by Glenn Grant
“The manifestation of birdishness in the elderly is a subject which has received very little study up to the present date. Indeed, I would say that it has been virtually ignored. Apart from my own paper—still in draft form—you could search the psychiatric archives in vain for mention of Pratt’s Syndrome.”
“And why is that, Dr. Pratt?”
“Basically, fear. The fear in each and every one of us of admitting that something primitive and atavistic can lurk within our very genes. For what is more primitive than a bird, the only survivor of the age of dinosaurs?”
“What indeed, Dr. Pratt?”
“You see in that tree two pathetic human creatures who have reverted to a state which existed long before Man took his first step on Earth, a state which can only have been passed on as a tiny coded message in their very flesh and the flesh of their ancestors, through a million years of Time.”
“And how long do you expect their condition to last, Dr. Pratt?”
“Until the fall. The winters in these parts are hard, and they’ll be out of that tree come the first frost, if they’ve got any sense left at all.”
“Well, thank you, Dr.—”
A raucous screaming cut her short. A group of shapes appeared in the eastern sky, low over the rooftops. They were too big for birds, yet too small for aircraft, and there was a moment’s shocked incomprehension before we recognized them for what they were. Then they wheeled over the Newspocket van with a bedlam of yells and revealed themselves as teenagers of both sexes, unclothed, but painted a simple black semi-matt exterior latex. There were nine of them.
In the weeks following, we came to know them as the Crows. They flew overhead, circled, then settled all over the garry oak and the roof of our house.
They made no attempt to harass Gran or Gramps. Indeed, they seemed almost reverential in their attitude towards the old people.
* * *
It seemed that Gran had unlocked some kind of floodgate in the human unconscious, and people took to the air in increasing numbers. The manufacturers of antigravity belts became millionaires overnight, and the skies became a bright tapestry of wheeling, screeching figures in rainbow colours and startling nakedness.
The media named them the Byrds.
“I view it as a protest against today’s moral code,” said Dr. Pratt, who spent most of his time on panels or giving interviews. “For more years than I care to remember, people have been repressed, their honest desires cloaked in conformity just as tightly as their bodies have been swathed in concealing garb. Now, suddenly, people are saying they’ve had enough. They’re pleasing themselves. It shouldn’t surprise us. It’s healthy. It’s good.”
It was curious, the way the doctor had become pro-Byrd. These days he seemed to be acting in the capacity of press-agent for Gran—who herself had become a cult-figure. In addition, he was working on his learned paper, The Origins and Spread of Avian Tendencies in Humans.
Pandora and I reckoned he was in the pay of the belt people.
“But it’s fun to be in the centre of things,” she said one evening, as the Crows came in to roost, and the garry oak creaked under the weight of a flock of Glaucous Gulls, come to pay homage to Gran. “It’s put the town on the map—and your family too.” She took my hand, smiling at me proudly.
There were the Pelicans, who specialized in high dives into the sea, deactivating their belts in mid-air, then reactivating them underwater to rocket Polaris-like from the depths. They rarely caught fish, though; and frequently had to be treated for an ailment known as Pelicans’ Balloon, caused by travelling through water at speed with open mouth.
There were the Darwin’s Tree Finches, a retiring sect whose existence went unsuspected for some weeks, because they spent so much time in the depths of forests with cactus spines held between their teeth, trying to extract bugs from holes in dead trees. They were a brooding and introspective group.
Virtually every species of bird was represented. And because every cult must have its lunatic fringe, there were the Pigeons. They flocked to the downtown city streets and mingled with the crowds hurrying to and fro. From the shoulders up they looked much like anyone else, only greyer, and with a curious habit of jerking their heads while walking. Bodily, though, they were like any other Byrd: proudly unclothed.
Their roosting habits triggered the first open clash between Byrds and Man. There were complaints that they kept people awake at night, and fouled the rooftops. People began to string electrified wires around their ridges and guttering, and to put poison out.
The Pigeons’ retaliation took place early one evening, when the commuting crowds jammed the streets. It was simple and graphic, and well-coordinated. Afterwards, people referred to it obliquely as the Great Deluge, because it was not the kind of event which is discussed openly, in proper society.
There were other sects, many of them; and perhaps the strangest was a group who eschewed the use of antigravity belts altogether. From time to time we would catch sight of them sitting on the concrete abutments of abandoned motorways, searching one another for parasites. Their bodies were painted a uniform brown except for their private parts, which were a luminous red. They called themselves Hamadryas Baboons.
People thought they had missed the point of the whole thing, somehow.
Inevitably when there are large numbers of people involved, there are tragedies. Sometimes an elderly Byrd would succumb to cardiac arrest in mid-air, and drift away on the winds. Others would suffer belt malfunctions and plummet to the ground. As the first chill nights began to grip the country, some of the older Byrds died of exposure and fell from their perches. Courageously they maintained their role until the end, and when daylight came they would be found in the ritualistic “Dead Byrd” posture, on their backs with legs in the air.
“All good things come to an end,” said Dr. Pratt one evening as the russet leaves drifted from the trees. It had been a busy day, dozens of groups having come to pay homage to Gran. There was a sense of wrapping up, of things coming to a climax. “We will stage a mass rally,” said Dr. Pratt to the Newspocket reporter. “There will be such a gathering of Byrds as the country has never known. Gran will address the multitude at the Great Coming Down.”
Mother said, “So long as it’s soon. I don’t think Gran can take any more frosts.”
I went to invite Pandora to the Great Coming Down, but she was not at home. I was about to return when I caught sight of a monstrous thing sitting on the backyard fence. It was bright green except around the eyes, which were grey, and the hair, which was a vivid yellow. It looked at me. It blinked in oddly reptilian fashion. It was Pandora.
She said, “Who’s a pretty boy, then?”
* * *
The very next day Gran swooped down from the garry oak and seized Mother’s scarf with her toes, and a grim tug-of-war ensued.
“Let go, you crazy old fool!” shouted Mother.
Gran cranked her belt up to maximum lift and took a quick twist of the scarf around her ankles. The other end was wrapped snugly around Mother’s neck and tucked into her heavy winter coat. Mother left the ground, feet kicking. Her shouts degenerated into strangled grunts.
Father got a grip of Mother’s knees as she passed overhead and Gran, with a harsh screech of frustration, found herself descending again; whereupon Gramps, having observed the scene with bright interest, came winging in and took hold of her, adding the power of his belt to hers.
Father’s feet left the ground.
Mother by now had assumed the basic hanging attitude: arms dangling limply, head lolling, tongue protruding, face empurpled. I jumped and got hold of Father’s ankles. There was a short, sharp rending sound and we fell back to earth in a heap, Mother on top. Gran and Gramps flew back to the garry oak with their half of the scarf, and began to pull it apart with their teeth. Father pried the other half away from Mother’s neck. She was still breathing.
“Most fascinating,” said Dr. Pratt.
“My wife nearly
strangled by those goddamned brutes and he calls it fascinating?”
“No—look at the Hornbills.”
“So they’re eating the scarf. So they’re crazy. What’s new?”
“They’re not eating it. If you will observe closely, you will see them shredding it. And see—the female is working the strands around that clump of twigs. It’s crystal clear what they’re doing, of course. This is a classic example of nest-building.”
The effect on Father was instantaneous. He jumped up, seized Dr. Pratt by the throat and, shaking him back and forth, shouted, “Any fool knows birds only nest in the spring!” He was overwrought, of course. He apologized the next day.
By that time the Byrds were nesting all over town. They used a variety of materials and in many instances their craftsmanship was pretty to see. The local Newspocket station ran a competition for The Nest I Would Be Happiest To Join My Mate In, treating the matter as a great joke; although some of the inhabitants who had been forcibly undressed in the street thought otherwise. The Byrds wasted nothing. Their nests were intricately-woven collections of whatever could be stolen from below: overcoats, shirts, pants, clothesline, undergarments, hearing-aids, wigs.
“The nesting phenomenon has a two-fold significance,” Dr. Pratt informed the media. “On the one hand, we have the desire of the Byrds to emulate the instinctive behavioural patterns of their avian counterparts. On the other hand, there is undoubtedly a suggestion of—how can I say it?—aggression towards the earthbound folk. The Byrds are saying, in their own way: join us. Be natural. Take your clothes off. Otherwise we’ll do it for you.”
“You don’t think they’re, uh, sexually warped?” asked the reporter.
“Sexually liberated,” insisted Dr. Pratt.
The Byrds proved his point the next day, when they began to copulate all over the sky.
* * *
It was the biggest sensation since the Great Deluge. Writhing figures filled the heavens and parents locked their children indoors and drew the drapes. It was a fine day for love; the sun glinted on sweat-bedewed flesh, and in the unseasonable warmth the still air rang with cries of delight. The Byrds looped and zoomed and chased one another, and when they met they coupled. Artificial barriers of species were cast aside and Eagle mated with Chaffinch, Robin with Albatross.
“Clearly a visual parable,” said Dr. Pratt. “The—”
“Shut up,” said Mother. “Shut up, shut up, shut up!”
In the garry oak, Rufous-necked Hornbill mated with Rufous-necked Hornbill, then with Crow; then, rising joyously into the sky, with Skua, with Lark, and finaly with Hamadryas Baboon, who had at last realized what it was all about and strapped on a belt.
“She’s eighty-six years old! What is she thinking of?”
“She’s an Earth Mother to them,” said Dr. Pratt.
“Earth Mother my ass,” said Father. “She’s stark, staring mad, and it’s about time we faced up to it.”
“It’s true, it’s true!” wailed Mother, a broken woman. “She’s crazy! She’s been crazy for years! She’s old and useless, and yet she keeps filling in all that stuff on her Peace form, instead of forgetting, like any normal old woman!”
“Winter is coming,” said Dr. Pratt, “and we are witnessing the symbolic Preservation of the Species. Look at that nice young Tern up there. Tomorrow they must come back to earth, but in the wombs of the females the memory of this glorious September will live on!”
“She’s senile and filthy! I’ve seen her eating roots from out of the ground, and do you know what she did to the Everattentive Waiter? She cross-wired it with the Mailgift chute and filled the kitchen with self-adhesive cookies!”
“She did?”
And the first shadow of doubt crossed Dr. Pratt’s face. The leader of the Byrds crazy?
“And one day a Gameshow called on the visiphone and asked her a skill-testing question which would have set us all up for life—and she did the most disgusting thing, and it went out live and the whole town saw it!”
“I’m sure she has sound psychological reasons for her behaviour,” said Dr. Pratt desperately.
“She doesn’t! She’s insane! She walks to town rather than fill out a Bus-quest form! She brews wine in a horrible jar under the bed! She was once sentenced to one week’s community service for indecent exposure! She trespasses in the Department of Agriculture’s fields! You want to know why the house stinks? She programmed the Pesterminator to zap the Tidy Mice!”
“But I thought.… Why didn’t you tell me before? My God, when I think of the things I’ve said on Newspocket! If this comes out, my reputation, all I’ve worked for, all.…” He was becoming incoherent. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked again.
“Well, Jesus Christ, it’s obvious, isn’t it?” snapped Father. “Look at her. She’s up in the sky mating with a Hamadryas Baboon, or something very much like one. Now, that’s what I call crazy.”
“But it’s a Movement.… It’s free and vibrant and so basic, so—”
“A nut cult,” said Father. “Started by a loonie and encouraged by a quack. Nothing more, nothing less. And the forecast for tonight is twenty below. It’ll wipe out the whole lot of them. You’d better get them all down, Pratt, or you’ll have a few thousand deaths on your conscience.”
* * *
But the Byrds came down of their own accord, later that day. As though sensing the end of the Indian summer and the bitter nights to come, they drifted out of the sky in groups, heading for earth, heading for us. Gran alighted in the garry oak with whirling arms, followed by Gramps. They sat close together on their accustomed branch, gobbling quietly to each other. More Byrds came; the Crows, the Pelicans. They filled the tree, spread along the ridge of the roof and squatted on the guttering. They began to perch on fences and posts, even on the ground, all species intermingled. They were all around us, converging, covering the neighbouring roofs and trees, a great final gathering of humans who, just for a few weeks, had gone a little silly. They looked happy although tired, and a few were shivering as the afternoon shortened into evening. They made a great noise at first, a rustling and screeching and fluid piping, but after a while they quietened down. I saw Pandora amidst them, painted and pretty, but her gaze passed right through me. They were still Byrds, playing their role until the end.
And they all faced Gran.
They were awaiting the word to Come Down, but Gran remained silent, living every last moment.
It was like standing in the centre of a vast amphitheatre, with all those heads turned towards us, all those beady eyes watching us. The Newspocket crew were nowhere to be seen; they probably couldn’t get through the crowd.
Finally Dr. Pratt strode forward. He was in the grip of a great despondency. He was going to come clean.
“Fools!” he shouted. A murmur of birdlike sounds arose, but soon died. “All through history there have been fools like you, and they’ve caused wars and disasters and misery. Fools without minds of their own, who follow their leader without thought, without stopping to ask if their leader knows what he is doing. Leaders like Genghis Khan, like Starbusch, like Hitler, leaders who manipulate their followers like puppets in pursuit of their own crazy ends. Crazy leaders drunk with power. Leaders like Gran here.
“Yes, Gran is crazy! I mean certifiably crazy, ready for Peace. Irrational and insane and a burden to the State and to herself. She had me fooled at first.” He uttered a short, bitter laugh, not unlike the mating cry of Forster’s Tern. “I thought I found logic in what she did. Such was the cunning nature of her madness. It was only recently, when I investigated Gran’s past record, that I unmasked her for what she is: a mentally unbalanced old woman with marked antisocial tendencies. I could give you chapter and verse of Gran’s past misdemeanors—and I can tell you right now, this isn’t the first time she’s taken her clothes off in public—but I will refrain, out of consideration for her family, who have suffered enough.
“It will suffice to say that I have rec
ommended her committal and the Peace Wagon is on its way. The whole affair is best forgotten. Now, come down out of those trees and scrub off, and go home to your families, all of you.”
He turned away, shoulders drooping. It was nothing like the Great Coming Down he’d pictured. It was a slinking thing, a creeping home, an abashed admission of stupidity.
Except that the Byrds weren’t coming down.
They sat silently on their perches, awaiting the word from Gran.
All through Dr. Pratt’s oration she’d been quiet, staring fixedly at the sky. Now, at last, she looked around. Her eyes were bright, but it was an almost-human brightness, a different thing from the beady stare of the past weeks. And she half-smiled through the paint, but she didn’t utter a word.
She activated her belt and, flapping her arms, rose into the darkening sky.
And the Byrds rose after her.
They filled the sky, a vast multitude of rising figures, and Pandora was with them. Gran led, Gramps close behind, and then came Coot and Skua and Hawk, and the whole thousand-strong mob. They wheeled once over the town and filled the evening with a great and lonely cry. Then they headed off in V-formations, loose flocks, tight echelons, a pattern of dwindling black forms against the pale duck-egg blue of nightfall.
“Where in hell are they going?” shouted Dr. Pratt as I emerged from the shed, naked and painted. It was cold, but I would soon get used to it.
“South,” I said.
“Why the hell south? What’s wrong with here, for God’s sake?”
“It’s warmer, south. We’re migrating.”
So I activated my belt and lifted into the air, and watched the house fall away below me, and the tiny bolts of light as the Pesterminator hunted things. The sky seemed empty now but there was still a pink glow to the west. Hurrying south, I saw something winking like a red star and, before long, I was homing in on the gleaming hindquarters of a Hamadryas Baboon.
SOLUBLE-FISH
Joël Champetier
Translated from the French by Louise Samson