The Bird Saviors

by William J. Cobb

  Once he saw a naked woman with the head of a donkey. She came toward him through the cactus fields, weaving her way through the yucca and the cholla. Her skin was cinnamon- colored, like Lila's, her hair black as onyx. She seemed to float above the parched prairie grass and tumbleweeds. She faced the house and Lord God knew it was he whom she was seeking, though he held back, edging his face to the window only just far enough to look out, afraid she would see him and snag his soul.

  She passed behind a juniper and when she emerged on the other side he clearly saw temptress nakedness— nipples large and stiff as pumpkin stems, tangle of pubis dark and V- shaped, hips wide, and belly round. But as she moved out of the shadow of the juniper he saw that her head was not human but sported a long snout and tall ears. He'd heard of the Donkey Woman before and reckoned her to be a servant of the devil. He slammed his door and crouched behind it, his heart beating so fiercely it made him weak. After some time he stood up and peered out the window to find the vision gone.

  Mostly he keeps to himself these gifts from the Lord and temptations from the devil. His soul is a conduit, a link between the world of the ordinary and the spiritual, the unearthly. He fears Ruby shares his talent and curse and will not tell him. He recognizes the look in her eyes. The wrinkle of her brows. The sense of her knowing more than she will say.

  . . .

  Another night Lord God wakes to the house burning and his throat and nose constrict with the acrid smell, the cinders stabbing his eye. Flames lick and gutter up the ghost curtains in his bedroom as he hurries to attach his leg and pull on his pants, his hands trembling. A gush of heat envelops his neck and back as he lurches forward. The room is dark with smoke.

  His prosthesis is not attached well and wobbles as he puts weight on it. He cannot move fast enough to save his family. The roof will collapse and trap them in the flames. He coughs from the fumes and his throat burns. He trips on a plastic dinosaur in the hallway. He bellows for his daughter, fallen and helpless, seeing the meaninglessness of his life rush upon him.

  Ruby appears at his side and crouches down.

  What's the matter, Papa?

  Hurry, he says. Throw on some clothes and get Lila. Come quick.

  Come where?

  The house is afire! We have no time to waste!

  Fire?

  Can't you smell it?

  Ruby stands up and blinks, rubbing her eyes. She wears a white nightgown. Lord God looks down the hall, expecting to see flames funneling out her bedroom door.

  I don't smell anything, she says.

  She helps him to his feet and they make their way down the dark hallway to her room, where she turns on the overhead light. All seems normal and in place. Lila squirms in her crib and raises her head to look at them, her black hair a curly cloud around her head and face.

  Mama? she asks.

  I'm right here, pumpkin. Go back to sleep.

  She frowns and drops her head back on the pillow, her diapered butt in the air.

  A t t h e p o s t o f f i c e , holding Lila in her arms, Ruby kills time, waiting for her turn to be called, listening to a college girl in front of her blab blab blab on a cell phone, all about how she borrowed her roommate's credit card to buy a new dress and the bitch had the nerve to say she was going to call the police if she didn't get the money pronto. Ruby bounces Lila and tries to keep her entertained, staring at help- wanted ads on the bulletin board. One ad reads, Person needed to count birds. Ornithological knowledge useful but not required. Will train. Enthusiasm a must. Generous pay. Flexible hours.

  She calls the number. A man with a soft voice answers, tells her how much he can pay. The work sounds good to Ruby. She says she likes birds and that she's an accurate counter.

  I count them on my own, anyway, she adds. There's not as many as there used to be.

  That's why we count. To see how many there are now. Compare that to past populations, project the future viability of species in peril.

  Ruby says she counted eighteen Navajos by the train trestle near her house. Six Grief Birds off Highway 96. A trio of Nodding Owls on the prairie west of her house. I mark the days by counting birds, she says.

  Grief Birds? he asks. Navajos? Nodding Owls? There's a long pause at the other end of the line. I've never heard of these before.

  Those are my names for them, says Ruby. I make up special names for all the birds I see. I know the real names, actually. Most of them.

  Can you give me an example?

  I saw a pair of Audubon's Warblers in the aspens near our house. I call them Yellow Flitchets.

  Why?

  They flitter and twitch in the branches of the trees. Flitchets, see? Ravens I call Grief Birds, because they always seem to be in mourning, dressed in black feathers.

  What do you call crows?

  Crows.

  What are Navajos?

  Vesper Sparrows. I call them Navajos because the pattern on their wings reminds me of a Navajo rug. Like, Sparrow Hawks? Why do they call them Kestrels, anyway? That doesn't mean anything to me.

  It's just a name, says the man. It's a word we use so we know what we're talking about when we say Kestrel.

  What about Turdus migratorius?

  The American Robin, yes.

  It sounds ugly.

  Well, yes. I suppose it does.

  I like Robins. Why would anyone who likes birds call them a turd?

  You know Latin genus and species names for all these birds you name?

  Not all. Some.

  What's a White- Crowned Sparrow?

  A Snowcap.

  What about the Latin name?

  I don't know. What is it?

  Zonotrichia leucophrys.

  I like Snowcap better.

  So do I. But we need a common language. Scientists share their findings. We can't make up our own names for things. Unless we discover a new species.

  I know that.

  Then we wouldn't know what we were talking about when we described a thing.

  I said I know. I'm not stupid.

  I didn't say you were.

  Anyway, you should hire me. You won't find anyone else who can count birds like me.

  I never meant to imply you were stupid. I don't know you. I don't think someone is stupid when I don't know them.

  Okay. I didn't mean anything by it. Maybe we can meet later today? I could get a ride into town.

  You don't have a car?

  No, I don't. I'm still in high school. Or I was, until recently.

  Ruby waits for his reply, long in coming.

  Finally the man says, I'm sorry. I need someone who can get around on their own, to meet me out of town. My test area is west of here, mostly.

  I can do that.

  No, well, I mean. I need someone with his or her own transportation. I'm sorry.

  What are you sorry about? Pick me up. I live west of town. It's not out of your way.

  I don't know.

  What don't you know? You can come get me. I'll walk down Red Creek Road to the highway. It's only two miles. That's a thirty- minute walk. Maybe twenty. I can do it. I walk everywhere I go.

  I'm sorry, Miss Cole. I just don't think it's going to work out.

  You think I'm simple, don't you? Because of my special names for the birds? I'm not. I'm complex. Only I come from a simple family.

  I don't think you're simple. I don't know you. It's just that I think it's probably smart of me to talk to other people first before I decide whom to hire.

  No, you shouldn't. They will cloud your eyes. I'm here and now. And I know birds, Mr. Costello. I'd be perfect for this. You have to hire me. Her voice quavers. You have to, she says again. It's my destiny and it's yours too. I count birds, you know? It was fate I saw your ad. There's no denying that.

  I've got other people to interview, says Ward. Let's say I'll get back to you and we'll see what happens after I talk to the others.

  Listen, says Ruby. Listen to me. You can't turn away from this.

&
nbsp; I'll talk to you soon. I promise. Now, I have to get going.

  Where are you? she asks.

  Ward pauses a moment, then tells her where he's staying.

  I know exactly where that is. My mother works not far from there. I'll come see you later today, all right?

  There's a long silence at the other end of the line.

  Okay, says Ward. If you make it here we'll talk.

  Are you sure?

  Yes, I'm sure. I'll be glad to meet you, okay?

  Okay. I mean, thank you. You won't regret it.

  You want the job?

  Yes, says Ruby. Yes, I do.

  Well, I certainly do need somebody.

  I do too, says Ruby. I mean, I need the work.

  I know what you meant.

  I'll be good at this, she adds. I promise.

  Ward meets Ruby in the lobby of the Buffalo Head Inn. Usually field biologists with research grants use college students as interns in the field, most of them coming from a few schools like Cornell, the University of Michigan, or Auburn. Not Ward. He wants a local, someone who knows the landscape, someone who won't ask so many annoying questions, someone he can learn from. Someone who knows the prairies, the foothills, the nesting sites, the canyon walls and creek beds.

  Ruby convinces her mother to take care of Lila at her place in town.

  I need to make money, she says. I have to get started somewhere. Lila's getting easier to handle. She's on formula full time now.

  In the lobby, Ward sits on a cracked leather sofa beneath the buffalo head, looking like a camp counselor at a dude ranch. He's easy to recognize because of the glossy bird book in his lap. He wears wire- rim glasses, a plaid western shirt, and jeans. He shakes her hand and tells her to call him Ward when she says, Mr. Costello.

  On the coffee table he spreads out the bird book. Ruby watches as he moves aside the bronco- silhouette napkin holder, the cactus salt- and- pepper shakers, the Colorful Colorado! place mats. He says the book is a classic published in 1933, complete with illustrations by Louis Agassiz Fuertes. She asks who that was.

  A famous illustrator and ornithologist, says Ward. He worked from the real thing, often dead birds, like John James Audubon. I know that seems odd but that's how they did it in those days.

  They painted illustrations of dead birds? How did they find them?

  Usually they shot them.

  So they killed the birds and later tried to save them?

  That's about the gist of it.

  The what?

  The gist of it.

  What does that mean?

  That's the truth. More or less.

  The gist, she says.

  The main facts about something, adds Ward.

  She smiles. I learned a new word.

  Ward turns the book to the illustrations of Ivory- Billed Woodpeckers.

  They started to realize, back then, that some of these birds would be hunted to their end. Many of the birds Agassiz illustrated no longer exist. In another century they'll become legends. If not sooner. The forests west of here used to be filled with Blue Grouse, and now I've heard you're lucky to see even a pair.

  Ruby turns the large, heavy pages of the book, beautiful color illustrations. Ward shows her the pages he has marked, birds that are listed as either rare or on the brink of extinction. Some of these were common only a few decades ago.

  I saw one of these in the spring, says Ruby, pointing at a light- green warbler. It's not gone. I call it a Hide- About. She looks up at Ward and grins. It's not easy to see, seems to like to hide about on the ground, pecking at leaves, or flitting about in the aspen leaves.

  The Orange- Crowned Warbler. Vermivora celata. Used to be one of the most common warblers in the west.

  I've seen it.

  Could you find it for me? If we went on a search?

  Ruby purses her lips, staring down at the illustration. Usually don't see that orange cap on the Hide- Abouts.

  Right, you don't. Only in mating season. Or when it's afraid.

  When it's trying to show off, she says. My father shoots them from our porch.

  Warblers?

  No. Crows. Ravens, too. He says black birds carry evil spirits.

  Ward keeps his face averted. He's staring at an illustration of a White- Faced Ibis. He says her father isn't the only one.

  It's like they want something to blame. Birds are an easy target.

  That's partly why I want this job.

  What is?

  My father. I have to get loose of him.

  May I ask a rude question?

  I guess.

  How old are you?

  Seventeen.

  So you still live at home?

  Me and my baby girl. Lila. My father helps take care of her. He keeps a roof over my head and food on the table. He says he fought the war for me. Which he reminds me of twenty- four seven.

  Then why do you want to leave?

  He wants to marry me off to a man I don't even know or like and who already has two wives. It's a Saint thing.

  Ward blinks and frowns. Ruby can tell he doesn't understand, but doesn't want to say anything to hurt her feelings or make her seem an oddball. A Saint thing?

  The FLDS. Fundamentalist Latter- Day Saints. We just call them Saints. You're not from around here, you don't know. You're lucky. Everyone else does, and it's embarrassing. Most people think they're scum.

  You must get picked on.

  Ruby shrugs. Some. Dad preaches at an FLDS temple. It's not much of a temple, really. More like a bunch of kooks. But don't tell him that. They're polygamists. Or polygs for short.

  Ward stares at her for a moment, turns his attention back to the bird book. He flips through to a glossy photograph of a Bobolink.

  I've heard of these people, he says. But I don't understand it. Not really.

  Think clan. That's what it's like. They don't work much but the ones that do pay for the freeloaders. They help each other out. Do each other favors. Like, I'll scratch your back if you scratch mine. Only far as I can tell, I'll be the one doing the scratching. Plus this guy he wants me to marry? He owns a pawnshop. Which is pretty low, if you ask me. So I'll be scratching the back of a man who cheats people for a living.

  Ward makes a face. He sounds like a catch.

  Don't I know it. Trouble is, he's got money.

  Business must be good.

  It's boom time for him. He's basically buying me. And Lord God will get a good price.

  Lord God?

  My father. That's what I call him. He acts like he's Lord God, the one true believer.

  I know some Mormons in Texas, says Ward. They seem squeaky clean.

  He doesn't like mainstream Mormons. He says FLDS are the true believers. But sure, he's gold plate to the bone. In his head he's the third in line, direct from the Prophet Joseph to Brigham Young to Lord God. He wanted to take a celestial wife but Mom wouldn't let him. She was so mad she moved out. Plus he lost a leg in the war. Ruby shakes her head. He's a mess, you want the truth.

  I'm sorry to hear that. It must make his life hard.

  Ruby shrugs. At first I felt sorry for him. After a while it gets old. He milks it, you know? This war- veteran hooey. Plus he wants me to do what he says. To obey. And I can't take that.

  In the breakfast- bar area, the coffee maker gurgles. Ward says, Some birds are polygamous. Bobolinks, for instance. Have you ever seen them on the prairie?

  Sometimes. She stirs her tea. They're rare. I call them Yellow Necks. They're pretty.

  They're on my list, says Ward.

  The endangered ones?

  He nods. He sips his coffee, then tells her they haven't been counted reliably for several years. They may be gone, he adds.

  Guess that polygamist angle didn't help them.

  I guess not, he says.

  It sure works for these gold platers. People call them the American Taliban. That's probably about half right, far as I can tell. Kooky but persistent. Fervent. I like that word.
That's what they are. Fervent. And they're breeding like rabbits.

  G e o r g e A r m s t r o n g C r o w f o o t stares out at the desert sunrise, the eastern sky pink as his bloodshot eyes. A trapped fly buzzes against the window, whining like a harmonica. He regards it for a moment, feeling a headache pulse in his temples, getting his bearings. Gata de la Luna lies naked beside him, sleeping as if drugged by a love potion. He gets to his feet and gulps a glass of cold water, his throat smarting.