Neversink

by Barry Wolverton

  Unfortunately, this wasn’t nearly enough to feed all the owls of Parliament, to say nothing of all the owls of Tytonia. (Although, to be fair, Rozbell only cared about pleasing the members of Parliament—the owls with clout.) In fact, the first few batches weren’t enough to satisfy Rozbell alone.

  “Where are the rest?” Rozbell’s voice reverberated off the walls of his owlery, his beak stuffed with smidgens. It had been a week since the initiation of the fish tax, and he had taken to shoving three or four in his mouth at one time, so that Astra and Oopik could barely understand him. Leaning in closer to hear better just meant getting sprayed with bits of fish and bread crumbs.

  “These are all the puffin has made,” Astra explained. “It would appear that many in the colony are being…complacent about the new decree.”

  Rozbell inhaled the rest of his mouthful. “Complacent? Complacent! Wait—that means they’re not doing it, right?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “Gewh, gewh, gewh! You see what the Great Gray Owl allowed to happen?” The agitated pygmy owl flitted over to Astra. “Your grandsire, Olaf, would never have tolerated a colony of auks thinking they didn’t have to obey us. What is the World Tree coming to?”

  The king seemed on the verge of a breakdown when Oopik interjected, “Perhaps a reminder?” Rozbell spun his gaze over his shoulder, as if he’d forgotten Astra’s brother was there. “Make an example of some bird. Remind them where they belong in the pecking order.”

  Rozbell’s tail dropped slightly and his eyelids lowered. “Hmm. I like that idea. Of course, it means another trip to that frozen rock they call a home, but so be it. Feathertop!”

  The martial eagle pulled his beak out of the mangled remains of some small mammal.

  “Time to introduce yourself to Auk’s Landing,” said Rozbell. And then, much to the surprise of both snowy owls, Feathertop dropped to the ground and bowed his head, allowing Rozbell to climb onto the back of his neck like a tick. Apparently using his own wings for such a long flight was now beneath him. The king grabbed the eagle’s neck feathers and looked at Astra and Oopik. “Are you two coming?”

  If the auks of Neversink thought they would never see anything more disturbing than an invasion of owls wearing hats, they were wrong. Algard Guillemot, who was in the middle of griping to Lockley about some minor offense, was among the first to see the martial eagle, ridden by the king of Tytonia, descending on the island, flanked by Astra and Oopik. Before long the shore and the sea cliffs were a chatter of nerves. The colony watched Feathertop alight on a large rock at the foot of the cliffs and stoop to let Rozbell dismount.

  “Lucy, go to the bedroom,” said Lockley.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m not sure. Just please, keep out of sight.”

  Lockley returned to Algard’s side as an odd hush fell over the normally chaotic colony. Rozbell basked in the disturbance he had caused for several moments before he spoke.

  “There was a time when decrees issued by the Parliament of Owls were taken seriously,” he said, drawing out his words. “Apparently times have changed.” He let his words seep in, like the tide to the sand. “Or perhaps the Great Auk failed to tell you about the fish tax?” There was a low hum of nervous energy all along the cliffs. “Where is your fearless leader, by the way? Is he here?”

  Lockley wondered the same thing. And where were Ruby and Egbert? Just when a distraction might be welcome, the five-thousand-pound walrus was nowhere to be seen.

  “Let me explain to you how a tax works,” said Rozbell. He nodded to Feathertop, who hopped off the rock they were perched on and began stalking through the agitated crowd. “You catch a certain number of fish a day. The tax requires you to submit a portion of that to me. Or to the smidgen cooker, what’s-her-name.” He quickly glanced around, but puffins all looked alike to him.

  One auk after another stiffened with fear as Feathertop walked slowly by, stabbing his talons inches from their webbed feet, flexing his seven-foot-wide wingspan, and clicking his hooked beak with menace.

  “It’s a percentage thing,” Rozbell added. “Not unlike a game of chance.” And with that the king hopped down off the rock and scratched around in the sand until he came upon a pebble he could grasp. “Catch,” he yelled as he tossed the pebble high into the air in the direction of a group of auks.

  An unlucky murre, reacting on instinct, not wanting to be hit in the head, caught the rock as it fell toward him. There was a frozen silence, and then Feathertop launched himself at the poor bird, snatching him up by the shoulders and carrying him to Rozbell.

  The eagle opened and closed his beak near the terrified murre’s neck; Lockley couldn’t look and turned away. “Astra and Oopik will remain here,” said Rozbell, “in case anyone else has questions about the fish tax.” He ordered Feathertop to lower his head so he could remount. And then the eagle took flight, carrying the hopeless murre off with them.

  In the weeks that followed, migrating birds might have been forgiven for thinking that Neversink had become an ant farm. Coasting high above the island and looking down on a given day, they would have seen hundreds of small, dark creatures marching across the rocks and along the shore in an orderly, continuous, single-file procession. The line would meander toward a certain spot, where each creature, in turn, deposited something into a pile. At which point they would double back, the line unbroken and unhalting, in large part because of the two white creatures who appeared to be marshaling this unusual parade.

  Rozbell’s cruel lottery had had a chilling effect on the colony. Fish were piling up faster than Lucy could use them. And she was baking day and night, hoping to make sure Rozbell had his daily fill, if nothing else. But there was no way she could feed an entire parliament of owls, and she prayed to Sedna that other owls would be too afraid to complain to the king if they weren’t getting their share.

  The lottery had had a chilling effect on Astra and Oopik’s relationship as well. For one thing, Rozbell had made them governors of Neversink, to enforce the fish tax and to remind the auks that owls could now be anywhere he wanted them to be. Snowy owls normally inhabit wintry climates, but neither Oopik nor Astra wanted to live among a colony of auks. Astra blamed Oopik for this.

  “It was your suggestion to make an example of one,” she said as they watched this day’s procession of auks paying their tax.

  “You’re the one who said I should keep Rozbell happy,” Oopik replied coolly.

  “Higher creatures shouldn’t exercise their power without a purpose,” said Astra.

  “And taking that bird hostage didn’t serve a purpose?” As if to demonstrate, Oopik launched himself from the boulder they were standing on and lunged at a slow-moving puffin, barking at the terrified bird. The line began to move faster.

  “That’s not what I meant,” said Astra. “The appearance of that eagle alone would have had the same effect. And stationing us here was to punish you for defying Rozbell earlier.”

  “Then why are you here?” said Oopik. “He likes you, rule-keeper.”

  “Owls are superstitious,” she replied, ignoring the jab. “He’s not sure what would happen if he physically divided us.”

  “Well, I have a feeling your duties as governor will far outweigh those of rule-keeper,” said Oopik. “I doubt much will be up for debate in Parliament anymore.”

  Astra said nothing as she watched the endless line of auks, coming and going.

  Lockley emerged from his burrow, carrying a bundle in each wing and one in his bill. He waddled under his burden down an algae-covered slope to the shore, where he dropped the bundles on a pile already there, awaiting pickup by a squadron of pelicans. He took the long way back home, trying to avoid his fellow colonists as much as possible. Many blamed him for all this, and Lockley halfway agreed with them. He never should have been boastful about Lucy’s smidgens. Maybe he did support Egbert’s party because he wanted to show Lucy off. Well, he had certainly gotten plenty of attention, for the
both of them.

  Lockley was so preoccupied with his own grumbling that he walked right by the kitchen and almost didn’t notice Lucy. She was squatting down on the kitchen floor with her wings dunked in a bucket of cold water.

  “What’s the matter?” said Lockley, and as he pulled her up, he saw that the tips of her wings were nearly bare. The feathers were singed from going in and out of the oven so much.

  Lockley felt his concern turning to anger. The tax was a burden for the entire colony. But sacrificing a part of your daily catch was one thing. Everyone shared in that. Cooking smidgens, on the other hand, fell to one bird only—Lucy Puffin, whose legs had already been beginning to strain under her pregnant weight even before the tax. Before having to cook smidgens day and night, for fear of being the next bird Rozbell decided to make an example of.

  Yes, he was angry at Rozbell. Angry at owls in general. Even angry at Egbert, his friend, who had brought him so much grief. But he was angry at auks, too, and their way of doing things. Auks prided themselves on their self-reliance and tried never to burden others with their troubles. Which presented Lockley with a problem. Lucy couldn’t possibly cook all those smidgens on her own. He wouldn’t allow it. But the proper thing to do was to suffer in silence. That’s the Aukward way, he reminded himself.

  “There’s only one thing to do,” he said, still holding Lucy’s bare wing tips in his own. “I’ll have to ask the Great Auk.”

  “Ask the Great Auk what?” said Lucy.

  “Ask him to make the whole colony chip in on the cooking,” said Lockley. “You can teach the others. If it comes from him—”

  “No!” cried Lucy. “That wouldn’t be right.”

  “Lucy, they’re already angry with me. You know, Rozbell didn’t have a chance to try Martha Razorbill’s caramel snails….”

  “Lockley! How could you even think of doing that to Martha!”

  “Because I can’t stand what this is doing to you!” he snapped.

  Lucy came closer to him and rubbed her broad bill against his. “I know you mean well, dear. But Rozbell…you can imagine what he’s doing to that poor murre. Who knows what he’s capable of? We’ve caused enough trouble for now.” She managed a wry smile and added, “Besides, I no longer have to worry about burning my wing tips, since I don’t have any. Let’s see how it goes and hope for the best.” (Which could have been another auk motto: See How It Goes and Hope for the Best.)

  The problem was, Lockley had a strange feeling that hoping for the best would be useless, and that you didn’t need to be the Great Auk to see where things were going. He thought of making his way to his private ledge—oh, wouldn’t this be the perfect time to soar? To leave his troubles far below? But as he looped inland to avoid the remaining taxpayers, he passed a talking boulder. At least, it appeared to be talking. Lockley stopped and listened to the familiar voice.

  “Do you think he’s still mad at me?” said the walrus.

  “Could you be more specific?” the hummingbird replied. “Everyone’s mad at you.”

  “I think he means me,” said Lockley, circling the boulder to find that it concealed Egbert (it was a very large boulder) and, of course, Ruby.

  “Lockley! I was afraid you weren’t speaking to me,” said Egbert, whose pink face was splotched with worry.

  “I’m not mad at you,” Lockley lied. “You didn’t mean any harm.”

  Egbert slouched in relief, allowing his flab to expand horizontally. “My dear, you must let me help set things right. I’ve been preparing an inspirational speech to rally the colony to the cause of resistance!” Up he went again, as if addressing a crowd. “Imagine a moving introduction, followed by passionate exposition, tears, applause, etcetera, concluding with the rousing declaration: Ichthyological Taxation Without Representation Shall Not Stand!”

  After a moment of uncomfortable silence, Ruby asked, “Is rousing another word for boring?”

  “I’m afraid that may have too many syllables to be a good rallying cry, old fruit,” said Lockley.

  Egbert became defensive. “I suppose you can do better?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Lockley. “What exactly did all that mean?”

  “Well, it’s quite clear, really,” said Egbert. “It decries the essential lack of fairness in a governmental system in which the ruling party, in this case, the Parliament of Owls, enforces rules upon a governed party, in this case auks, without giving said governed party an opportunity to debate the enactment of said rules in the aforementioned Parliament.” When neither Lockley nor Ruby appeared to understand anything he had just said, Egbert sighed and added, “Essentially, No more fish tax.”

  “Why didn’t you just say that?” said Ruby, tweaking Egbert on the forehead.

  “Ow! All those words can be found in this book,” Egbert retorted, producing a slim volume entitled Important-Sounding Words for Correspondence, Letters to the Editor, and Political Rallies. “It’s written by a leading authority on the subject.”

  “It’s written by you,” said Lockley.

  “Precisely. I suppose I could dumb it down a little, if you insist. Back at my nest I have a new book I’m working on that helps you find words that are similar to other words. I call it the Walsaurus.”

  “Egbert!” said Lockley, trying to hide his irritation. “I don’t think the colony is quite in the frame of mind for a revolt just now.” Lockley doubted whether any of the auks he knew would ever be of a mind to revolt. Certainly not after Rozbell’s display. But seeing how disappointed Egbert was, Lockley felt bad for his friend. He really did mean well.

  Suddenly, Lockley hit upon an idea. “Egbert, do you really want to help?”

  “Of course, my dear!”

  “Me too!” said Ruby.

  “Good,” said Lockley. “Come with me.”

  “Where are you taking me?” said Lucy.

  “It’s a surprise,” said Lockley.

  “I have smidgens to make!”

  “Exactly,” and he led her through a maze of rocks to a clearing where Egbert, Ruby, and Arne Puffin and three of his friends stood next to a pile of fish and a long, flat stone.

  “What’s going on?” said Lucy.

  “Meet your new assistants,” said Lockley.

  “Wait,” said Snorri Guillemot. “Is this a chore?”

  Leave it to a young guillemot to be disagreeable, thought Lockley. “No, I told you, it’s a new game you get to play with Egbert.” When the children looked at him skeptically, he added, “You get to pulverize stuff.”

  The children cheered as Lockley moved everyone into position and said, “Watch this, dear.”

  Egbert, Lockley, and the four young auks attacked the pile of fish with their bills and small rocks, chopping, dicing, and mincing the fish into ground meat. Next, they all sprinkled various ingredients into the ground fish, and then Egbert rolled lengthwise along the stone, like a colossal rolling pin, mashing everything together. Then the team went at it again, separating the mixture into small clumps. And finally, Ruby buzzed down the line, sprinkling bread crumbs on top of the raw smidgens.

  “See? All you have to do now is put them in the oven,” said Lockley.

  Lucy clicked her bill with pleasure and grabbed the first new batch of ready-to-bake smidgens. “Thank you all,” she said. “You are good eggs.”

  “I’m going to walk her home and then be back with more ingredients,” said Lockley. “We don’t want to stop while we’ve got Egbert on a roll!”

  The children squeaked with pleasure again as Lockley and Lucy walked off. He put his wing around her, and he allowed himself to feel proud of his own cleverness.

  A SMIDGEN TOO FAR

  No one was more pleased by Lockley’s new production process than Rozbell. His appetite seemed to have no bottom, and the pygmy owl had gone from the size of a grapefruit to more of a ripe cantaloupe in just a few weeks. Meanwhile, other owls were receiving the same small allotment of smidgens, and some began to suspect Rozbell was taking
more than his fair share.

  “How dare they!” said Rozbell, to no one in particular. Feathertop sat filing his beak on a large branch while house sparrows and an elderly short-eared owl busied themselves in various states of servitude. Rozbell was reading a very politely worded request, signed only, The Parliament, which suggested that the greater incoming load of smidgens might mean more for all.

  Feathertop glanced at the golden-brown hoard piling up under Rozbell’s perch.

  “It was my idea, after all! Most of them laughed at me!” The king was agitated now, flicking his tail and hopping from branch to branch. As much as he resented their request, he was paranoid about disloyalty. How could he appease them without given up his own surplus?

  Suddenly his eyes widened. “More fish means more smidgens!” he said, his tail cocking up and down. “Let’s double the tax—no, triple it! Isn’t it fun watching the fish-eaters come up with new ways to accommodate us?”

  The short-eared servant owl, named Alf, spoke up: “Your Majesty, shall I send word for Astra to return and call Parliament into session?”

  “What for?” snapped Rozbell. “Astra and Oopik are the only two owls on Neversink. Just have them tell the auks we raised the tax. What’s the difference?”

  Alf looked at Feathertop, who just shrugged. Rozbell noticed this.

  “What? You don’t agree?”

  “I didn’t say anything,” stammered the old owl. “Whatever you wish.”

  “I wish everything didn’t have to be so difficult,” griped Rozbell. “Forget the tax. You!” he screeched at a returning pelican, whose throat-pouch puffed out in alarm. “You and your rubber-necked pals, I’m expanding your duties. Get it—expanding?” Rozbell filled his cheeks with air as if he had a gullet full of fish, then began laughing hysterically.