Dead Birds: The Dark Orphans Collection

by William Patrick

  He supposed Elsie was still in the lounge. He'd been so preoccupied after leaving the valley that he'd forgotten his appetite, along with his promise of a picnic. He checked his wristwatch. 4 PM. His stomach coiled so tightly he winced from the abruptly woken hunger. He left the bedroom for the lounge.

  *

  While Burns had worked, Elsie read a book (Burns glanced at the title when she set it on the table: Lost Girl, Lost Boy) and snacked on breads and meats from their aborted picnic, but said she could go for a "real meal." He suggested they skip dressing for the evening, and just find a place to eat.

  In the lobby, the receptionist chatted to a small crowd of men at the far end of the counter. Their banter was too casual for hotel guests. Burns noticed a familiar canister on the floor beside the men, and wondered if the receptionist had added more petrol to it since this morning. When he and Elsie reached the exit, one of the men gave a rough snort that had the hairs of Burns' neck shiver as if touched. He felt the snort was directed at them; at him.

  The streets were empty, although sounds persisted -- people in conversation, the percussive claps of a horse or donkey over the cobbled roads, a few faded singing voices, squabbling dogs and quarrelling birds. Yet the town breathed a sense of ... emptiness, Burns thought at first, but as he took Elsie's hand to feel less isolated, he changed his mind: the town felt hollow.

  He looked to grotesques above corners, thinking he might recognise some as landmarks. Every stiff gaze and grin, every endlessly hunched body, merged in his mind. He wondered if similar snarling and mocking faces had watched Roman legions tread the streets long ago.

  They found a small restaurant similar to where they had eaten yesterday. In keeping with the entrepreneurial spirit of the town's trade, once through the door they felt as they were inside a stranger's dining room despite the six set tables. It reminded Burns of the hotel suite; plain walls and dark wooden furnishings that contradicted the bright summer evening with internal, premature dusk.

  The patron -- a large woman who looked suspiciously similar to the woman who had sold him terrible coffee (or yava) from a doorstep yesterday -- greeted them with an almost genuine smile that swelled her oily cheeks. Burns tried not to wince when he leant his bruised back into the chair. The woman gave him a sheet of paper with large cursive writing; she had no menu for Elsie, but shared a smile with her.

  Burns understood a few of the words on the paper, but there were no prices. He thought several of the words referred to different breads, while he recalled the translations for certain meats further down the page. Since the woman waited as if already impatient to receive their choices, Burns read quickly and pointed at what he hoped were edible options.

  Once the woman left the room, Elsie asked, "Do you even know what you asked for?"

  "Boiled goat's head in snake blood sauce for two, I think."

  "Ugh."

  "Fish for you, meat for me..."

  "Better."

  The breads came in a small basket, with butter that looked as if it had sugar blended with it. How it clung to the knife and resisted spreading from the blade convinced Burns to take the bread plain, with the aid of the Rodenje wine the woman set between him and Elsie, again with bronze cups. Before the meals came, Burns drank two cups. It was the same as he'd drank yesterday, thick like cream and sweet.

  He'd translated correctly; the woman brought Elsie cod or similar, in a bowl surrounded by an oily soup she said tasted like watery pesto. Burns had lamb with vegetables and a dark sauce that tasted of roots and earth.

  While he went through his meal, Elsie nibbled at the edges of her saturated fish, before admitting she might have filled up on the contents of their abandoned picnic.

  "Well, that was my fault," Burns said. The alcohol gave him a cloudy mellowness.

  The woman returned to clear the table and to ask (Burns presumed, shaking his head to answer) if they wanted dessert, or maybe some terrible, sooty yava. They stayed to finish the wine, which Burns intended to take time over.

  "You're finally looking relaxed," Elsie said. "What about today? The chapel got you going, but it didn't exactly thrill you."

  He took a long draught of air tinged by Rodenje's hills. He said, "The chapel is important, but some of it hardly makes sense to me -- those statues, the age they should be compared to the style and quality of their features, the layout of the chapel, its location ... there's a list of things that bother me."

  "Bother you?"

  "Well, maybe I should say they confuse me."

  "You'll get to the bottom of it."

  He sipped the wine, and looked at the cup. "I should take it easy with this stuff. I have to hunt down texts tomorrow, and I'm not even sure this town has a library."

  "You have the rest of the month to work off those sweet buns of yours."

  "Maybe."

  They shared the last of the wine. Elsie raised her cup. "A toast," she said, and Burns tapped his cup to hers. "To your book and to the grotesques of the world."

  *

  It started shyly. At first, Burns thought it came from animals; tired shepherds leading cattle through the streets, maybe -- but he soon heard shouting, nonsensical howling, and then singing.

  He watched the street through the restaurant window. The evening had gone on without them; the light was almost doused. Before the first townspeople passed the window, Burns felt his chest tingle from their collective clamour; he thought of the concerts Elsie sometimes brought him to, amplified sounds resonating through his body. Even the frequent howls didn't drown out the pervasive singing, but accentuated it -- responses to the music, Burns thought.

  They stood at the doorway while locals strode and danced through the street. Everyone, so far as Burns could see, smiled. Many wore masquerade costumes, the men looking like Crusaders and Roman centurions and other historical adventurers, the women dressed in colourful and elaborate garments, and carrying makeshift sceptres of painted gold and silver. Despite the warm evening, many women wore vibrant knotted scarves that their strides beat against their chests like soft, ineffectual fists.

  Elsie spoke, but the crowd drowned her words. Scores went by the restaurant, scores more followed -- a river of people. They waved invitations to Burns and Elsie. Elsie returned uncertain waves. Burns could tell she was curious and becoming excited. It was hard to ignore the gravity of the revellers.

  Burns turned back to the table. He hadn't seen the woman since she'd removed the plates. She hadn't brought the bill. She had left the door to the kitchen open, but it was without candlelight, as if she had abandoned the house.

  Elsie called, "Leave whatever you think so we can go."

  Burns didn't like that, but the affects of the wine helped him to choose more freely; he put twenty deri on their table. He disliked not knowing if it was generous, too generous, or if it fell short, but pocketed his wallet and returned to the doorway. The crowd flowed by. Burns wondered if the entire town was in the streets. He took Elsie's hand, and they left the restaurant for the river of people.

  Wonderworking (Pt. 2)

  They walked with the crowd through street after street long enough for Burns to feel caught in a current as deliberate as a river. Figures pounced through the crowd, trailing ribbons or flapping cloaks, masks glimmered like comets in the dusky evening, but the overall pace remained unhurried. The singing and shouting, the constant flow, kept Burns from thinking too much.

  A man Burns first thought to be their hotel receptionist clapped him on the shoulder and leant across his chest to breathe alcohol-warmed air over him. He had the thickened busted features of a weary boxer, and sang in words as congealed as his face.

  The song followed the pitch of the crowd's voice, but Burns thought the words deviated. The gleam in the man's eyes suggested his song took a bawdy course, but he good-naturedly patted Burns' cheek, nodded respectfully to Elsie, and bobbed from them.

  The crowd swelled into a large open space, the town square, Burns judged by the distance t
he typically cramped buildings gave. Every building stood in darkness and tilted like timid, tethered animals. Burns realised his crowd was one of many that poured into the square from different streets, and spread outward. People carried small metal plates on which candles burnt, flames fluttering like dancing spirits. It had Burns think of a religious vigil, and he recalled what the young woman in the chapel had told him; during the festival, all of Rodenje is a chapel.

  Elsie gripped him tighter. He looked back to her, but she was at arm's length, just another shape among the bodies around them, almost cut from his sight while a few feet away. Burns tugged her closer. Neither tried to speak above the singing and the wailing and the jovial noises. Other than needing to keep close, Elsie seemed untroubled -- she seemed curious and anticipative.

  Burns wished he had known about this festival before coming to Rodenje. He wondered if it was linked to the Lady, or to the theatrically murderous women he'd seen yesterday. Already, the Lady was becoming important to his work. She might be more than just another personality of the chimeric proto-gargoyle.

  Several open stages stood along the sides of the square. Performers occupied the platforms, singers, musicians, and dramatic shows. Burns wondered if audiences could hear the latter even while standing right at the platform. He supposed they watched familiar stories, part of the festival.

  Burns and Elsie no longer followed their crowd -- it was no more, numbers moved apart with the elasticity of amoebas. Elsie's grip relaxed. Notes from instruments on all sides of the square collided into a jubilant mass. They eventually reached the centre of the square, where the people thinned to allow for small groups and couples carrying drinks and foods to walk companionably and exchange words.

  The scale of the square surprised him. Stalls stood throughout, he saw. Most huddled together like miniature markets, selling savoury foods and other treats. The majority were makeshift bars selling a myriad of drinks.

  Burns and Elsie headed to the nearest huddled market. The crowds were thinner again among the stalls. Burns felt his body relax -- he hadn't realised until now that the crowds and activities had overwhelmed him. He started toward the nearest bar, where an oil lantern on either side of the counter set shelves of liquors glowing like amber. The amiable barman tapped the counter to the beats of a nearby performance. Burns couldn't distinguish one performance from another, but the barman, familiar with the music, knew which to follow; or maybe he enjoyed adding percussion to the overall noise.

  Burns felt Elsie tug him. She pointed to a stall across from the bar he had decided on, and said, "I want to go over there." Elsie's stall had candles on a low shelf that pasted a thick yellow glow over an array of colourful yet dusty bottles of wines. Burns wondered if the woman behind that counter was a gypsy, or if she just dressed the part.

  He said he'd wait at the bar opposite. Burns went to his bar, Elsie to hers. They would only be a few metres from each other.

  Burns leant over the bar, about to shout his order when he realised the stalls must dampen the worst of the festival noise. He only needed to raise his voice for the barman to hear. His already wine-warmed mind requested, "Whisky," before he remembered to translate, but the bartender nodded and set a bronze cup on the counter -- Burns hadn't seen the man fill it with ice, but a hazy breathing skin grew around it -- and set a tall maroon bottle beside it. He made a gesture for Burns to help himself.

  Burns took the bottle, and sampled the odour. His smile widened. Oaky vapours with a dusting of cereal fields, sharp with malt. "How did you know?"

  The barman smiled back. "I have spent time in Scotland," he said in a roughened but welcoming voice. "I know everything."

  Burns didn't correct the man's presumption that he was Scottish. He poured himself a generous whisky. "This isn't Scotch, is it?"

  "Another like that and you won't care," the barman said, and made a drinking gesture. "Ziveli." When Burns raised a questioning brow, the barman translated, "Live long -- drink!"

  It wasn't Scotch or whisky, but it didn't matter. The ice softened it to cooling syrup with opposing vapours that warmed Burns' stomach before spreading a cloudy nonchalance further through him. He took out his wallet and passed a note across the bar with thanks. "Izvoli."

  He'd forgotten to query the value before the barman made the note disappear and gestured to the bottle and the cup in Burns hand. "Take them with you."

  Burns did so. He turned to where he'd seen Elsie queue. Most of the smaller groups had trickled elsewhere, and Elsie had vanished with them. He turned to the other nearby stalls, thinking if she had wondered off then finding her among the tidal crowds would be impossible. He glimpsed her jeans and shirt, so different from the local style, and saw she was almost to the counter of the stall she'd gone to -- it was several metres further along than Burns remembered.

  As Burns approached, he saw the gypsy woman smiling broadly at Elsie's bemused study of the wines. The gypsy selected three bottles of dark liquid from the shelves to set them in front of Elsie, near a portion of the counter reserved for jewellery. The woman took the corks from each bottle with a quick snap that reminded Burns of the farmer he'd seen twist heads from chickens. She invited Elsie to test them with her nose. Elsie nodded appreciatively over each bottle, and tapped the middle one, then grappled change from a pocket while the woman poured a cup.

  As she took the cup, Elsie sensed Burns, and turned to him. When she saw the bottle in Burns hand, she raised her brows. "Where did that come from?"

  Burns pointed back to where he'd bought the whisky. The lamplight there crawled over the kiosk and the barman, making their forms interchangeable.

  Elsie shook her head, amused and a little surprised, before her attention shifted to the jewellery beside the bottles of wine. She trailed her fingers over small rocks so polished they glimmered like gems, their surfaces etched and painted with crescent moons, cartoonish stick-people, and an assortment of animals and other symbols. Burns took little notice of the offerings, but a crucifix among them caught his eye only because its presence reminded him of how few Christian symbols he'd seen around Rodenje. Compared to the pieces surrounding it, the Christ figure fastened to the cross was amateurish, its form rough and wrongly proportioned. It looked like a crucified child rather than a man.

  Elsie's finger tapped a brooch with pink smoothened rock. Its symbol was a snake with a looped tail and a moon above its head -- Burns recognised it as an ancient Greek symbol, an oddity among the other symbols and stones. It looked like a small egg clasped by metal claws.

  Elsie left her cup of wine on the counter to pin the brooch to her T-shirt. She retrieved her drink and toasted the festival before asking Burns, "So, what's all this partying about?"

  Burns couldn't find a single merging theme in the townspeople's costumes; it seemed no more than a chaotic, swelling masquerade. But he'd watched the singers and the dancers. Some of the songs struck him as hymn-like, while the dancing -- particularly of the lithe women -- had moved with lascivious purpose. Still...

  "I think it's mostly a sham," he said.

  "A sham? That's a bit strong, isn't it?"

  Burns couldn't help feel cheated by the people -- this was just a masquerade, with no underlying importance to the townsfolk or their history. He felt ashy guilt, as if he was another player in the sham and he had refused to acknowledge the fact.

  He tilted whisky into the cup, swallowed it, and shook his head as its vapours bloomed through his stomach and chest. He tucked the bottle under an arm and took Elsie by her free hand. For a moment, she gripped him with a little more force than needed, as if to make sure his hand in hers was real. She looked surprised, but smiled. Burns had trouble reading that smile; it made him feel like a stranger whose invitation she might reject.

  She said, "Alright, then. Show me around."

  The Square.

  Burns took her into the shifting crowds. They saw masked revellers wearing sheepskins use scarves to strangle Roman centurions kneeling before them; t
he centurions put on a convincing act. They skipped by a commotion where two drunken men beat at each other's faces and bare torsos while a small audience (Burns noticed they were all women) laughed and cheered. Their dark eyes glistened in the moonlight; they shouted to urge the fighters on, and chucked drinks from cups over the men.

  The music was everywhere now -- bands played on almost every stage while solitary musicians roamed like satellites through the crowds. The notes became cluttered as the crowds as Burns and Elsie drifted from one area to another. Roaming musicians played violins and guitars and brass; they fit their notes to the nearest stage, suiting the loudest music.

  Burns caught the notes of a strangely familiar stringed instrument among the thriving noises. Swift and playful as a nightingale's song, it tinkled like laughter. At one point, when he tried to find the musician, he saw someone duck behind the crowds, as if to avoid discovery. A man, Burns thought, but he kept his shoulders low, and lurched.

  Burns and Elsie once again allowed the changing current to sway them. At some point, someone swung a red scarf over Elsie's neck; she turned, startled, but whoever left it twisted into the crowd, and merged with the bodies and limbs. Burns noticed Elsie danced shyly whenever they orbited near dancers, and knew she would try to get him to dance after another cup of wine.

  When the familiar instrument teased him again, Burns searched for the player. The notes quivered, yet kept their clarity through the swarm of noise. He glimpsed the lurching man again, and wondered if it was a deformity that pressed him to move that way, if the man was a cripple -- he saw the instrument before he dipped out of sight again, a lyre. That the lyre was in use since classical antiquity pleased Burns. It finally promised something authentic.

  *

  A reveller in one of the most elaborate costumes they'd seen tonight leapt in front of them. His outfit had Burns think of a swashbuckling pirate, but his gloves were leather and closer to what a motorcyclist might wear, while his boots were long and smoothly black, and several colourful feathers stuck crookedly from his thick hair. He wore a white mask with scales etched across the cheeks like a lizard, and round eyes above a long open smile that exposed a second fleshy set of lips that bared his teeth. Drawn under the mask's lower lip was a forked tongue.