Feather by Feather and Other Stories

by Lynn E. O'Connacht

  The poem is an acrostic of a type that I’ve dubbed a scattered acrostic. What that means is that the letters aren’t found at the beginning or end of a line, but scattered throughout the piece at the beginning of a word. I’ve bolded them both so they’re easier to see and because it creates a subtle stress on the words. You can play around with the presentation, but I’d argue that the presentation does need to fall on key words in the poem and add to the overall effect of the piece.

  The day change came to Oak Town was quiet. No wind blew ominously through the streets, nor did unseasonal storms drench them. It was a day like any other day might have been, except for the stranger that entered through the gates, a straggler now the summer festival had almost ended. He had no cart to carry his wares, nor indeed, it seemed, any wares to sell. If anything stood him apart from people, it must have been the wide-brimmed hat that had gone out of fashion then a decade ago. Or perhaps it was how entirely ordinary he was, so far too ordinary that it passed into the unnoticed extraordinary.

  The Stag and Crown still proudly displays the small feather trinket the stranger used to rent a room, though the gilding has long since been lost to bad times and hardship. They say it came from his hat, though none of the stories mention anything about a feathered hat. What the Stag and Crown does not boast of, albeit most all the stories agree, is that the change of Oak Town started in its common room.

  For, while the stranger had no visible wares to sell, he had something far more valuable. He had tales. Tales of the days before the world had ended and hiccoughed back into life. Such tales were not uncommon, not even then, but the magic lay in the telling of them. The stranger was not a storyteller, nor a singer. His voice was rough like the hard ground just after ploughing, and the manner of his tales awkward. No Spinner would have apprenticed him and no man should have listened to him, and yet they stayed, those inhabitants of Oak Town. They stayed to listen to the stranger’s tales. He told them as a father might tell them to his son on a long winter’s night. He told them as a grandmother might scold her grandchild for recklessness.

  His tales traced themselves all the way back to times before the cataclysm, times that were much like their own and that yet were different. His tales, occasionally, were close to heresy, but he coated them in honey that the priests found too sweet. He spoke of sea voyages that went on for years, of beautiful maidens and ill-fated love. He spoke of cowherds and virgin births, of great warriors and great thinkers. He spoke of riddles and rivalling brothers, of creatures the size of small mountains and creatures the size of a thistle. He told stories of magical creatures that lived in the air and in the sea and in the ground. He told stories of shape shifters and bloodsuckers and brain eaters. He told stories of caves and dreams and destruction.

  It was the last that sent change rioting through Oak Town. It stumbled at first, as though drunk, and as it wove its way through streets and walls it found its footing until it strode, gloriously, out of Oak Town and into the world. It was the last that suggested to the people of Oak Town that life did not have to be monotony. It was the last that suggested that the world might again discover those secrets that had been lost in the cataclysm. The stranger’s tales gave the people of Oak Town something they had not had in many lifetimes. It gave them hope, and once unleashed hope followed them like so many faithful puppies, spreading so fast that by the time the priests tasted the poison beneath the honey it was too late.

  The Thing with Feathers: or, The Hope of Oaktown was… challenging. I really enjoyed writing it. It’s a post-apocalyptic piece exploring what might happen to the stories we tell. Which myths and legends are so popular that they’ll survive the near-destruction of humanity as they rebuild? How will oral storytelling alter them over the centuries? And how do I keep them recognisable to contemporary readers?

  I had a lot of fun with this story! Some of the references are fairly open, deliberately so, as I suspect stories that have some overlap may well end up merging into a larger piece, much in the way that we have fairy tales that consist of multiple tropes or ‘acts’.

  The last thing you want to hear a mad scientist say is ‘Oops’, especially if you know that the mad scientist in question has a history of making his mistakes in silence. The last thing you want to see a mad scientist do after saying ‘Oops’ is shooting you a look of sheer terror. Not when you know he isn’t the least bit phased by superheroes foiling his plans. (That’s supposed to happen; it’s in the handbook.) The absolute very last thing you want to watch a mad scientist do is bolt for cover without you and thus locking you out of shelter against whatever just went horribly wrong. None of those are things that bode particularly well for a person’s continued good health and fortune. (This stuff wasn’t in the manual when I read it, so you should really get someone to add it.)

  I wasn’t particularly worried when Professor Apocalypse did all those things, you see. Sure, I knew the dangers of my job, even the ones that aren’t mentioned in the Henchman’s Handbook, but I also knew that superheroes always save the day. It’s what they do. It’s how the world works and it never goes wrong. So, when Professor Apocalypse ran for cover, I wasn’t particularly worried about the large screen slowly and steadily counting down to zero. I knew it was going to be all right. It couldn’t possibly be anything else.

  At the time, my brain tactfully declined to help me remember that I’d been the one to write and send out the invitations for the Professor. It, very politely, blotted out the fact that I’d been instructed to write down the time as ‘five thirty’ as well as the fact that the countdown was going to reach zero at ‘six past five’. I’m pretty sure my brain forgot because it wanted to keep me functional. I don’t think I would have been able to do anything otherwise. In hindsight, I probably should have called the Hero Hotline and asked them to come in sooner. It was an emergency and it would have saved everyone a lot of bother. It’s easy to talk about hindsight or what you would have done. Go ahead and try. See how well you do. I hear that there’s a holo-simulator out there somewhere. You can make all the decisions with none of the danger. Well, except for the part where you risk losing your mind just to get the simulator to work, but hey. That’s your risk to take. Anyway, so maybe I should’ve called the Hero Hotline. But, on the other hand, maybe all that bother turned out for the best in the end. It got me the thing I’d been working towards all summer and I’m not a hero, so I get to be selfish about it. I don’t know why people keep telling me I’m a hero.

  Yeah, I’m still annoyed with you, but listen. I’ll keep talking, fine. I shrugged at the angry red letters flashing above me as they crept lower and lower. I was busy cleaning the console of the Professor’s doomsday device, like he was paying me to do. I also fetched coffee and took care of the Professor’s finances. Once I even got to model a costume design for him. Being a henchman really isn’t the most glamorous job in the world. I got to deal with a lot of clean-up whenever one of the Professor’s inventions blew up as they usually did, but it’s not a bad job if you’ve got a decent villain. As employers go, the Professor’s an amazingly good sort. Really recommend him if he’s got a job opening and you need some cash. Good insurance, decent pay, and no dangerous jobs such as fighting with superheroes or playing guinea pig to his experiments. Well, except that one costume design experiment I mentioned, but that was for his niece’s fourth birthday and all it did was throw out a lot of streamers. It doesn’t count.

  The console of the device was… Actually, I’ve only ever seen the Professor’s consoles, so I don’t know if they’re what you’d expect. It didn’t have a big self-destruct button, which would’ve been handy, but it did have a fair few gauges and dials. Not so much in the way of buttons and switches like this one here. The Professor’s console looked incredibly clean up until the point where I wanted to move the chair out of the way so I’d have an easier time vacuuming the floor and accidentally knocked over the Professor’s panic-forgotten coffee mug and spilled the contents all over it.

&n
bsp; It wasn’t one of my best moments, no. The Professor’s not a bad guy and he does so like things to be clean. Even though he was safely hiding in the bunker, it kind of felt cruel. He’s got this… thing where you really don’t want to let him down because he’ll make this sad face and –

  Okay, fine. I’ll focus, but I’ve already told you all I can. I wiped the coffee off the console as quickly and carefully as I could. I didn’t really want it to get into the machinery in any way. I needed the money. Well, my sister did, actually. She had a lot of expensive medical bills, and I’d taken up working for Professor Apocalypse after his previous henchman quit. (You’re not supposed to fall in love with superheroes, according to the manual, but people aren’t books and such things happen. It’s usually worse when it’s the other way around. Really damages your reputation and credentials.)

  Anyway, so I’d wiped down the console as well as I could and I fetched a mop from the broom closet to clean up the coffee that’d dripped onto the floor. It’s a great mop. Professor Apocalypse is pretty keen on ergonomics. If he ever wanted to retire from villainy, he should start up a mop-business. I swear the one I used at his work is his finest invention. And not just because it really works the way it’s supposed to! You don’t need any water for it or anything and it’s completely self-cleaning. You just turn it on while you vacuum and there you are. Clean floor in moments. He’d make a fortune selling that thing. I miss that mop…

  The countdown kept on ticking, undisturbed by my coffee spill or my cleaning. Professor Apocalypse’s lair is about the size of an average house, I guess. It’s a lot bigger than our apartment building anyway. I think you could fit the whole of the building into the area I was mopping thrice. Maybe two-and-a-half. It depends on whether you want to include the utility areas. There are some small areas in the lair for people (that’s the Professor and myself) to hang their coats and change into their work gear as well as a tiny shower, a toilet, a kitchen. You know, just stuff every person needs in a job. And an entrance hall. It’s not very big, but it’s there and you’re kindly requested to take off your shoes and put on the protective one-use slippers provided from the dispenser if you’re ever invited to the Professor’s lair. (I advise you do it. He’s a sweet old man and it upsets him if you don’t because you’ll trail dirt and bits all over the floor. Plus, if he’s in a really bad mood he’s got a flora-ray that works pretty well and he tends to forget to turn people back into humans if he’s not reminded. I wouldn’t risk it.)

  With heroes coming by to put a stop to Professor Apocalypse’s doomsday device, I made doubly sure that the whole lab shone. Impressions matter! I folded out the lunch corner table and set out the chairs. The Professor always gives a little speech on how his device will make the world a better place, you see, and since he can get a bit long-winded at times, he’s ensured that everyone has a place to sit and some refreshments while they listen. I’m not sure whether they do it just to humour him, but I wouldn’t be surprised. I always tuned him out. Sure, the Professor pays well, but he doesn’t pay that well and it’s distracting. If he thinks you’re truly listening then he interrupts your work to ask you questions all the time. I like the Professor plenty, but he won’t let you get any work done if he thinks you’ll listen. (He won’t dock your pay either, but I feel bad.) I suspect the Professor’s just lonely. Yes, there’s a point to this. You dragged me all the way out here to tell you this story, so you can have it told my way. I really don’t care that you’re in a hurry. You didn’t even ask me nicely.

  So I think the Professor’s just lonely. I don’t know if that’s very common for supervillains nowadays, but it’s true for him. Even I know that the global war happened in the professor’s lifetime and that it almost killed everyone on the planet. He won’t talk about the war, you know. I tried once, when my sister (the other one; not the one with the medical bills) needed to do a history project at school, and he just kind of… went really still and zoned out. And he ordered me not to mention it ever again if I didn’t want to be fired on the spot. (He sent my sister a box, though. She’s never told me what was in it, but she aced her project.) So I think he’s just lonely and a little messed-up from the war. You should look into how many supervillains are messed up and get them help. The Professor’s always happiest when he’s devising something to make people’s lives easier like that mop.

  See? Totally relevant since you’re all so busy crying about how they want to blow up the world and you haven’t even bothered to ask whether that’s true. Never thought of that, did you? He hadn’t invented a way to keep coffee from going stale yet, though, so I had to boil water and prepare a new pot for the visitors. After I’d cut the cake, I looked over at the clock. Rather, I’d wanted to look at the clock, but I wound up staring at the countdown, which was right below it. It was in the last few minutes before the device would be activated and there were no superheroes in sight. They’re usually a little early when the Professor invites them so they can mingle with one another and catch up. They always wait outside, so that’s where I went. I put the cake knife down first because sometimes people get a little twitchy if you open the door with a knife in your hands. It’s fairly common in my neighbourhood. So I’d put the knife down and made my way to the front door of the complex. I took off my own protective slippers (not a pair of the dispenser ones) because you just don’t wear them outside. And the Professor might be nice, but if you need to replace your protective shoes because you’re doing something stupid he will take the replacement out of your salary.

  There was no one waiting outside the door. Not a hero in sight. Plenty of birds, though. The Professor’s lair is pretty remote and it’s tucked away in this massive redwood forest, so the views are spectacular. If I were a superhero, I’d arrive sooner too just so I could soak in the atmosphere and go hiking. By now I was starting to get worried. That doomsday device was going to detonate pretty quickly and there wasn’t any help in the immediate area! The Professor’s shelter is one that only reopens from the inside and he hadn’t seen fit to install any way to communicate, so I couldn’t go and ask him what to do. (Besides, he’d rabbited himself away in the shelter. That said plenty. If he could have thought of something, he’d have done it already.)

  Since there wasn’t anyone outside, I went back in. There was no one there and the counter… Well, I had a minute left and I was starting to feel pretty hot around the collar. Superheroes are never late. It’s kind of their thing and all. If the world is about to be destroyed then they show up and prevent it. They’re not supposed to be late. Of course, supervillains like Professor Apocalypse aren’t supposed to activate their doomsday devices before their presentation either. It was just an accident. So it seemed it was up to me to save the world.

  As I said, the Professor liked to talk about his devices and what he was building, but you might recall that I said I didn’t pay the best of attention. In hindsight, they should probably put that in the manual as a suggestion to henchmen as well: listen. Listen very carefully if the person you’re working for is telling you how stuff works. You never know when you might need the information. I didn’t have the time to dearly wish that I’d done just that. The doomsday device was ticking down (more slowly than it felt like) and I had mere seconds to try and stop the device from blowing up the world. Me! Mediocre accountant and henchman temp! I’m ashamed to admit that, at that time, the only thing I really cared about was the fact that I didn’t want to die myself. I’m not a hero. I keep telling you that.

  In the end, I didn’t really have a lot of ideas apart from diving for the power cord. Just shut off the power to the whole room. It takes about five minutes for the back-up generators to twig and start running again usually, but the Professor’d taken them offline for some reason that I’m sure he’d mentioned. It’s not the most heroic of actions, is it? Pretty anti-climactic, really. Wasn’t so much a plan as it was a desperate attempt to do something. The fact that it worked wasn’t anything to do with heroics or intelligence.
It was luck. I got lucky. You see now that I’m not really the guy to ask about stuff like this?

  The Professor didn’t really thank me for it, either. He’s got cameras in his shelter, so he did know that the threat had disappeared. His voice is this strange monotonous drone that, at its most heated, sounds like an iceberg about to ram you. It’s weird. I’d never heard him yell before that day, but he was pretty irate. I suppose shutting down all the power in his lab wasn’t really part of my job description. I let him rail and shake me for a bit. The Professor isn’t all that strong and he was pretty upset, poor man.

  He slumped onto the console to cry after he’d raged himself out. You can feel pretty guilty about saving the world if you’ve got an old man sobbing about how you’ve just destroyed his life’s work. I never did figure that one out, but I tried to keep him calm until the superhero team arrived.

  “I said it would change the world as we know it, didn’t I?” Professor Apocalypse sniffed. “I never said it would destroy the world, did I?”

  Guiltily, I plugged the power back in. The lights came back on and the fans started to whir again, but the console stayed dead. The Professor wouldn’t stop sobbing and telling me that we’d missed our chance. That it’d be years, decades, centuries maybe, before another attempt could be made. It wasn’t centuries. We know that now, but the poor Professor didn’t at the time and he was heartbroken. Hey, why aren’t you asking him about this? He’d be a lot more helpful and my throat is starting to hurt from all this talking and I’d like a break. No? Well, you’ll have to promise that you’ll take over once the story is done. My vocal chords really need a rest after this. They’re not used to talking so much anymore.