle’s claw grazed him.
“Over here!” the voice shouted again. Bitty tried to wipe the last of the creek water from his eyes as he flew, blindly, toward the voice. He could feel the heat of the grackles’ breath behind him. He could hear the snap of their beaks.
“Hurry up! You’re almost here.”
“I’m . . . coming.” It was hard to get the words out. He angled his wings and zoomed low, following the voice. Finally, he skidded to a halt.
Bitty wiped his eyes again and found himself underneath a green bench. Sitting on the bench was a man. At first Bitty thought it was the man who had called to him. Then he saw a group of birds huddled around one of the bench’s metal supports.
“You made it!” said the bird who’d done the yelling. Mrs. Campbell would have called him husky; Uncle Aubrey would have said he was fat. “Don’t worry. You’ll be safe here.”
For a moment, Bitty could only shake the water from his feathers and breathe, his heart pounding in his ears. The bird seemed to understand, and waited. The other birds, who were just as plump as the first one, stayed in their cluster, making strange cooing sounds that Bitty recognized from the night before. Above them, a last grackle dive-bombed the bench.
The old man stood up. He raised a long wooden cane into the air like a magician. “Git!” he yelled. “Go on. Git.” The grackles retreated into the trees.
“Thank you!” Bitty shouted to the man, who sat down again without hearing. Bitty turned to the birds. “Thanks,” he said. “I thought I was a goner.”
“Aw, that’s their idea of fun,” said the bird who’d saved him. “V and the Boys have never actually killed anybody. At least, I don’t think they have.”
“They’re hoodlums, that’s what they are,” said another bird, whose head wobbled as if it were attached to a spring. Her voice wobbled with it. “Imagine, picking on a little guy like you.”
Bitty was so relieved to be out of danger that he didn’t even bristle at being called a little guy. “What does V stand for?”
“Viper,” said the first bird.
“Sorry I asked.”
“I’m Clarence,” said the bird. “This is my mom, Eudora.” Eudora nodded (or perhaps she had just never stopped nodding). “And this is Roger, Pyro, Georgia and T-Baby.”
Bitty’s new friends were dull gray, with the exception of their necks, which shimmered purple and blue, as if they were some kind of royalty. Their stomachs reminded him of some of the miners – the old-timers, whose working days were behind them and who never seemed to move except to take a sip from a soda bottle.
Overhead, there was a rattling noise, and the birds left the safety of the bench and clustered around the old man’s feet. “Come on,” Clarence said, giving Bitty a nudge. “Breakfast.”
Breakfast turned out to be crusts of hard white bread and flakes of cracker that fell like snow from the old man’s wrinkled hands. B
itty had never seen so much food.
“All this is for you?” he asked. “And you don’t even have to wait in a breadline?” Bitty had never seen a breadline, but he’d read about them.
Clarence nodded, his mouth full. “You should have seen us before the depression,” he said when he swallowed. “Loaves of bread. Now all we get is the crusts.”
“And remember when his wife used to make us that burnt sugar cake?” Clarence’s mother sighed. “But we’re very lucky. We eat.”
Bitty ate his share of breakfast (the peanut butter cracker seemed long ago), and when he was finished, it was as if he’d never been hungry.
“Here,” the old man said, rising and sprinkling some bread off to the side so the grackles could get at it. “But mind, you chase that wee bird any more and it’ll be your last supper.” He winked at Bitty and his new friends, who cooed their thanks. Bitty gave a low whistle.
“You guys sure have it easy.”
“Says you.” Clarence’s feathers were clearly ruffled. “You think our life is all bread and crackers?” The other birds stopped cooing.
A gnawing feeling that wasn’t hunger settled in Bitty’s stomach. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just that . . . well, this is my first week out of a cage.” The word cage worked the same magic it had worked with Eck.
“Aw, that’s okay,” Clarence said, relaxing. “I don’t mean to get touchy. But everyone always thinks the worst of us. I’m just looking out for our reputation.”
“What are you, exactly? I’ve never seen a bird like you before.”
“Me?” Clarence said. “Well, I’m . . . we’re pigeons. Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of pigeons?”
Bitty took a step backward. “Lazy good-for-nothings.” That was what his uncle Aubrey called pigeons. “Scavengers. Rats with wings. Carry diseases. Never done an honest day’s work in their lives.”
“Yup,” Clarence said. “You’ve heard of us.”
Clarence didn’t look as if he was carrying any diseases. Still. Bitty took another step back.
“Aw, don’t tell me you believe all the stereotypes.” The pigeon jerked his head to the side, warding off an imaginary punch.
Bitty stopped moving. He’d flown from the robin and the jays. He’d flown from the grackles. The pigeons had saved him. They looked perfectly healthy. And Uncle Aubrey wasn’t right about everything. Maybe it was time to stop flying away.
“We know what you’ve heard,” Clarence said, and the others bobbed their heads. “We’re a bunch of bums, right? Lazy, right?”
“That’s some of it,” Bitty admitted.
“Well, it’s not true,” Clarence said. “Not one word.”
“We’re company birds,” said Clarence’s brother—T-Baby, Bitty thought it was.
“Oh,” said Bitty, who didn’t understand at all. He thought about the company men back home, the ones who made decisions “for the good of the mine” but not necessarily for the good of the workers. Jamie’s father didn’t have much nice to say about company men.
“Company birds,” Clarence repeated. “That means we . . . Well, come on, I’ll just show you.”
Clarence flew to another bench, and Bitty followed him, catching up quickly because Clarence’s flying was slow and went in fits and starts.
“See her?” Clarence asked, nodding toward an old woman who didn’t move, except for her hands, which folded and unfolded a pale blue handkerchief. “That’s Mrs. Gillespie. Her son hasn’t written her in more than a month and she has arthritis.”
They flew to another bench. “Mr. Oznowicz,” Clarence said. “He used to work for a five-and-dime, but people aren’t buying as much as they used to so he got canned. His wife says he needs a hobby so she sends him here to feed us.”
At the next bench, a man with a droopy face and the biggest feet Bitty had ever seen grinned at them.
“Hobo Pete,” Clarence said. “He sleeps here.”
“You sure know a lot of humans,” Bitty said, thinking of his own humans in Coalbank Hollow.
“We know ’em all,” Clarence said. “It’s our job to keep them company. We nod a lot, make them feel like someone’s listening. They feed us. It makes them happy to see us eat. They protect us like Mr. Stanley back there, and we make sure nobody messes with them, either.” He put up his wings, bobbing and weaving as if he were in a boxing ring.
“Company birds!” The lightbulb finally went on in Bitty’s brain. “You keep people company.”
“That’s what I’ve been telling you,” Clarence said. “There are lots of lonely humans out there. And I mean lots. If we don’t eat what they feed us, they don’t feel appreciated. It’s not so easy, eating all the time. That was the fifth breakfast I’ve had this morning.”
“Do other birds have work, too?” Bitty asked. The robin and jays hadn’t looked especially busy, nor had the turkey vultures he’d watched sailing the ridge back home.
“Of course they do,” Clarence said. “We’re in construction, cleaning, show biz—if you’ve got some free time, I can introduce you around. You being fresh out of a cage and all.”
“That’d be great,” Bitty said. “I’m not sure how much time I’ll have. Actually, I’m here on a mission.” He told Clarence about the mine and the dangers there, which the company often ignored. Canaries—even good canaries, like Boggs—were easy to replace. So were men.
“When Mr. Polly died, do you know what they told his wife?” Bitty said. “ ‘Let us know if you need an extra week or two to pay off your debt.’ And they thought they were being generous. At least she had the other miners to take her in and help her out.”
Clarence nodded, and Bitty could see how the pigeon had gotten a job as a professional listener. “Why did you finally leave?” Clarence asked.
Bitty tried to explain. “I was saving my own tail feathers, that was part of it,” he said. “And I want to save my friends.” That was the rest.
He told Clarence about little Sammy Sowers, too, the kid who got chocolate from the legislature just because he asked for it.
“So that’s why I’m here. To ask.”
“You’re going to ask the state government for a bar of chocolate?” Clarence said, but Bitty could see he was teasing.
“Nope. I’m going to ask for the moon,” Bitty said.
“Listen, I’ve got to get to work,” Clarence told him. “But if you need a place to spend the night, meet us on the roof. There’s safety in numbers, and that’s where we sleep.”
“I’ve got to get to work, too,” Bitty said. “I’ll find you later. Thanks again.” He flapped his wings and soared skyward. Then he turned and faced the river.
Chapter 10
Bitty lit on a beam of the bridge that spanned the Kanawha. The fog had lifted, and he could see the water, a muddy green, rushing over the rocks below. He didn’t want to estimate the drop. He openly admitted that he got sick to his stomach anytime someone swung him around in a cage, but he was slower to own up to his nagging fear of heights.
He had to cross. In the distance, he could see the new capitol, its great dome perched upon it like a derby. Somewhere over the river, he would find the courthouse, where the legislators were meeting until the new building was complete. He should have asked Clarence for directions. But he was sure someone would help him once he got to the other side.
Part of him wanted to find Eck first, to find out whether the inventor had booked his usual room at the Gilmer Inn. And the truth was, he wanted to see a familiar face. But it was the politicians he needed to study if he was going to follow through with his plan.
He hesitated, listening to the river. Then he took a deep breath and flapped his way across, staying just above the bridge so he was never flying over the open water. He kept his eyes on the buildings in the distance.
At last, he reached the other side. He found a farmers’ market where jars of jelly were stacked high, the sun lighting them up like jewels. The market had fresh bread and fried sweet potato p
ies. A few people let the golden flakes from those pies fall to the ground. Bitty tried to grab them, but a group of sparrows got there first. It was just as well; he’d eaten plenty and there was someplace he needed to be. Boggs and Mr. Polly had been dead for thirty-seven days. The mine’s record for days without an accident was 103. That gave Bitty just sixty-six days, at most. According to Uncle Aubrey, the government moved at a snail’s pace, not a bird’s. Bitty imagined Chester and Alice in the darkness of the mine, the Gap-Toothed Man feeding Aunt Lou a hard chunk of biscuit. It was time for action.
Apparently, everyone on the north side of the river felt the same way. As he flew along, Bitty saw men rushing up and down the steps of tall buildings, their shoes tapping. A streetcar hurried down the track and Bitty flew to the side to get out of its way. Women’s dresses bloomed like flower gardens. Bitty thought of Mrs. Campbell’s dresses, the patterns so faded you couldn’t tell they’d been flowers at all.
He passed the theater, dark by day. He passed men, their hands held out for a dime. He passed birds, too, every one of whom seemed to have someplace important to go. Bitty cleared his throat. If he was going to be brave enough to present his case to the government, he would have to be brave enough to ask one of them for directions.
Just then, another shadow darkened the sky above him.
V and the Boys, he thought. He looked up, expecting to see the grackles’ yellow eyes. Instead, he saw the curved beak of a hawk. He increased his speed and glanced upward again, taking a split second to check the wing and—it couldn’t be. But there was no mistaking its shape. Cipher had followed him.
Bitty made a low dive, flapping his wings like a hummingbird. The hawk pierced the sky behind him. Bitty had a head start, but he didn’t have the hawk’s speed; there was no way to outfly her. In an alley below, he spotted a garbage can with the lid slightly ajar and homed in for a landing. It was a soft one. He slipped beneath the metal lid and was immediately coated in cinders and carrot scrapings.
Canary in the Coal Mine Page 5