Dead Birds: The Dark Orphans Collection

by William Patrick

  Burns refused to believe that apart from the power in his laptop's battery and his smart phone, all of Rodenje was without electricity. However, Elsie had a point -- he could find another hotel tomorrow, even if it meant he moved to a nearby town.

  "Well, what about a car? I need to rent a car for the morning."

  "Ah. Dah. Yes."

  -- well at least there's that, Burns thought, and steadied his patience to make the arrangements.

  *

  A candle lit each landing of the awkward spiralling staircase. Burns marvelled that they didn’t need, "some Victorian oil lamps just to get around in the bloody dark." He could taste the burnt and bitter tang of incense.

  Perhaps to distract him, Elsie asked, "How did you make the reservation for this place?"

  "I couldn’t find its email address -- that makes sense now -- so I phoned."

  "Okay, but how did you know this place even existed?"

  "Professor Kingsley. He'd been here years ago."

  "Well, at least we know the town has telephones."

  "It must have electricity, mustn't it? Not this building, maybe not even this part of town, but it must have electricity. Otherwise the phones wouldn’t work."

  "Do you really need electricity to research the book? It'll be very old school, writing everything in journals."

  "There's a difference between old school and deprived. Look, you're right, there's no point in thinking about it tonight. I'll deal with it tomorrow."

  Along the corridor, they past more candles set on the tables between the couches, in bronze bowls that reflected the flames as blushes of gold. Near their suite door, Elsie stopped Burns. She took his hand and she sat in a couch.

  "Why don’t we get your mind off of all this bother?"

  He tugged her hand, gently. "Sounds good -- but we should retire to the bedroom..." He glanced along the corridor. They were alone, but he heard someone padding behind a nearby door. To remind him the hotel was near the edge of town, he also heard the hag-cry of a feral dog on the hills. It sounded closer than he liked.

  Elsie said, "No, we should do it here, on this old couch..." He tried to lead her from the couch again. She reached her legs around his knees to buckle him toward her. She took his right hand to press it between her thighs, and smiled. "Come on. Tease me."

  He lifted his hand and pretended to snatch her nose between two fingers. "Got your nose."

  "You know that's not what I mean!"

  "I don’t know what we'll catch from that couch. Come on, Miss Lindow, we'll go inside. I'll show you what I've learned from those magazines the students leave around after lectures..." Elsie made an oh-well face, took his hand, and let him lead her to their suite.

  The Drive.

  In the morning, Burns woke and tried to distinguish if he'd heard dogs sniffle around the bed, or if the sounds had come from a dream -- probably neither, he decided as he sat in the bed; he heard animals on the street. He dressed in old jeans and a light sweatshirt and left the suite before nine. In the corridor, a collection of nuts had replaced the candles in the bowls. Burns took a small handful and munched on them while he went to reception. The same receptionist waited. Instead of standing behind the counter, he leant by the open exit. An even older car than the taxi that had delivered Burns and Elsie to the hotel waited beside the steps. It was dustier than the steps.

  As Burns approached, the receptionist offered a smile too measured to be amicable. The bruised skin of his eye had darkened and puffed overnight, making his already disjointed features more inconsistent. Burns thought the smile meant the man had decided to renegotiate the rental price (they had agreed on forty-five deri, the equivalent of thirty euros, more than a cheap daily rental back home) but the receptionist had a more complicated plan; he told Burns the car had enough benzina (he tapped a can of petrol by his feet; the half-full contents slopped) to reach Savigrad, the next town, "if you know your way. Maybe you are going to Savigrad anyway?" He spoke with rehearsed clarity. He kicked the can again. "Or you can buy here, from me."

  Burns was thankful Elsie stayed in the suite to bathe. It would be difficult to yield to the receptionist's ploy, given an audience. As they spoke, the reek of petrol grew around them, as if the receptionist breathed fumes. Burns wondered if he had siphoned from the car to the can.

  "Sixty-five deri for the car and the benzina," the man said. His smile sharpened.

  Burns had no idea how to get to Savigrad, but knew there was little between Rodenje and the woodland he needed to visit. He paid the man.

  *

  Burns returned to the suite stinking of the can's contents, which he had spilt into the car while the receptionist had ambled back inside the lobby. He left the emptied can by the entrance. Back in the suite, he found Elsie sitting beside the lounge table with a towel wrapped around her, while she dried her wet hair with another towel. "I'd swear we were back in the eighteenth century! Did you sort out the car? Or did you rent a horse and cart for the day?"

  "I might as well have. The thing's a relic."

  "I think I'll check out those street markets today. Who knows what I'll find?"

  "Why don’t you come with me instead?"

  She stopped tousling her hair, surprised by his invitation. "Won't you need to work?" She kept her tone guarded, as if she expected him to reconsider.

  "It'll be work for me, but I'm driving through a heritage park."

  "Is it the forest from the brochure?"

  "The very one. I'm sure you're eye for photography will come in handy."

  "What's there for you?"

  "A good starting point for my research, hopefully."

  She said, "I'll bring my mp3 player and a book so I can leave you to it. When are you leaving?"

  He said it would be another hour before they leave -- he wanted to get breakfast, and suggested they buy snacks from the street stalls for a picnic in the woods.

  "Oh, that would be lovely," Elsie said.

  *

  In the car, Elsie fit between her legs a cloth bag of cooked sausages and breads bought at the stalls. It took thirty minutes of driving before they joined the main road. Even with the windows cranked down, the car smelt strongly of heated oil and metal and the sting of old sweat. Elsie half-jokingly asked if they were breathing fumes from the engine. "I read somewhere carbon monoxide can cause hallucinations."

  Elsie tried reading, but still felt tired from the travel -- "and from you last night, you dirty man" -- and tried to find the crank that would allow her passenger seat to tilt back.

  Exasperated, she slapped the seat. "What a rip. How much did you pay for this? Never mind." She sighed, adjusted her seat belt, and slid her body down the seat. When she adjusted the bag of food on her lap, Burns wondered aloud why she hadn't put it on the back seat. Elsie raised her browse. "You haven't even looked back there, have you?"

  Curious, he took account of the traffic around him -- two trucks, one hauling muddy purple vegetables, a rattling motorbike on his side, and a few cars -- and glanced at the back seat. Covering it were folds of woolly yellow pelts. He wondered if the vaguely unpleasant peppery odour came from them.

  "Are they sheepskins?"

  Elsie grunted indifference. She was already drifting. When she spoke a quarter of a mile further along the road, Burns couldn't be sure if her murmur came from sleep or conscious inquisitiveness. "You didn't check the booth, did you? Who knows what's in there?"

  The Edge.

  No road signs guided them to the woods, but it dominated one side of the landscape. After the brightness of the flat road, the greenish-brown atmosphere under the trees allowed Burns to drive more comfortably (he had spent thirty minutes squinting against the insolently low sun.) It was midday before the road became an earthy track that ended at an overgrowth of tangled weeds and vines high as the car's bonnet. By then, the pepperiness of the pelts itched his nostrils and throat. Burns eyed the abrupt emptiness a few yards into the overgrowth. It ended a mile away, with the distant
treeline. Professor Kingston had said it was as if a godlike hand had swept away part of the earth.

  Elsie woke when he shut off the engine. He unbuckled the seat belt and needed to nudge the door with his shoulder before he could get out and drag clean air into his lungs. Elsie also shouldered her door before it opened. "Bloody thing," she muttered, stepping out. She slammed the door hard enough to shake the car, and walked to where the packed earth widened to a lookout above a valley. Burns stepped beside her, careful of where he stepped -- weeds and other overgrowth hid the ground and the edge of the valley.

  She said, "So this is Dead Water?"

  "A long time ago, it was. There hasn’t been a river here in some time."

  There was an over-abundance of growth in the hollowed basin below, though no trees. Maybe the earth under the teeming bushes, blossoms, and grasses was too craggy or loose. Burns eyed the mound at the base of the valley, the reason why this was called the isle in the woods. The small windowless chapel he'd come to study stood at the centre of the dry isle. It looked as featureless as every building they'd left behind in Rodenje.

  Elsie squinted over the bowl of land. "Where are the tourists? I don't even see a parking lot--"

  "I don't think there is one."

  "I have a better question," Elsie said. "How do we get down there?"

  The wild plants suffocating the edge betrayed nothing. Burns pointed a few metres to their right. "The slope looks gradual enough there," he said, and led the way through a mist of gnats, or whatever their local equivalent. He waved them away when their droned curiously in his ears. He leant to see over the edge, which the grasses tapping his thighs obscured.

  Elsie asked, "This is a heritage park?"

  "It's the arse-end of it." She looked unconvinced. Burns said, "It must be. See how clear the chapel yard is down there? Groundskeepers must have done that." He showed a wry smile, hoping to egg Elsie on. "Or do you think the grass is keeping a respectful distance from the chapel?"

  He heard something tapping, and turned to a copse bobbing in the same breeze that rustled the weeds. Bony branches fidgeted for him to spot something flat almost concealed by the leaves. He stepped toward it, and moved the branches from an old board with this message: Stara Majka.

  Elsie asked, "What's it say?"

  "Well, it's not in English. Stara Maka? Stara Maja?"

  "Okay. So it might be a warning."

  "I doubt it. I didn't even see warnings about wolves or bears."

  "Wolves and bears? This is a public park!"

  "It's wild woodland, too. Even a rabbit is a wild animal."

  "Rabbits aren't bloody massive predators!"

  While near the edge, Burns had only noticed the denseness of the grasses; now, the angle suggested a slight thinning in the overgrowth behind Elsie -- the hint of a route down, he decided. Back at the edge, he gleaned slight differences through the overgrowth of the valley, a path to the base.

  Elsie asked, "You're not going to try going down there?"

  "You can wait in the car, if you want. I'm not sure how long this will take."

  "Stay up here with bears and wolves? No thanks."

  *

  Burns led the way. He looked back when Elsie cursed. Thorny vines had snagged the hem of a jeans leg, and refused to let go. "It's cutting me," she said while trying to remove the barbs. Burns went back, and easily pulled the thorns free. He lifted the hem and saw several crisscrossed but shallow scratches just above the ankle -- Elsie had worn thick-soled runners, but her socks only rose to the ankles.

  With each step, Burns found firm rocks and soil that assured a steady pace, yet after another few feet, Elsie was once again tugging barbed vines from her jeans legs. He waited until she managed to free her jeans, but she cursed again after a few unsure steps, and had to pull free of more vines. Burns didn’t know why the vines continually snagged her, but decided to lead her by the hand. This slowed his progress. It took another ten minutes to pass halfway down the slope. Elsie tapped her feet through the overgrowth as if fearful the grasses grew from air, that she might plummet into nothing.

  Burns continued swatting bugs when they murmured near his ears. Just the sound of them set his skin itching. Elsie seemed indifferent to them. He considered the chapel. Yesterday, Elsie had said it looked more like a fort than a place of worship, but Burns was struck by how little it resembled either; it reminded him of a sundial. An undecorated pole rose from the centre, drawing a long shadow. The roof seemed flatter when viewed from this height. He wondered if it had caved since Professor Kingston had been to Rodenje decades ago.

  During a pause for Elsie to catch her breath, Burns considered the mound itself. He couldn't help but think it didn't fit with the rest of the valley. When he turned back, he saw Elsie eyeing the thorny vines with suspicion. Suspicion, for god's sake.

  "I heard something move," she said. "Don’t tell me there are poisonous snakes, too?"

  "You'd have to eat it, for it to be poisonous," he said, but when this didn’t impress her, he added, "Most European snakes aren't."

  "Ugh! Burns, why didn’t you tell me? I should have stayed in Rodenje."

  -- you should have stayed home, Burns resisted pointing out.

  "It's probably a bird," he said. He raised a hand for her. She took it. Her grip was tight, almost hurting him.

  *

  At the base, Elsie asked, "Why didn't you tell me before we left that this place is full of dangerous animals?"

  "What did you expect to find out here? We should make our way up there," he said of the mound. As with the valley's slope, flora covered the mound. Life in the valley was so dense and mixed that Burns had to appreciate its diversity and tenacity, even if he couldn't help feel there was too much life here, that it must choke the land.

  The mound rose to a third of the valley's height. As with the slope down, he couldn't see the ground for the overgrowth. The breeze had changed direction, he noticed; it approached from behind, to spill up and over the mound. It swayed the grasses and fronds ahead so they gestured for him to come forward, to reach the top.

  He'd advanced a few feet when he checked to see Elsie remain at the base of the valley base, inspecting the mesh of plants around her. She said, "There's something moving in the grass."

  Burns kept quiet for a few breaths, until he was sure he could speak with a flat tone. "Hon, the entire valley is moving. There's a breeze."

  He could have told her it was probably a rodent that she heard, but doubted that would improve her mindset. She would think rats, and then she would think of rat diseases. He knew he should wait until she recovered a little more. The chapel was not about to disappear. He had time. He told himself so twice more before Elsie stepped to the mound.

  The air grew thicker as they gained ground. Innumerable spores floated like languid constellations. At the top of the dome, they startled a flock of small birds from the overgrowth. Burns watched them spring upward until they melted into the brightness of the sun.

  Graves.

  Now that he stood on the same ground as the chapel, his eyes never left it for long, as if part of him expected it was a mirage about to blink out of existence. The yard was not concrete, Burns' first assumption since nothing grew over it, but the earth was as densely packed as the road through the woods. He frowned when he realised the chapel matched the shape of the mound.

  "I think we're standing on an artificial island," he said. "It's too consistent to be natural."

  Elsie looked around, but she concentrated most of her attention on investigating the grasses for surprise appearances of wildlife.

  Most Bronze Age artificial islands were less than a hundred feet in diameter, while this seemed five times that. Burns wouldn't be surprised if the chapel was dead centre on the island.

  "This could have been built four or five thousand years ago."

  He wondered why this location was special to those who built it. He wondered if the ancient people had lived on the island, if it had be
en a refuge from invaders. Could they have built the island just to worship here?

  He said, "I don't get why no one mentioned it was an island before."

  Elsie said, "Well, my research goes as far as the brochure I read." Her tone suggested she was beginning to relax. She raised her camera, and snapped a picture of Burns with the chapel in the background. "Maybe no one realised it's an artificial island?" She smiled at him. "My academic sleuth."

  "I'm sorry I asked you out here now -- I knew this would be remote, but I didn't realise there'd be so little for you."

  "We're here now. Just get me back without some animal mauling me."

  *

  Burns swatted whatever droned so intently around him. The bugs must be tiny, since he couldn't see them, except as dots edging on his vision. Elsie let the camera hang from her neck and took to looking at the brochure she took from a pocket as they strolled over the yard. She nodded a few times as if the brochure made several good points, and said, "Did you know they used to call the chapel Colossus? I can't see why, it's so small."

  "You can read that?"

  "I translated some of it while you were out shopping this morning."

  Burns hadn't known, and couldn’t ignore the mental barb from learning it from a tourist's brochure. Even if the information eventually meant nothing, it should have come from his research. To give some reply, he said, "Colossus originally meant a huge statue. Maybe there's another ruin under the ground around here."

  "Another ruin?"

  "Professor Kingston found a statue buried here thirty years ago. He wanted to ship it back, but there was no way of getting it out of here. It was badly eroded, but it was enough for him to start thinking about the proto-gargoyle."

  "Could it have been the Colossus?"

  He doubted this; the ancient pagans of the region had nothing near the scope or inclination needed to build a colossus anything, unless it once existed in their imaginations. He'd studied the Professor's meticulous sketches of the statue, and while the forms the rock suggested were remarkable, it hadn’t been colossal. He wondered if the statue remained somewhere in the valley, or if better-equipped academics had removed it in the years since the Professor had left Rodenje.