by Heide Goody
Manfred spoke slowly, morosely.
“I can’t help but feel …”
“Yes?” said Stephen.
“I can’t help but feel stupid.”
“I know what you mean. If we hadn’t interfered, then maybe …”
Bastian poked the male bird gingerly.
“And this one was struck by lightning, you say?”
Stephen nodded.
“That’s right. A rumble in the clouds and then ‘bzzt!’”
“Funny that. We didn’t hear a thing.”
“Very localised,” said Stephen. “I mean, I had wondered if these birds had an, I don’t know, affinity for electricity?”
Bastian frowned in an effort to understand.
“Evolutionarily designed to be killed by high voltage electricity?”
“God does move in mysterious ways.”
“I think there is a difference between mysterious and downright baffling,” said Manfred.
“Perhaps,” said Stephen, “this is a punishment.”
“For what?”
Stephen gave him a blank stare.
“Seriously? You don’t think our treatment of Brother Lionel’s mortal remains is worth a little divine wrath?”
“So God punished us with a lightning bolt?”
“And an electric kettle,” said Manfred.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Stephen. “I can’t think straight. I’m shattered.”
“Sleepwalking again?” said Bastian.
“I woke up in the library this morning, face down in the Librum Magnum Daemonum.”
“You’re not drinking enough camomile tea,” said Manfred.
“Not sure about ‘enough’,” said Stephen. “Too much, perhaps.”
“Nonsense,” said Manfred, and put a kettle on the stove. He looked out of the kitchen window. “I suppose we will have to tell Mrs Well-Dunn about the birds.”
“We don’t have to tell her anything,” said Bastian.
“Of course, we do. She’s bringing her bird-watching friends here in three weeks’ time.”
“They can still come. There are plenty of beautiful birds here to see.”
“They’re coming to see the yellow-crested Merlin stilt.”
“We have the eggs.”
Manfred bent down to peer into one of the ovens where the recovered stilt eggs sat, nestled together, inside a sheepskin slipper.
“They’re birdwatchers, not eggwatchers,” said Stephen. “I think you’ll have to call to cancel them.”
“Turn away visitors?” said Bastian, appalled. “Even a handful? Are you mad?”
Manfred checked the thermometer tucked inside the slipper.
“Thirty-seven degrees.”
“You do know this kitchen stinks of cooked wool and feet,” said Stephen.
“The smell from the slippers will help the little birds imprint on me when they hatch,” said the prior.
“You’re going to be mummy bird, are you?”
“I can be whatever I want to be,” said Manfred haughtily.
“Ha! Maybe we can persuade the birdwatchers to come and watch you.”
Bastian sighed, pulled his mobile phone from his pocket and dialled.
“Carol,” he said. “Hi, yes. You too. Look, I just needed to talk to you about your visit … I know … Well, that’s very flattering. I’m sure Birmingham has its own charms but, yes, I can understand why you’d miss this place … Mmm, anyway, about coming over to us. I’ve got something I need to tell you about the birds … They are fascinating, aren’t they? Such unusual behaviour … Carol, there’s been a bit of an accident. Me? No, I wasn’t hurt. Bit startled actually when the hide collapsed. No, really. I’m here and whole and well ... That’s very, very kind of you. It’s just … Yes, yes, we could build a new hide on the cliff top. I know your little band of twitchers would want somewhere from where to observe …” He stopped and listened, nodding and occasionally giving Stephen and Manfred raised eyebrows in the universal, but unnecessary, sign for ‘she’s talking, I’m listening, I’m not just standing here, you know’. “Really?” he said eventually. “Thirty-eight of you? Wow, that’s … I think Owen can fit up to forty on his boat and … Accommodation? We could sleep that many. Bed and breakfast?” Bastian looked into nowhere and counted and calculated figures on the fingers of one hand. “That’s … that’s … that’s doable. Certainly.”
Manfred and Stephen gestured silently but violently at him. Bastian winced like a wounded creature.
“Listen, Carol. The thing is … about the birds … Yes …” Bastian’s face took on an interesting shade and he half turned away from his brothers. “No, absolutely looking forward to seeing you too. Okay. See you then.”
He hung up. He looked at the expressions on the other monk’s faces.
“What? I tried to tell her.”
“Tried how?” said Stephen.
“She’s bringing thirty-seven people with her. Thirty-seven. That’s got to put a different spin on the situation.”
“Absolutely,” said Manfred. “That’s thirty-seven extra people who are going to be furious when they discover we’ve killed the bird they’ve come to see.”
“Thirty-seven paying guests.”
“Thirty-seven people who will demand their money back.”
“But we have to make a return on this thing. I’ve already invested quite a bit of money in this venture.”
“What money?” said Stephen. “Invested in what?”
Bastian smiled. It wasn’t an inspiring smile.
“I know this Portuguese guy in the import/export business. He’s getting me some novelty souvenirs.”
“Novelty souvenirs?”
“Yellow-crested Merlin stilt toys, made from high-quality synthetics.”
“How many did you order?”
“Two thousand.”
The kettle began to boil.
“I think we all need a cup of tea,” said Manfred.
“I think some of us need a slap,” said Stephen.
“So what’s the plan again?” asked Brother Clement, thumbing his rosary beads suspiciously.
Manfred looked down the length of the meeting table in the chapter house.
“We present to our visitors the … illusion that the yellow-crested Merlin stilt is still alive and well on Bardsey Island.”
“And how do we do that?”
“With models and decoys and that manner of thing.”
Clement’s beads stopped mid-click.
“So,” said the sacristan, “you want us to lie.”
“Is it a lie? Is it really?”
The monks present thought on this, and then Brother Gillespie sniffed mightily and spoke for all of them.
“Yes, brother. It is.”
“Please,” said Bastian, standing. “Allow me. Brothers, you know me as the procurator of St Cadfan’s, but beforehand I worked in the heart of the UK’s financial sector –”
“You were a scheming wheeler-dealer,” said Brother Cecil, who possessed the natural propensity of the old to distrust anyone whose job didn’t appear to involve any actual work.
“Were?” said Brother Roland, who simply thought Bastian was a sly and crafty bugger.
“– and we dealt in something called ‘futures’,” said Bastian. “Bankers and stockbrokers could buy, sell and trade in the future potential of products. Grain futures, pork futures, whatever. Genuine, real and honest transactions were made regarding goods that did not yet exist, but would do in the future. The yellow-crested Merlin stilt is not gone.”
“Looks like a goner to me,” said Brother Henry, prodding one of the birds on the table with his Suduko pen.
“These two are, for sure,” said Bastian, “but incubating in a pair of old slippers in the kitchen are two perfectly healthy eggs.”
“That’s it!” said Brother Vernon. “I understand!”
“Understand?” said Bastian.
“That’s why my porridge tasted of feet!”
Bastian nodded.
“We have potential Merlin stilts, Merlin stilt futures, if you will. We wouldn’t be lying to the birdwatchers. We’d be giving them a truthful glimpse of what the future holds.”
“It’s like the salvation of our Lord,” said Brother Clement.
“Is it?” said Bastian. “I mean, yes, it is. Um, how exactly?”
“We are the salesmen or perhaps curators of salvation futures,” said the sacristan. “When the faithful seek to be in God’s grace, they are speculating on a salvation that is already offered, but also is to be achieved in the future. The Kingdom of Heaven is both now and yet to be.”
Bastian smiled.
“What a beautiful analogy the yellow-crested Merlin stilt is for our own faith. How can we not do this?”
There were murmurs and nods among the monks.
“We could make some plaster of Paris models using those medical supplies from the cargo crate,” said Brother Vernon.
“We could knit some too,” said Brother Henry.
“That sounds nice,” said Manfred, who did enjoy his needlecraft.
“We could set up an animatronic version using the strimmer engine you cannibalised for your failed ossuary,” sniffed Brother Gillespie.
“We could capture seagulls and staple yellow feathers to their heads,” said Brother Terry.
Everyone looked at him.
“Or paint their heads yellow,” he said. “You know, either one works.”
In the library, Manfred laid the female Merlin stilt down next to the open copy of JJ Audubon’s Birds of Britain. Seeing the pathetic, lightly toasted corpse next to Audubon’s vibrant and enchanting painting only served to highlight the loss that this dead bird signified.
“Here,” said Stephen, pointing. “It’s not much. Audubon was a painter, not a writer. Let’s see. ‘While other birds will sit upon the nest at all hours, the yellow-crested Merlin stilt leaves hers exposed to the cold air for long periods.’”
“I might be overdoing the warmth then,” said Manfred. “But what about turning them?”
“Er. ‘The bird is not a gentle mother but will knock her eggs from one side of the nest to the other with disturbing violence, screeching loudly at them all the while.’ Is that any use?”
“Absolutely,” said Manfred. “Very informative. Now, last thing, is this wool the right shade of yellow?”
The prior held a ball of wool next to the beautiful picture and made agreeable noises.
“Is that for one of the models you’re making?”
“Oh, no,” said Manfred. “This is for my costume.”
“Costume?”
“Indeed,” grinned the happy German. “Now, I must go down to the shore to record the sounds of the sea for our little babies and then it will be time to break out the sewing machine.”
Manfred practically skipped out of the library and away up the corridor.
“He’ll make a wonderful mother,” said Stephen and then, more loudly, “You can come out now!”
One of the cabinets beneath the display cases swung open and Rutspud stepped out, munching his way through a bag of sweets. He was doing it quite skilfully, considering he still only had the one arm.
“What was all that about?” said Rutspud.
“Well, I only understood ninety percent of it,” said Stephen, “but essentially we’ve got to look after the eggs of those two dead birds and convince a bunch of birdwatchers that the parents never died in the first place.”
Rutspud compared the corpse and the book picture.
“I could find you a replacement,” he said.
“A replacement?”
“In Hell.”
“You have birds in Hell?”
Rutspud waggled his eyebrows. His large expressive eyes came with some fairly expressive eyebrows.
“Hell has almost infinite variety. If it doesn’t already exist, we can invent it.”
“You can invent birds?”
“I can certainly have a word with Bosch.”
“The engineering company?”
“The Dutch painter. He works in our R&D department. If I could have some reference material to show what you need …”
Rutspud reached for the antique book.
“Hang on,” said Stephen. “I don’t think you can take that. It’s a very valuable book.”
“I wasn’t going to take the whole book, mate. I was just going to rip out the page.”
Stephen felt his heart stutter and stagger for a moment. He swallowed.
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Fine. I’ll just take the bird,” he said, swiping the stilt corpse off the table. “But don’t blame me if your replacement is slightly singed around the edges.”
“Rutspud,” said Stephen, as the demon was at the library door.
“What?”
“This is very helpful of you.”
“Tit for tat,” said Rutspud. “We’re using your seawater to cool Hell.”
“I know but …”
“And you keep me well-supplied with jelly babies.”
“Well, that’s nothing. Seriously.”
Rutspud gave him a long look. “You’re my friend, Stephen. Okay? Simple as that.”
“I know,” said Stephen. “Thank you.”
As he turned a corner in Hell’s engineering corridors, a heavy iron hand fell on Rutspud’s shoulder.
“Scabass. Sir,” said Rutspud.
The larger demon squeezed Rutspud’s shoulder and brought his unlovely face down to a level with Rutspud’s.
“You’ve always struck me as a skulker,” said Scabass.
“Really, sir?” said Rutspud. “I’ve always regarded myself as a purposeful loiterer.”
Scabass pressed his spike-like nails into Rutspud’s flesh, tenderly and meaningfully.
“And why are you loitering down here, Rutspud? You have a cave of tortures to oversee.”
“And a post in Infernal Innovations, sir. And a pivotal role in Hell’s emergency cooling measures. I was just off to check up on my invention.”
“The magical box of cooling.”
“The water-steam conversion matrix, yes. And why are you yourself here, sir?”
“To see your impressive device first-hand,” said Scabass with the sharp-toothed grin of someone who had no intention of being impressed by anything. “Lead on.”
“Of course, sir,” said Rutspud, giving his loathsome superior a smile of subservient willingness that took a great effort to maintain, and set off along a pipe-lined conduit.
“What’s that in your hand?” said Scabass.
Rutspud considered the dead bird.
“This?”
“Yes, that.”
“It’s my … um …”
“Yes?”
Rutspud’s gaze travelled to his other arm or, rather, the lack of one.
“It’s my new arm, sir.”
“It’s feathered.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And has wings.”
“Always wanted to fly, sir.”
“By putting wings on your arm?”
“Yes, sir.”
Scabass scowled. “Never seen anything like it.”
“Something one of the damned in R&D cooked up for me.”
Rutspud led Scabass through a chicane of tunnels, all the while with those vile claws embedded in his shoulder, until they came to an innocuous chamber.
“And here we are!” said Rutspud loudly.
Potter leapt to her feet and, in a move that made Rutspud want to rub her belly or whatever it was humans did to demonstrate gratitude, whipped away her paintbrush and paints into her apron pocket and concealed all in a servile bow.
“This is it?” growled Scabass.
A stout square box stood at the back of the room. Two flexible pipes led out of the front and connected to larger existing pipes in the floor. The box itself had no other visible features. The exterior was a confection of cogs, wheels, dials and
important looking labels. Of course, none of them did anything, apart from hiding the fact that the pipe entering the box travelled onward, through the back wall to a coal-fired pump, and the pipe exiting the box went up the Escher staircase to the mortal world.
“Who is this?” said Scabass.
“Potter,” said Rutspud. “One of my damned.”
Scabass scowled. “And you’re letting it have a little holiday as your flunky? Where is the torture here?”
“It’s just one soul, sir.”
“Just one? Every Damned Soul Matters. Remember?”
“Of course,” said Rutspud, quickly backtracking. “And it’s worth mentioning that Potter here has an uncontrollable fear of … pipes.”
“Pipes?”
“Er, yes.”
Potter burst into tears. “Please, terrible sirs, I can’t stand it. There’s so many of them. So many … pipes. It’s more than I can bear.”
Rutspud grinned, a grin with a dual purpose. It showed Scabass how much joy he was taking in the torture of the puny soul and it was a genuine reflection of how impressed he was with Potter’s progress in Bernhardt and Wilde’s acting classes.
“Pull yourself together, man!” said Rutspud with a pantomime sneer.
“Woman,” hissed Potter.
“Your label’s fallen off. I couldn’t tell.”
“But what is she doing here?” said Scabass. “Does the machine require constant maintenance?”
“No, sir,” said Rutspud. “It’s self-sustaining. Potter’s here because …”
“I’ve brought the needle and twine you needed to sew your arm back on,” said Potter helpfully.
“Exactly,” said Rutspud.
“Back on?” said Scabass.
“On,” said Rutspud. “She meant on.”
“Very good,” said Scabass. “Well, get to it.”
“What?”
“The sewing. She can attach it while you explain to me how this thing works.”
Rutspud sighed and passed Potter the dead yellow-crested Merlin stilt.
“What’s this, sir?” she said.
“It’s my new arm, of course,” said Rutspud.
“But it’s –”
“Amazing,” said Rutspud, deadpan. “Oh, I know. It’s just bloody marvellous.”
While Potter worked to align the bird corpse with Rutspud’s stump (an act that was made all the more difficult by being utterly nonsensical), Rutspud waved his free hand at the machine.