The Strange Bird
Page 8
On the third day, their profile against the sky triggered an old missile system buried in the earth, which sent four tunneling into the air at their approach, in a widening trajectory like an opening hand, and although they banked, slowed, then flew faster and gained both altitude, they could not lose them, and one of their number peeled off and led the missiles up over the desert.
Remember me, but fly on, she told them as she pushed her body to aerial acrobatics no songbird had ever attempted. There came the explosion, feathers drifting down to Earth. Another soul extinguished. Would it ever end? It would never end as long as there was life on Earth.
But the two Strange Birds flew on, sang their unique song, which they knew now no other bird had ever sung, and still always and ever to the southeast, gaining on their destination, taking comfort in each other’s company.
At a watering hole lined with palm trees, dipping down to drink at two of the four compass points: a long, low, sandy-colored predator, stealthy, surprised them. But not quickly enough, and they rose up in a chatter and scolding, indignant, remembering the forbearance of the foxes.
They pushed on through the dark rather than stay in that place, out of caution, and for a long time they flew without rest or water, for they could feel that they were close and wanted no delay. The compass beat fit to burst in both of them and it rang in their ears, made them see stars with the extravagance and boldness of it, but it also gave them the energy to continue on, dropping mass as they went, using up all of their muscle so that they might experience the brilliance of dawn at altitude, breaking through fog and clouds, with marauders below who saw them and shot at them, but could not find them with their wayward ammunition, and evading any creature seen flying toward them out of the limitless blue.
Three days out from the source, the sound of the wind changed, and they could smell the sea salt even that far from the water, and it drove them harder, but they lost all caution in their joy, and did not notice the shift in the sound coming to them, or the way the breeze thickened and came upon them with predatory intent.
A falcon screamed down from above and speared one of the two, and peeled off to rise again before the survivor had time to evade or mourn the loss, as if there had always been one and not two. As if there had always only ever been one Strange Bird. But from above, even dying, the companion defiant, urging the last on, and blessing the bird that had caught her, for it was only acting as to its nature and there was no cruelty in that.
The last Strange Bird flew on alone, sobered, through storms and night and the cold. Ignored the hint of dark wings far above, ignored everything but the compass that beat like a second heart as she neared the ocean, and in that heart she could sense the pulse of the lost ones, all of the lost ones, from the lab, from the prison, from the Magician’s war.
There need be only one. Only one need fly on, make it all the way to the end, wherever the end might take her.
Where Did She Wish to Come to Rest?
On the tenth day, the desert ended and the dark blue remnants of a vast ocean in retreat leapt up into the Strange Bird’s vision. The ancient waves, the curling salted lip of the bay and the beaches extended so far outward, strewn with rocks and seaweed … she had never seen anything like it before except in her dreams. Water had always been what came out of a bottle in the cage or the tepid moat surrounding the island. But the ocean felt new and exciting, despite being so old, and the brisk wind brought the smell of driftwood and barnacles, the almost spicy but fresh scent of the tidal pools, the funk of the things that had washed up.
She perched within the safety of a dense, stickery bush on the edge of it all and let the wind seek her out between the branches. The city was so far distant, she did not know if she could ever find her way back to it, and this, too, was comfort.
In the crook of a branch, surrounded by thorns, the Strange Bird slept that night, soothed by the rush and withdrawal of the waves and the sea salt, the seeking, willful breeze that tugged at her.
The first dreamless night. The first night of full sleep that she could remember, without interruption or panic. Such an ordinary thing, and yet such a mercy.
* * *
Down the coast, then, in the early morning, with the fog come rolling in off the sea, always south, following the line of the surf. Down and down, in such a small form that now she could take time to marvel at how different it felt than before, what she remembered of being as big as the dark wings. She liked the feeling of being winnowed down, as if there had been too much of her before, that anything unnecessary had been taken away and what was left was pure.
Speeding through the remains of old coastal orchards, where the splash of red or orange reminded her of Sanji and the apples, or the garden. These gnarled trees driven low and complicated by the constant wind and erosion, and the rich smell of wildflowers, which grew deep and thick and which she flew through to feel the tickle of their petals against her legs.
While on outcroppings of black rock slippery, flopping animals called out liquid barks and let themselves fall into the sea, submerge, only to reappear, all dark whiskers and large, sad eyes. And farther out sea monsters such as she could not fathom made themselves known by their vast shadows against the deep blue of the water.
The second night, she found herself in a place where the sea cliffs grew tall and the land again became more desolate. She found an alcove in the weathered stone, stinking of seaweed, and slept with one eye open for weasel and rat, for all of those natural and most unnatural of predators. But most of all for humans. To go for days now without seeing a person was a blessing for her, and calmed her thoughts. She was not afraid in this, but bold, for what could happen to her but that she should die, and she had already died so many times.
On the third day, in the morning, she took shelter during a sudden squall and then emerged to the sun glistening off the tops of the whispering waves, took flight. Soon enough, the compass in the Strange Bird pulsed wildly. She had just risen above a hill, come close to the cliff face, and then leveled out low across the grass atop that plateau, and there, ahead, perched on the edge of the cliffs, a ruined laboratory station, an apple tree growing beside it. Twin to the lab from which she had escaped.
Was this to be her destination? Something within her rebelled at the sight. To come all this way, to have endured so much, only to, in a sense, return to where she had started. Was there another island within? Another blood room and a garden? Despite the evidence, might Sanji’s partner still live? She did not believe so. Nothing her dark net of senses told her brought back evidence of life.
She passed over once, twice. A great fire burn had washed black across the roof and swept antenna and other equipment with it. Some attack in the side of the building had split it open, and a tangle of desks and chairs and stainless steel tables had tumbled out, and bones, covered in moss and ivy.
The desert encroached close by—the lab existed on the thinnest strip of green between land and water. Precarious and always under threat, but she could find no other human signs of life. Whoever had split open the lab had moved on, gone out to sea or traveled up the coast. Would they come back? Nowhere the Strange Bird knew of could be assured of a threat not returning.
The Strange Bird would not enter that building, fly through those narrow halls. She could not, it was too much, and she blessed Wick’s gift to her, that she might choose to come to this place and then choose to leave it should she wish. Whatever the compass had been for, whatever Sanji had intended, the Strange Bird was too late.
There was a fatigue in that, a weariness, because she had come so far. There was also relief. To relinquish this traveling, to give up the quest, and to live a life, for as long as she was able. She did not even mind being alone now, for all that she had once hoped to find others of her kind. She knew they could not live within, for if they were indeed her kind, they would have rebelled against such a place, and have escaped long ago, or died trying.
Yet still the compass pulsed s
trong, when she had expected it would cut off now that she had reached the destination. So she followed it the last little way, away from the lab, toward the sea, even if it led her astray, for what was the cost?
Freshwater trickled from a stream nearby, ending in a cascade over the cliffs into the ocean. In the mossy areas beneath the arc of water she sensed shelter aplenty, including a small cave. The compass within pulsed so strong she could hardly fly for the buffeting that came from within, but she ducked under the waterfall and into the cave. Within was a copse of dark green trees with purple berries she could smell were edible.
The compass stopped, and beat no more, for it lived not in proximity to its twin.
There, facing her on one of the trees, was a mirror reflection of her old self, the bird of many colors, the iridescent splendor, all of it. The old her, the beautiful her, the one with no experience. There in front of her, staring curious at this little bird that had snuck in the front door. But the Strange Bird knew who else lived within that mind, just as she knew what lived within her.
For a moment, both were silent, both cautious and wary. They stared. Until, slowly, the Strange Bird saw recognition, some trigger, and a wall broke down and neither could hide from the other.
“I wish this had been a better world, Sanji. I wish we could all have been better people. I wish I was still alive here to greet you. I wish our plans had gone better. I wish we could have saved the world. I wish, I wish … but even if you receive this message, I know it isn’t true, that we failed. It was too late. I held on as long as I could, but…”
And the reply: “I could not be with you, my love. But I can watch over you all my days.”
Everyone who had created the Strange Bird or interfered with her or had hopes or fears that had been placed upon her, or wished her ill, was dead. All of them were dead, and their plans with them. But the Strange Bird could see the future. They would rummage for food in the underbrush and alight upon the roof of the ruined lab, and hop over to peck at the windfall apples from the tree. They would make their nests and take their shelter against the cliffs, and they would live long, long lives. There upon the sea oats and bramble by the vast sea, with her companion or without.
All the senseless things. All the senseless and unimportant things that fell away from the Strange Bird in that moment, that were forgotten or became meaningless. It had been a human need, the compass pulsing at her heart, and she was, in the end, much diminished for having followed it.
Yet what did it matter. For what are bodies? Where do they end and where do they begin? And why must they be constant? Why must they be strong? So much was leaving her, but of the winnowing, the Strange Bird sang for joy. She sang for joy. Not because she had not suffered or been reduced. But because she was finally free and the world could not be saved, but nor would it be destroyed.
And the beautiful bird broke into song and although it was not a song any bird would recognize, the Strange Bird could understand it and whatever remained of Sanji inside of her recognized it and responded, and the two birds sang one to the other, the dead communicating to the dead in that intimate language.
Also by Jeff VanderMeer
Fiction
Borne
Annihilation
Authority
Acceptance
Area X
The Book of Frog (stories)
Dradin, in Love
The Book of Lost Places (stories)
Veniss Underground
City of Saints and Madmen
Secret Life (stories)
Shriek: An Afterword
The Situation
Finch
The Third Bear (stories)
Nonfiction
Why Should I Cut Your Throat?
Booklife: Strategies and Survival Tips for the 21st-Century Writer
Monstrous Creatures
The Steampunk Bible (with S. J. Chambers)
Wonderbook: The Illustrated Guide to Creating Imaginative Fiction
The Steampunk User’s Manual (with Desirina Boskovich)
A Note About the Author
Jeff VanderMeer is an award-winning novelist and editor, most recently the author of the New York Times bestselling Southern Reach Trilogy—the first volume of which, Annihilation, is being made into a movie to be released by Paramount—and the coeditor with his wife, Ann VanderMeer, of The Big Book of Science Fiction. He grew up in the Fiji Islands and now lives in Tallahassee, Florida. You can sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
The Strange Bird
Also by Jeff VanderMeer
A Note About the Author
Copyright
MCD x FSG Originals
Farrar, Straus and Giroux
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Copyright © 2017 by VanderMeer Creative, Inc.
Cover design by Rodrigo Corral and Sungpyo Hong
Cover images by DigitalVision Vectors / Getty Images
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First e-book edition: August 2017
Library of Congress Control Number: 2017942501
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eISBN 9780374714932
First eBook edition: August 2017
Thanks to Sjon for allowing me to borrow one of his blue foxes.