Neversink

by Barry Wolverton

  As the tension built, Lockley frantically searched the crowd for Lucy. If he could find her, maybe he could sneak her away from the gathering before something terrible happened. He began to pick his way through the look-alike birds when he noticed the tall head of the Great Auk shrinking from view. Surely their leader wasn’t sneaking off—not when they really needed him!

  Lockley needn’t have worried, though. At this moment, Rozbell wanted nothing more than to leave the island immediately, before losing control in front of everyone, especially the fish-eaters. And he might have (no one will ever know for sure) if another of Egbert’s annoying tendencies hadn’t come into play—his desire to impress everyone.

  Seeing that Rozbell was going to order the other owls to take flight, Egbert blurted out, “Don’t leave yet!” Raising himself up, he spotted Lucy near the back. “Not without trying one of Lucy Puffin’s fish smidgens!”

  Suddenly, Rozbell stopped blinking, and a calm came over him. Of course, the reason they came…“Smidgens?”

  At that moment, Lockley regretted that he’d ever encouraged Egbert to stay on Neversink.

  “Oh my, yes,” said Egbert, parting the sea of birds as he lunged forward. “Follow me.” He led Rozbell and the others over to Lucy’s booth. To her credit, she stood her ground as the menacing group of strangely clad owls came toward her.

  “What, exactly, is a smidgen?” said Rozbell, picking up one of the small morsels for a better look. He placed the smidgen in his beak and begin to chew. Fishy and yet not fishy. The juices mixed with the crunchy bread crumbs and the seasonings…. Rozbell felt his mouth water.

  Yes, his mouth watered! Like a common fish-eater! They didn’t look like fish. That was a point in their favor. And the taste! Rozbell’s eyes blazed with excitement as he realized the tooth-walker had solved all his problems. Here was a delicious alternative to eating raw fish—the bait he needed to win more owls to his side. He greedily grabbed the remaining smidgens and began passing them out to his followers.

  Lockley forgot to breathe as he watched this bizarre scene. The Great Auk couldn’t have foreseen this: Owls With Hats savoring his wife’s special dish. He didn’t know what it all meant, but he was sure it couldn’t be good.

  MURTHER MOST FOWL

  Every culture searches for ways to describe the falling of darkness, with all its mystery and shades of symbolism. Dusk. The gloaming. The hour of the bat. In the bird world, they know it as the time of the owls.

  Neversink experienced the white night of summer, the constant light of a sun that barely set from June to August. But on Tytonia darkness fell. The time of the owls came.

  On this particular night, dusk fell on a night with a waxing moon. Rozbell came awake, his lower eyelids descending. Astra and Oopik, both day hunters, arrived just as Rozbell finished tucking a small bundle into the crown of his hat and returned the hat to his head. He traced the stiff, black brim with his foot, admiring the fit.

  “How do I look?” he said. The snowy owls clicked their beaks, and Rozbell flew off from Slog’s Hollow, the grim swamp he called home.

  Between Falcon Crest and Murre Mountain, Tytonia dipped into low-lying hills and swamps blanketed with a dense, velvety forest known as the Midland Woods. Here the Great Gray Owl lived in a thicket of shrubs and small pine, spruce, and tamarack trees in an area known as the Green-Golden Wood, for the way sunlight spattered against the leaves in the afternoon.

  The pygmy owl flitted into the king’s lair as quietly as a sparrow. There was a stillness; the owlery was empty—almost. Rozbell noticed that the ground was covered with half a dozen cages made of twigs and vines, most containing various small animals, all still alive. Before he could look more closely, the booming whoo-hoo-hoo of the Great Gray Owl echoed through the trees, and the king landed on a branch across from Rozbell.

  Pretending not to notice his visitor, he dropped a struggling chipmunk into one of the empty cages. He then opened another, snapped up a squirrel, and swallowed his wriggling prey with several horrible gulps.

  “I see that His Majesty continues to ignore the peril of eating infected food,” said Rozbell.

  “I ignore nothing in this forest,” the king growled. “Each of these cages represents a different capture day. The squirrel I just ate was captured five days ago. I believe it reasonable to expect that he would have exhibited signs of disease in that time if he were infected. So not only am I ensuring the safety of my own diet, I am performing an experiment of sorts. Thus far, no animal I have captured in the past week has proven to be diseased, which argues strongly against the return of the Sickness.”

  Rozbell arched his eyebrows at this. “Well, your system is certainly preferable to becoming a vegetarian,” he said.

  The barb caused the king to snap his beak. According to the histories, the Great Gray Owl had ordered all owls to stop hunting live prey during the last Sickness. The result was that birds of prey had to suffer the shame of picking seeds and berries like common finches.

  “I’m surprised you have the nerve to come in here without your pets,” said the king.

  “Astra and Oopik provide needed security,” said Rozbell.

  “I never needed a bodyguard.”

  “You were…are…large and fierce, Your Majesty. I am but a humble pygmy owl.”

  “Humble?” The king let out a high-pitched hoot. “Leadership isn’t about physical power, unless you’re one of the toothy beasts of the ground.”

  But as he said this, the Great Gray Owl arched his imposing wingspan and flew to the branch next to Rozbell, emphasizing the difference in their sizes. He leaned forward as if examining a particularly icky bug. Rozbell could feel the king’s breath on his face. The feathers on his head and neck began to stand.

  And then, Rozbell blinked. Literally. A series of rapid, uncontrolled blinks, as if someone had just squeezed a lemon in his face. He tried to control himself, but the sting of humiliation only made it worse.

  The Great Gray Owl watched this spasm of blinking and let out a series of great hoots. “Ah yes, there it is,” said the king with smug satisfaction. “That pathetic lack of self-control that keeps you in your place. You’re a great agitator, Rozbell. You’ve proven useful many times. But you are no leader.”

  The king let fly several more hoots and shook out his wings. He was in full gloat. But he had been in power for so long, his authority unchallenged for ages, that he made a considerable mistake: he underestimated his small foe. Staring with contempt at the bowler on Rozbell’s head, he said, “And one more thing. This is my owlery. No hats!”

  He swung his right leg out, kicking Rozbell’s hat squarely on the brim and sending it flying behind him. As the hat flew off, a small bundle fell to the ground. “What is that?” said the king.

  Rozbell’s blinking subsided and his feathers relaxed. Hopping over to the bundle and unwrapping it, he showed the king two small brown clumps that smelled faintly of burnt fish. “These, Your Majesty, are called smidgens.”

  The king looked closer. “What is a smidgen?”

  Rozbell smiled. “Smidgens are the reason my plan will succeed.” The pygmy owl examined both smidgens, then carefully placed one in his beak, savoring the tender, cooked flesh as it melted in his mouth.

  “Give me that!” the king said as he snatched the other smidgen from Rozbell. He held it up to his beak and sniffed it. “You went to Neversink, to that party! After I ordered you not to!”

  “I guess some things do escape your attention,” said Rozbell.

  The king popped the smidgen into his mouth. Rozbell watched as his face registered the same surprise, the same amazement at the mixture of flavors, the same disbelief that he was eating a lump of fish. Then the king’s eyes widened and his wings drooped. He tried spitting out what he hadn’t swallowed, but it was too late.

  “Don’t worry. The pain won’t last long,” said Rozbell as the king collapsed to the ground. “I think the lesson we’ve all learned here today is that dangerous thin
gs sometimes come in small packages.”

  The Great Gray Owl stretched his wings as if to take off, but the poison had disoriented him. He struggled to keep his balance.

  “Not that you’d get very far,” said Rozbell, “but I can’t risk your leaving the owlery.”

  Just as the king wobbled to his feet, a phantom plunged through the trees and struck him to the ground. An immense bird of prey, speckled white with a hood of brown feathers, seized the king by the wings with his cruel talons. He lifted him up and threw him down again at Rozbell’s feet. The bird greedily eyed the king’s throat, but a look from Rozbell stayed the attack.

  “I’d like you to meet the newest member of my team,” said Rozbell. “This is Feathertop. Have you ever seen a larger bird of prey?” Rozbell looked admiringly at the martial eagle, a native of Africa, who had one stray feather that stuck out from the back of his head.

  “They’ll know it was you,” gasped the king.

  “Sadly, Your Majesty, forensic science at the present time is appallingly crude. No, others will come in here and see that you took your own bad advice, continued to eat live prey, and fell victim to the very Sickness you insisted on denying. Killed by your own arrogance. Thanks to you, my case will be even stronger.”

  Rozbell returned the black hat to his head and stood over the fallen owl. “Oh, I know what you’re thinking. Never in too much pain to look down on me, to lecture me on how fear is a poor motivator in the long run. Continue frothing at the mouth if you agree—good.

  “Now, let’s be honest. Don’t pretend for a minute that you didn’t use fear, didn’t use your size to bully smaller owls. Hawk owls, great horned owls, snowy owls—you all do it. For all our supposed learning, has there ever been a pygmy owl or a screech owl king? Of course not! Gewh, gewh, gewh!

  “I’m no leader? Not only have I brought the Roundheads back, but our numbers are greater than ever—thanks to those smidgens. The nonpoisonous kind, of course.”

  Rozbell laughed maniacally, his tail bouncing up and down. “If only our old-fashioned system of government allowed us to vote you out of office, I wouldn’t have had to kill you. Thank heavens for our old-fashioned system of government!”

  Rozbell’s eyes seared with hatred. He gave the Great Gray Owl no chance to respond, for by the time he was done ranting, the king was dead.

  Otus had just returned from a hunt when Astra and Oopik swooped down on either side of him, framing the bark-brown owl in white.

  “I thought the king’s owls feared no Sickness,” said Oopik, noticing the half-eaten earthworm in Otus’s beak. The elderly scops owl wiggled his head as he swallowed the rest of his catch. The pale feathers under his neck had grown loose with age, like a graying beard.

  “I am no longer agile enough to snare insects and bats,” he croaked. “What do you want?”

  “Call Parliament into session,” said Astra.

  Otus’s narrow ear tufts stood up straight. “Why?”

  “Because the Great Gray Owl has died,” said Oopik, clicking his tongue in annoyance. “And because Rozbell said so. Enjoy your last act as rule-keeper.”

  Any creature within hooting distance of the Midland Woods that night could have told you this was no ordinary session of Parliament. The king’s lifeless body lay upon the stone table, a sight that caused mournful calls from the branches of the Great Gray Owl’s supporters. And then, the former king’s party members were forced to remove themselves to the other side of the glade, while owls wearing hats—the Roundheads—took their perches along the honored right-hand branches.

  From his perch, Otus declared, “We have a long tradition in Parliament, that a king, once chosen, rules as long as the gods allow. When that king passes to the spirit world, though, we duly elect a new king. Allowing all members of Parliament a voice prevents any one party from…abusing power.” Otus nearly choked on his own words and had to pause. Like most of the king’s former party, he knew the election had been a sham; few would dare to defy Rozbell now. “Members of Parliament,” he continued, his voice wavering, “the votes have been tallied. May I present your new king.”

  The new opposition party, now nameless, seemed to have lost their voices as well, perhaps stunned by the sight of the hat-wearing pygmy owl fluttering through the branches to take the king’s perch. Roundheads hooted with glee, and once the noise died down, Otus held out his stone gavel to Rozbell. “It is your first privilege to choose a new rule-keeper,” said the scops owl.

  Oopik arched his wings. He and Astra were the new king’s top advisers, and he was the male, after all. But Rozbell, after glancing at Oopik, turned to Astra instead. “Astra, trusted descendant of the original Roundheads, will you honor me by vowing to keep our rules and protect order?”

  Astra hesitated briefly, but Oopik nudged her with his wing. She glided down to Otus’s perch and took the stone gavel from him.

  “Very good,” said Rozbell. “And now, despite our heavy hearts and sour gizzards, we must carry on. The loss of a king as great and as long-serving as the Great Gray Owl cannot be overstated. But I would argue that his death is proof that it was time to move on. As you all know, the king refused to admit that the Sickness might be upon us again. And he died eating contaminated food.”

  Rozbell took perverse satisfaction in the fact that what he said was, technically, true. His eyes darted around the Parliament until they landed on Otus. Otus had flown directly to the king’s owlery after his visit from Astra and Oopik. Sure enough, he found the Great Gray Owl on his back, dead, along with Rozbell and his monstrous new companion, Feathertop. Rozbell had explained that they’d found the king this way, and he had pointed out the frothing around the king’s mouth. But Otus had noted the lack of milky eyes typical of the Sickness, and he had noted also the signs of struggle.

  Otus lowered his eyes, and Rozbell went on: “Whether the Sickness has returned in force or not, I’m sure you agree it is vital that we have a solution, if worse comes to worst. I alone have provided a solution.”

  The opposition party began hooting nervously as they realized what Rozbell was building to.

  “The colony of Neversink has a plentiful food supply, and a plentiful workforce to collect enough food for all of us,” said Rozbell. “Furthermore, as those of you know who made the trip to Neversink with me, the auks have a desirable alternative to eating raw fish.”

  As his supporters whistled, Rozbell had a basket of smidgens brought forth and distributed among the Parliament. Some of the opposition refused to eat, but others nibbled at the smidgens, and their faces betrayed a sense of pleasure. Rozbell smiled.

  “I hereby propose, therefore, a tax on the fish caught daily by the auks of Neversink. And that the taxed portion be turned into fish smidgens for the owls’ consumption.” The hooting once again reached earsplitting levels, but Rozbell raised his wings to quiet supporters and dissenters alike. He stared off through the trees, into the darkness, his bright eyes aglow. “And in order for this new decree to take effect, I hereby declare the Peace of Yore to be officially dissolved.”

  There was one other order of business on that fateful night. Rozbell arranged for the Great Gray Owl to be given an official burial, according to parliamentary tradition.

  You might be fooled into thinking Rozbell was attempting to show the former king respect. In fact, he knew that many suspected the Great Gray Owl did not die of natural causes. But by observing this ritual, Rozbell was continuing the illusion of a legitimate change in power. It made it that much harder for his opponents, who already feared him, to question his authority.

  The Ceremony of Farewell, as it was called, took place two days later. It required placing the dead king on a bed of branches from his own owlery, then pushing him off toward Ocean’s End, until he disappeared over the horizon to a resting place beyond the known world.

  From this resting place, the spirit of the fallen leader could return should his territory ever need him again. The Great Gray Owl himself was thought by
some elders to have been the reincarnation of Tytonia’s first king, Longshanks, who had ruled as the Great Horned Owl.

  “What a crock,” Rozbell said to himself as the ceremony took place. But he wasn’t about to take any chances.

  Once the raft had slipped over the horizon and Parliament returned to the Midland Woods, Feathertop took flight out to sea. He caught up to the slow-floating funeral barge and savagely carved up the corpse with his tenterhook of a beak, until the once mighty owl looked like a mutilated feather bed. The eagle then capsized the raft, sending what was left of the body to a grave at the bottom of the sea. There would be no heroic return by the spirit of this former king to save Tytonia.

  THE FISH TAX

  Word of the Great Gray Owl’s death gathered over the territory like thunderheads. Even before Rozbell’s decree was officially delivered to Neversink, pelicans, terns, and gulls had broadcast the news, igniting a great coastal howl among the colony. Rozbell ruled the land.

  It was perhaps fitting that Lockley had been at home, trying to find enjoyment in a plain, dry scone, when he heard the news. Lucy was resting, still exhausted from all her work for Egbert’s party, and Lockley thought it best not to disturb her. But when he went to check on her, she was sitting up in the bed, worrying the blankets with her wing tips.

  “I guess you heard, too,” he said. “Why do gulls have to be so noisy?”

  She shook her head, clenching the blankets. “What are we going to do, Lockley?”

  He couldn’t think of anything comforting to say, except, “Perhaps it won’t be as bad as all that.”

  She looked up at him, and he came over to the bed and hugged her next to him. “If we have to make a few extra smidgens, I’ll help. You’ll see.”

  The decree, once officially delivered, confirmed their fears: the fish tax, the smidgens…. But auks are creatures of habit. (All creatures are, really, but auks had elevated habit to an art form.) And despite their uproar at the news, most took few pains to obey the new tax. Some would take their leftovers, if they had any, to Lockley and Lucy’s door. But the truth was, Lockley himself could catch most of the fish necessary for all the smidgens Lucy could comfortably bake in one day.