Ben Soul

by Richard George

our sacred duty to provide these poor birds with every protection we can muster.” Tears stood in Vanna’s eyes. She dabbed at them again with her handkerchief. Her mascara stained a corner of the handkerchief with black.

  Behind him Ben heard Dickon grunt with disgust. Judge Sauer glared at the assembled people. Ben grimaced; Vanna’s performance was over the top in his opinion.

  “You may step down,” Judge Sauer said to Vanna. “Do the Villagers of San Danson have a rebuttal?”

  “We do, your honor,” John Diss said. Ben marveled at the attorney’s mellifluous tones. John was square-jawed, ruddy-cheeked, and had hair and brows of black shot through with just the right amount of gray to be most distinguished in appearance. His expensive suit didn’t hurt, either.

  “We wish to call one witness, your honor, Dr. Mary Hajji.”

  ``Dr. Mary Hajji to the stand,” the bailiff called out. When she came forward, he swore her in. She wore soft blue blouse and a pink skirt. Her eyes were soft blue, and smile lines danced at the corners of her mouth and eyes. Ben thought her age indeterminate, which to him meant somewhere between twenty-five and seventy. Ben had no skill at judging women’s ages accurately.

  “Dr. Hajji,” John Diss said, “please state your name and occupation for the Court.”

  “I am Dr. Mary Hajji, primary avian specialist for the Province of British Columbia. My doctoral thesis was a study of murrelet nesting habits. My work since has been devoted largely to research into the habits of the marbled murrelet.”

  “You have heard Commissioner Dee’s testimony here today regarding the marbled murrelets of San Danson. What is your opinion of her statement?”

  “That she is woefully misinformed. Her only accurate statement was that the murrelets are an endangered sub-species of the murrelet species, itself an endangered species.”

  “Can you give us specifics?”

  “Yes. Science has known about the Marbled Murrelet, Brachyramphus marmoratus, for two hundred years. In that time, observers have found only a dozen occupied nests in Canada, Japan, the United States, and Russia. It is not a colorful bird. The summer feathers are marbled in shades of brown, mostly dark shades. In winter the feathering is black and white. Except, of course, for the San Danson variety, where the white is replaced by a cream feathering.” Dr. Hajji shifted in her chair, looked at the Judge, who nodded to her, and went on.

  “Marbled Murrelets come ashore only during the breeding season, to lay and incubate the egg and to feed the nestling. Their brown plumage makes them hard to spot in the forests. They also come ashore only during the darkness, which makes land sightings particularly difficult. They are rather more frequently observed at sea, for they are substantially pelagic in nature.”

  “Perhaps you can explain to the Court what `pelagic’ means,” John Diss suggested diplomatically.

  “‘Pelagic’ birds live most or all of their life cycle on the open ocean. The murrelet seldom goes farther inland than about seventy kilometers. They subsist on small fish. The murrelet is a superb fisher bird. The bill is well designed to seize slippery fish with a firm grip.”

  “Do these birds also nest at sea?”

  “No, they nest on land. No one is entirely sure how far inland, but there is no evidence they build nests at sea.”

  “They nest, then, in cliffs or on the bluffs above the sea.”

  “Not at all. Though there is much we need to learn about murrelet nesting habits, all current knowledge shows they nest in moss cups high in old growth Douglas fir, Sitka Spruce, and even Hemlocks.”

  “In trees? In the heavy rains of winter?”

  “In trees, certainly. Not in winter. Nesting doesn’t begin until April or after, when the winter rains have abated.”

  “Are there no exceptions?”

  “A few nests have been observed, unoccupied, in the treeless areas of Alaska, on scree slopes and in the tundra. Most North American murrelets live along the inlets and estuaries of the British Columbian coast, where the fish are plentiful and the trees they need for nesting are also plentiful.”

  “And their nesting season is in April?”

  “Actually, most eggs are laid in early May. By June, they have hatched, and the parents fly, under cover of darkness, to the coast to catch fish for the nestling. The hen lays only one egg per season, you see. Both parents care for the nestling. They carry small fish crosswise in their bills. Larger fish they carry with the heads down their throats and the tails sticking out.”

  “Interesting.” John Diss turned to peer at Vanna for a moment. She sat silent and furious in the back of the courtroom. She glared at John Diss and Mary Hajji.

  “Are llamas a threat to the survival of the marbled murrelet species?”

  “Llamas pose no known threat to the species. Neither do dogs and cats; housecats rarely climb forty or fifty meters into trees.”

  “What about humans?”

  “Humans are the primary threat to marbled murrelets. Not because they hunt them, but because the old growth forests that provide nesting trees to murrelets are being logged off too rapidly. New growth timber will take several generations to be tall enough and large enough to provide for murrelet nesting. A secondary threat is pollution of their food source. Power plants, industries, and city sewer systems are far more threat than a few cottages on septic systems. A tertiary threat comes from using gill nets in the murrelets’ fishing waters. The birds can become entangled there in their pursuit of juvenile herring and other small fish.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Hajji,” John Diss said. “Do you have any further comment to make?”

  “No.”

  “Judge Sauer, do you have questions?”

  “One. Dr. Hajji, in your opinion does the continued existence of San Danson Village, with its llama herd, represent a serious threat to the continued thriving of the marbled murrelet, San Danson variety?”

  “Not at all, your honor.”

  “Thank you. You may step down. Whereas this is an administrative hearing, and my decision is solely mine to make, I may forestall any cross-examination. In this case, I have heard what I need to hear. Ordinarily,” Judge Sauer said, “I need to take a ruling under advisement for one or more days to weigh the testimony. In this case, I do not. The Coastal Commission petition is denied.” She banged her gavel, stood, and stalked out of the room before the bailiff could get “All rise!” out of his mouth. Vanna stared after Judge Sauer. Vanna’s face was a study in consternation.

  Dickon at Sea

  Down to the sea Dickon went, along the seaweed littered beach to the rocks opposite Obadiah, where he perched on a boulder just above the splash of the surf. The wind tore at him from the South. Westward the ocean churned with an offshore storm, lashing the waves to unseen fury. In came the waves to break into foamy bits against the rocky shore. Out beyond the cove mouth and the shallows, waves leaped and struck at the great Obadiah rock, spending a storm’s fury on the unyielding black rock.

  Dickon let his thoughts slide into the waves. He needed to ponder and wrestle with himself. La Señora’s comments troubled him, stirring his resentment and stubbornness. He could feel a dark resistance like a hot black wall across his spirit, blocking a fire he feared. Certain of his solitude, he voiced his anguish in a long groan. Only the killdeer heard this bass counterpoint to their peeping chatter as they scattered their claw prints on the wet sand. The killdeer took no notice.

  Dickon spoke. “What does she mean?” he flung at an unknown listener, perhaps the waves, perhaps the rock Obadiah, perhaps God. “Root out my fear?” He shook himself. “What fear?”

  He shook a fist at the sky. “Fury, that’s more like it,” he said. “I want to pound and slash and hurl stones at the universe. I’ve never had an answer, you know, to my question.”

  He listened a moment to the thunder of the foaming waters at the sand’s edge. “You know the question I mean,” he shouted. He flipped his finger
s backhanded under his chin in a gesture of contempt he’d learned long ago from an old Sicilian janitor. “I’ve asked it often enough.” He felt his throat fill with phlegm. He coughed it up and spat away from the wind.

  “Why me?” he said. “That question you never answer.” He shook his fist at the unnaturally brassy sky. “Job asked you, centuries ago, and you never gave him much of an answer, either.” Dickon shifted his weight on the rock. The damp was beginning to seep through his heavy jeans. He slumped forward.

  “Don’t know yourself, do you?” he said, calming. “Some omniscient being you are, don’t know even a little thing like this.” He smiled grimly. “I don’t have a Bildad the Shuhite to pose the questions and propose the answers. I’ve only got my question. Why me?”

  Dickon cocked his head into the wind to listen for a response. He heard only the wind, the surf, and the chirping killdeer. He shouted at the birds. “Why me?” The killdeer continued their mad dance, scribbling the meaningless cuneiform of their claw marks on the wet sand.

  “Yes, I consider this, that it is not I who has stretched the canvas of the stars across the heavens, nor is it I who has wrinkled the sea into its waves, but I am I, and I have the right to my question, and to an answer to it. Why have I suffered?”

  Again Dickon paused to listen. Only the killdeer, the wind, and the sea made sounds, empty as ever of meaning.

  “I know my