A Cruel Bird Came to the Nest and Looked In

by Mills, Magnus

  ‘It seems the bird has flown the nest,’ he announced.

  ‘Oh,’ said Brambling, ‘I see.’

  ‘You mean he’s not here?’ said Whimbrel.

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Does this have anything to do with the dancing girls,’ enquired Sanderling, ‘the ones who became great with child?’

  ‘It’s quite possible,’ replied Wryneck.

  ‘I thought as much,’ said Sanderling.

  ‘Well, Wryneck,’ I remarked, ‘you should be congratulated on your opacity.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  Dotterel glanced up from his book.

  ‘Well if the bird’s flown the nest,’ he said, ‘why on earth did he bother issuing those preposterous edicts?’

  ‘The folly of youth,’ said Smew.

  ‘More to the point,’ I said, ‘how are we going to resolve the succession?’

  ‘There’s only one answer,’ said Wryneck.

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘A regency.’

  Without a further word he raised the crown and placed it on Smew’s head.

  Chapter 16

  NOTICE:

  TO MARK THE OCCASION OF THE TWELVE-DAY FEAST

  MR GALLINULE'S COMPANY OF STROLLING PLAYERS WILL PERFORM A TRAGEDY

  AT THE MAYPOLE.

  THE COMPANY COMPRISES:

  MR ORTOLAN

  MR PUKEKA

  MR ROSELLA

  MR MITTERIA

  MR CHIURLO

  MR PENDULINE

  MR MESTOLONE

  AND

  MR GALLINULE

  EARLY BOOKING IS ADVISED

  During the following week these printed posters began to appear all over the royal quarter. I had no idea how Gallinule managed to gain access to a printing press, but these days his resourcefulness never failed to surprise me.

  Moreover, word had reached the cabinet that the strolling players were rehearsing the very same play as we were. It was generally agreed that they would make a better job of it than us. Consequently, Smew’s first decision as regent was to abandon our amateur production and hand full responsibility to the professionals. As a gesture of goodwill a further loan of half-a-crown was granted to Gallinule’s company, the payment to be made from the exchequer. When Brambling protested about this, Wryneck intervened to explain that the sum involved could be shown in the books as a ‘balancing figure’.

  ‘Balanced against what?’ asked Brambling.

  ‘Itself,’ said Wryneck. ‘The original subvention can be regarded as a disallowable claim upon the state. The cancelled amount can therefore be brought forward and balanced against the current debt.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Brambling, ‘I see.’

  ‘That’s agreed then,’ said Smew.

  He was sitting in the previously unoccupied emperor’s chair. On his head he wore the ceremonial crown.

  I had expected Garganey and Dotterel to raise the loudest voices against Smew’s assumption of power. In fact, though, they both seemed to have accepted the new regime as a lesser evil. Perhaps they thought it would be easier to deal directly with Smew than with an unapproachable emperor. Even so, they made it clear what their priorities were:

  ‘Surely there are more important matters to discuss than Gallinule’s financial affairs,’ said Dotterel, at the first meeting of the ‘regency’ cabinet. ‘We really must sort out this question of the clocks.’

  Dotterel had a point, of course. The cabinet had met at ten in the morning, yet we’d all had to find our way there in fading darkness. At five in the evening the sun would set unwitnessed behind masses of dark clouds. Winter was almost upon us and there were precious few hours of daylight available. This was evidenced by reports from Garganey’s postmen. They had no objection, they said, to rising from their beds before dawn. Actually, they were quite accustomed to such demands and recognised them as part of their job. The persistent gloom, however, was causing some postmen to lose their way. They complained of ‘disorientation’. Accordingly, even more letters were going astray than usual. Meanwhile, Dotterel’s artisans were spending so much time adjusting the clocks that all their other duties were being left unattended to.

  ‘The imperial gates are meant to be painted once a year,’ he said, as an example, ‘but so far they remain untouched.’

  Furthermore, it was becoming clear that the populace in general disapproved of the five o’clock sunset. They preferred the gradual descent into darkness that traditionally signalled the approach of the twelve-day feast. True enough, they were getting plenty of darkness as things stood, but they wanted it in the afternoons, not in the mornings.

  With these thoughts in mind, the cabinet unanimously agreed to revoke the offending edict. Whimbrel was given the task of calculating exactly what time it would be if the clocks hadn’t been altered. Then a date was chosen for the ‘great readjustment’ and a public half-holiday proclaimed by way of recompense. As Wryneck observed, it was the least we could do. The cabinet quickly voted these measures through and by the end of the meeting we were feeling very pleased with ourselves.

  Only later did it occur to me that maybe I should have mentioned the railway. After all, its rapid encroachment was bound to affect life in the empire just as surely as the episode of the clocks. I was reminded of it on my next visit to the orchestra. I’d decided it was high time I dropped in on Greylag, whom I hadn’t seen since our foray to the edge of the wilderness. As I neared the cake there suddenly came an extraordinary sound from within. It was very like the shrill piping we’d heard in the east, and for an instant I thought the railway engine was inside the building. This was impossible, of course, so I listened again and realised that what I could hear wasn’t the exact sound but rather an impression of it.

  After a few moments it ceased and silence returned. I opened the door and entered the auditorium. Down in the orchestra pit I could see the musicians having one of their pauses for reflection. They were talking quietly to one another and attending to their instruments. In the meantime, Greylag sat at the piano plinking odd notes and making alterations to a manuscript. Nobody had noticed my arrival so I found a seat in the back row and watched. After a while Greylag went to the podium and gave some instructions to the orchestra. Then he held his baton aloft before quickly bringing it down again. Gradually he spread his arms outwards and the sound returned, distantly at first but steadily drawing nearer, then rising up in a great single chord. It immediately conjured up the railway engine, but now transmitted through ninety-eight musical instruments! Yet at the same time there was something else as well. The chord Greylag had created contained not only an industrial shrillness, but also a kind of sad cry. It was as if he had attributed feelings to this mechanical beast.

  Eventually Greylag gave another signal and the music stopped. Then he returned to the piano and began making further adjustments. To me it sounded perfect already, but I had come to know that for Greylag perfection was unattainable. It was evident he was wholly absorbed in his work, so quietly I left the auditorium and went outside.

  Darkness had fallen, but for some reason I wandered into the royal park and began roaming amongst the ancient trees. I quite liked their timeless presence, especially on winter evenings when the wind roared through the empty branches. Some distance away I could see the lights of the observatory tower. These told me that Whimbrel was at home, and I made my mind up to call on him later. Oddly enough, however, I thought I saw some other lights moving amid the trees. I remained standing where I was, and the lights drew closer. Finally, two figures appeared out of the gloom. The first I recognised as Mestolone. The second, who I did not know, was carrying a torch.

  ‘How does the night?’ he asked.

  ‘The moon is down,’ replied Mestolone. ‘I have not heard the clock.’

  ‘And she goes down at twelve,’ said the other man.

  They obviously hadn’t noticed me standing there in the shadows, and for a few moments I listened with interest as they continued di
scussing how dark it was. Then I deliberately stepped on a dead branch that was lying nearby.

  ‘Who’s there?’ they said.

  ‘Only me,’ I answered. ‘I was on my way up to the observatory when I heard you coming.’

  ‘Ah, good evening,’ said Mestolone. ‘I don’t think you’ve met Ortolan?’

  I was introduced to the other actor, and Mestolone enquired if I would be coming to see their play when it was ready.

  ‘Certainly,’ I said. ‘I’m looking forward to witnessing a professional performance.’

  ‘It’s sixpence a ticket,’ said Mestolone.

  Just then another light approached through the trees.

  ‘Who’s there?’ said Ortolan.

  ‘A friend,’ said a voice, and presently Gallinule emerged from the darkness. He, too, was carrying a torch.

  What most caught my attention, though, was the golden crown he had perched on his head. I could only see it dimly by the light of the torch, but it looked very similar to the ceremonial crown recently adopted by Smew.

  ‘What, sir, not yet at rest?’ said Ortolan.

  Gallinule was about to reply when I interrupted.

  ‘Yes, Mr Gallinule,’ I said, ‘I’d have thought you’d be ensconced in the Maypole by now.’

  I only meant this as a friendly jest, but Gallinule seemed quite indignant.

  ‘We players don’t spend all our time drinking,’ he said. ‘We also have to rehearse.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I forgot.’

  Actually it was fairly easy to win back Gallinule’s favour. I’d discovered soon after meeting him that all I needed to do was ask him a few questions about himself and he’d be happy. The trick worked again tonight. Soon he was telling me about all the important roles he’d performed during his career, and which particular part he had chosen for the forthcoming production. Naturally, it was the title role.

  ‘Ah yes,’ I said. ‘Garganey had a go at playing him.’

  ‘Had a go?’ retorted Gallinule. ‘One can’t merely “have a go” at him: he speaks the greatest lines ever written!’

  ‘Agreed,’ I said quickly, ‘and I’m sure you’ll deliver them par excellence.’

  This evidently satisfied Gallinule because next thing I was being invited to accompany the players to the Maypole that evening.

  ‘I’d like to join you,’ I said, ‘but unfortunately the publican won’t accept my stipendiary sixpence.’

  This was technically true, though I failed to mention my pockets were empty.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about the publican,’ said Gallinule. ‘We’re running a slate at the Maypole.’

  ‘You mean you get your beer on tick?’

  ‘And wine, of course,’ said Gallinule, ‘depending on the time of day.’

  ‘But I thought the slate was only for commoners.’

  ‘We can play the commoner when required,’ he said. ‘We can also play the clown, the deluded lover, the madman and the hurt hawk, but our speciality is the royal roles. We are the Player King.’

  The conversation continued to revolve around Gallinule as the four of us made our way towards the Maypole. Soon the remaining actors caught us up and I was introduced to Pukeka, Rosella, Mitteria, Chiurlo and Penduline. They were undoubtedly a colourful bunch and all plainly of the same ilk; by the time we entered the premises I was being treated as a lifelong friend. Accordingly, the publican’s welcome was extended to include me.

  As a matter of fact I discovered that we officers-of-state were now held in high esteem by the general populace. Word was out that the ‘conspiracy of the clocks’ had been foiled thanks to our resolve; and everyone was looking forward to the long, dark evenings of the twelve-day feast. Trade at the Maypole had increased already. My first pint, therefore, was ‘on the house’. The players and I sat around a long table and revelled in good cheer. Over in the corner the postmen were playing a game of dominoes. From somewhere else there came an occasional snatch of song. I gazed at my foaming beer glass, the sea of smiling faces and the blazing log fire, and decided I could probably come to enjoy such a life.

  There was only one disappointment.

  ‘You should have been here last night, really,’ announced Gallinule. ‘They had a bevy of dancing girls.’

  He was still wearing his golden crown, and only removed it when Mestolone reminded him.

  ‘Force of habit,’ said Gallinule. ‘We’ve been rehearsing all day and I quite forgot.’

  He placed the crown on the table.

  ‘Do you mind if I try it on?’ I said.

  Gallinule had no objection, so I lifted the crown and weighed it in my hands. It was evidently a lightweight model just the same as Smew’s. In fact, under the bright lights I could see that it was identical. Briefly I put it on my head, and when I took it off again I happened to glance inside the rim. There I saw a small insignia which I assumed to be the mark of the maker. On closer examination it turned out to comprise the letters CoS.

  ‘Where did you get this?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, we likely picked it up on our travels,’ replied Gallinule. ‘It’s only a stage prop.’

  ‘Actually,’ said Mestolone, ‘it was left behind when our king went into exile.’

  ‘Really?’ I said.

  ‘We saved it from falling into the wrong hands,’ he added.

  ‘Well, it’s still worthless,’ said Gallinule. ‘Base metal and gold paint.’

  I looked at Mestolone and noticed he had that same sad expression on his face I’d seen once before. I began to wish I hadn’t asked about the provenance of the crown. I also realised that he differed from the rest of the troupe somewhat. They were all born actors, while he was a handyman who did some acting when needed. His true place was behind the scenes and he had little interest in the limelight.

  Unlike Gallinule, of course, who even made a performance of ordering a round of drinks.

  ‘We need recourse to your bounteous munificence,’ he declared on his next visit to the counter. The star-struck publican dutifully filled our glasses and Gallinule returned triumphant.

  As the evening passed, however, it occurred to me that as an officer-of-state I needed to show some self-restraint. There appeared to be no limit to the slate that Gallinule was running up, and for all I knew we could be drinking until dawn. For this reason I decided that I would have four pints and then leave. When the time eventually came my new-found companions voiced all sorts of protests, and demanded promises that I would join them again the following evening, and made further pledges of everlasting friendship. Only after every conceivable bond had been forged was I allowed to leave. They bade me a last hearty farewell and I departed into the night.

  Outside, everything felt different. I had no idea what time it was but the streets were completely deserted so I guessed it was very late. Many of the lights had gone out, and those that were still lit had a rather cold glow about them. Fortunately the moon was shining brightly, a fact which seemed a little odd to me, though I couldn’t think why. I looked left, then right, then left again, pondering which way to go before finally choosing neither course. I crossed over and walked straight up the street opposite. Then I turned a corner. Then another. By now I wasn’t thinking about where I was going. Nor was I looking back on the wonderful evening I’d enjoyed. I was just walking. After a while I found myself in the park, stumbling along amongst the trees. They looked stark and sombre in the moonlight. The wind was still roaring through their branches and I stopped to listen for a minute. As I stood there swaying I saw a lamp glowing in the observatory. Whimbrel was obviously still at work so I resolved to call in on him. It took some time to find my way to the start of the curving path, but I traipsed on and ultimately arrived at his door.

  I knocked and waited; then knocked and knocked again.

  ‘Hold on,’ I heard him cry from above, ‘I’m coming.’

  He made me wait an hour before opening the door.

  ‘What kept you?’ I said.


  ‘Give me a chance,’ he replied. ‘I got down as quick as I could.’

  ‘I’ve come to pay you a visit,’ I announced.

  ‘Yes, so I see.’ He shone his lamp in my face. ‘Are you feeling all right?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, ‘never better.’

  ‘Well, I think you ought to come in.’

  Whimbrel’s tone suggested I wasn’t quite myself. He led me up the iron spiral and sat me down in a chair. Then he gave me a glass of water. He watched me sternly for a moment or two, then went to his chart table and resumed his work. How long I remained sitting there I don’t know, but every time I looked across at Whimbrel he was still examining his charts. After a while I asked him for another glass of water and gradually I began to feel normal again. I didn’t move, though, and continued gazing idly at Whimbrel as he worked.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I enquired at length.

  ‘I’m trying to calculate what time it is,’ he answered, ‘so that the clocks can be readjusted.’

  ‘I thought you finished that hours ago.’

  ‘It’s proving more difficult than I expected,’ said Whimbrel. ‘To tell you the truth I don’t even know where to start.’

  ‘Well, how did you manage before?’

  ‘It was different then,’ he explained. ‘The clocks were all correct. Now they’re all wrong.’

  Whimbrel sounded desperate. All those charts and tables he had at his disposal were apparently of no use at all. Not when he couldn’t understand them, anyway.

  ‘If it’s any help,’ I said, ‘the moon goes down at twelve.’

  ‘Does it?’ replied Whimbrel.

  ‘So maybe you could work it out from there.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, his mood suddenly brightening.

  I heaved myself out of my chair and the two of us went over to the window. Sure enough, there was the moon, shining in all its glory. It was about to dip over the horizon.