Greshmere

by Scott Wittenburg

  But the city didn’t look familiar at all. He peered down at the scene, trying to spot something that might reveal where he was, but nothing registered. Lots of nondescript buildings and houses, a few billboards, tree-lined avenues and a couple of small parks but not much more. He would have to fly higher to get a better look.

  As he ascended sharply in an arc, he couldn’t help but feel total exhilaration. To be flying this high without a thing standing in the way or a care in the world was absolutely intoxicating. The cars looked like toys as he flew steadily higher, the buildings and houses like a congested Monopoly board. He flew briskly, amazed at his stamina. He didn’t feel the least bit tired. To the contrary, he felt more and more energized the higher he flew.

  He noticed that he wasn’t alone in the sky when he spotted a flock of starlings a hundred feet below. Seeing the birds reminded him that although he was flying with great skill and expertise, he had no idea where or when he had learned these skills. This was a troubling thought indeed, but for now he decided to just let it go. He was enjoying this entirely too much to let anything possibly ruin it.

  His eyesight was so sharp that he could still spot the details of the shrinking landscape below with incredible clarity: the subtle textures of the rooftops of houses, the bands of color on a canvas awning, a squirrel jumping from limb to limb in a tree. He wondered what had made his eyesight improve so dramatically.

  The deep blue of a body of water caught his eye to the left. An ocean! Wherever he was, he was near a coast somewhere. But where, exactly?

  He headed toward the ocean in a wide graceful bank to his left. He was high enough now that he could glide for miles and give his arms a rest, although they didn’t need it. As the huge blue body of water loomed larger, he could see white sand and waves breaking along the shore. A flock of gulls were flying here and there; a few sailboats dotted the water.

  He began his descent and made a beeline toward the beach, wondering if he would be able to ascertain his location once he got there. He felt sudden updrafts of air as he flew closer to the water, adjusting his position accordingly. He allowed himself to descend as the drafts allowed, not in any particular hurry to make it to ground.

  As he approached land, the sun bathed the sand in warm yellow-gold. Long shadows played along the dunes skirting the beach. He gently touched down on the sand.

  At that very moment he spotted the shadow of a huge bird appearing from out of nowhere behind him. Startled, he did a one-eighty and prepared himself for battle.

  But he saw nothing.

  He turned around and saw the shadow again.

  The shadow belonged to him.

  Suddenly, the reality of the entire situation hit him like a ton of bricks. For not only was he some place he did not know, and able to fly just like a bird, he was indeed just that.

  A bird.

  A bird that had not an inkling who he was or how he got here.

  The feeling of panic returned and he took flight, staring in disbelief at the shrinking shadow of his flapping wings below.

  A bird!

  He flew sporadically along the beach, not sure where he was heading. After a few moments he decided that there was no need to be overreacting like this. So he was a bird. Big deal! Why would he expect to be anything else but a bird? Once a bird, always a bird, right?

  Of course. He didn’t know why he was freaking out and the more he thought about it, the more ridiculous it seemed. He had to admit that for some reason he felt that being a bird was an unnatural thing, but it ended at that. He could think of no reason why he should feel that way so why not just move on with life?

  That’s it, he resolved. I will just move on.

  He saw a rather large, opulent looking beach house ahead and decided to check it out. Now that he knew he was a bird, it was time to find out where he was. The house may give him some clues.

  As he approached, he chose a silver maple tree and lit on a branch near the top. From this vantage point, he could assess the layout of the house and contemplate what to do next. He spotted an expensive-looking car parked outside the garage and had an idea. He sprung off the branch and flew down to the driveway.

  He touched ground and peered up at the license plate. New York—

  New York. What am I doing in New York?

  Like everything else thus far, being in New York made no sense either. But rather than debate it, he opted to explore further.

  He heard a door squeak open and instinctively flew off toward the shrubs lining the yard. He stood by and watched as a middle-aged man came out and got into the car. He waited until the man had pulled out of the driveway and then began thinking of how he could get inside the house.

  At first he thought that he would try the door and see if it was unlocked, then simply walk inside. Then he realized that this was an absurd notion and questioned why he would consider it in the first place. He was a bird. Birds don’t open doors. Birds fly through open doors.

  Time for Plan B.

  He looked up at the house and spotted the chimney. He knew how he would get inside the house: just as Santa Claus would.

  He flew up onto the edge of the chimney and peered down into the darkness. It seemed incredibly intimidating. Nevertheless he decided to take the plunge. He hopped off the edge and felt himself freefall down the black shaft. He flapped his wings wildly in a panic as he discovered that there was nothing jutting out far enough to grasp onto on the way down. He heard himself cry for the first time as pathetic chirping sounds echoed off the walls of the chimney in the darkness. He continued flapping his wings furiously to avoid landing hard at the bottom, occasionally striking the walls and feeling resistance, but no pain. That was odd.

  At last he felt solid ground under his feet as he hit the bottom. To his dismay it was still pitch dark except for a tiny shaft of light a few inches away. He moved toward it, craned his neck and looked down to find an iron grating holding a pile of logs. With a sigh he sprung off the ledge onto one of the logs.

  Home free.

  He hopped onto the stone hearth and looked around. He was in a richly appointed family room with hardwood floors and a lavish oriental rug that pulled the matching furniture all together. He spotted a newspaper lying on the coffee table and flitted over to check it out. The paper was opened to the sports section and he read the headline: Mets Hammer Cards. He used his beak to flip through the paper until he found the front page: the New York Daily News. He noted the date: Monday, April 23, 2012. The date meant absolutely nothing to him.

  Okay, so he must be near the Big Apple and the ocean he had seen was the Atlantic and this was quite possibly Long Island. (How did he know all of this, anyway?) He suddenly had an idea. He flew through the hall to the kitchen, alighted on the breakfast bar and looked around until he spotted a stack of mail on the kitchen table. He flew over, saw a utility bill on top and read the occupant’s address: 44 Crosley Lane, Babylon, New York.

  So he was indeed on Long Island. Grand, he thought, but why? Why didn’t he know why he was here or who he was? For that matter, he hadn’t even known what he was until just a few moments ago!

  He had to get some answers, pronto. Not knowing one’s self is not only problematic but also a bit scary. Like, what in the world should he be doing right now? What had he been doing before all of this? Why was he clueless to anything about his past? Had he had an accident of some kind that gave him amnesia? That seemed like the most likely case. So how should he go about finding his identity?

  There was really only one way, and that meant returning to where he had been when all of this had started: the park. But what guarantee did he have that he could find somebody who knew him there? There was no guarantee, he realized. But he had no other choice.

  These doubts were troubling and for the first time since awakening he felt a twinge of depression. It was odd, because he had felt so upbeat—no, absolutely ecstatic moments ago while hovering in the sky. Yet now he felt unsure about everything and horribly uneasy.
Would he be better off not knowing who he was and simply taking off and enjoying life; seeing what it had to offer?

  He knew the obvious answer. As tempting as it seemed, he simply couldn’t go through life not knowing who he was or where he had come from. He didn’t know why the urge to find out was so strong, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to shake this off easily. Not without at least giving it a shot.

  He spotted a crust of toast that had fallen to the floor. As he stood there staring at the bit of food, he wondered why he didn’t feel the least bit hungry or thirsty. It seemed as odd as the fact that he didn’t feel a bit tired either.

  Very odd.

  With a shrug, he decided that the sooner he got back to the park, the sooner he might find some answers. He also knew that he did not feel like trying to navigate that chimney again to get out of the house. There had to be a better way.

  If he could somehow access the attic, he might be able to get out under the eave of the house or through a roof vent, he thought. He flew from the kitchen, down the hall to the foyer, up the stairs and perched on the landing. Looking around for a door that might lead to the attic, he became aware of the sound of running water from inside one of the rooms. He strutted toward the sound and realized that somebody was taking a shower in the master bedroom bath. He hopped across the room over to the partially open bathroom door and entered.

  Through the translucent shower door he saw a woman rinsing her hair under the showerhead. The steam inside the bathroom was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Excitedly, he glanced over at the window and saw that it was cracked about three or four inches to allow the steam to escape. This would also provide his own escape.

  But first he flitted over to the vanity and stood before the moisture-laden mirror. He saw the blurry outline of his body and let out a subdued warble. He cocked his head a little and used it to wipe away a small area of moisture. He stood back and saw his details clearly.

  He was a sparrow, about average size. He was rather handsome though, he had to admit. Gray crown and breast, black throat, brown and white plumage with just the slightest streaks of black here and there. His thick yellow beak was tapered to a point with a patch of rich dark brown accenting its base. A fine mask of black surrounded his alert brown eyes.

  Suddenly the water shut off and he glanced over at the woman. Her hand was reaching for the handle of the shower door. He leaped up onto the windowsill, ducked under the open window and took to the air. He heard the woman’s cry from behind, no doubt startled by the sound of whatever had just flown out of her bathroom window.

  He headed in the direction of the park and became aware of another bird flying closely behind him. It looked like a starling. To his surprise, the bird suddenly advanced and drew up alongside him. Their eyes met.

  “I have been trying to find you since sun-up!”

  He was in shock—he heard these words in his head yet the starling’s beak wasn’t moving. Nor was there a sound coming from him. It just sort of registered in his head. The voice was male and had a thick Irish or Scottish accent.

  “I know this is probably freaking you out, but don’t fear. You aren’t hearing things. I am simply communicating with you the only way we know how. You can do it, too! All you have to do is look over at me and think of what you want to say and I will hear it. C’mon, give it a try!”

  It was odd, hearing the starling’s voice in his head yet not seeing his beak move. He felt foolish but went ahead and gave it a try. He looked over and strained his brain to say something.

  “Can you hear me?”

  The starling winked an eye. “Loud and clear. Nice work!”

  “Why have you been trying to find me?”

  “It’s my job. Somebody has to do it.”

  “Who’s your boss?”

  “We got a wise guy, I see! Can’t really say who the boss is, but you’ll find out soon enough. Right now, we need to talk. You may call me Shnarker.”

  “Shnarker? Okay, Shnarker. I, uh, don’t know what my name is.”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to, either. Let’s just call you Greshmere.”

  “What do you mean, you wouldn’t expect me to know my own name? What is going on?”

  “All things in time, Greshmere. What do you say we head down to the beach and I’ll fill you in?”

  “Okay,” he replied uneasily.

  Shnarker banked hard to the right and Greshmere followed suit. As they landed on the beach, Greshmere was anxious to get to the bottom of all of this.

  “What did you mean when you said that this is the way that we communicate? Who exactly are we?”

  “We means just that: you and I. This is the way we communicate.”

  “What about everybody else? I mean, do all birds communicate this way?”

  The starling threw back his head and squawked—an attempt at a laugh, Greshmere supposed.

  “No, not all birds. Just special birds, like us,” Shnarker replied.

  “What makes us so special?”

  “Tell you what, Gresh—do you mind if I call you Gresh? What say I tell you what I know and then afterwards you can ask questions as you see fit. Fair enough? Otherwise, we shall go on like this forever!”

  “Okay, Shnarker. I guess that makes sense.”

  “Call me Shnark, then—it’s only fair!”

  “Okay, Shnark.”

  Shnarker began skipping along the beach where the tide came up and licked the sand. He stared out at the Atlantic for a moment before he began.

  “No doubt, you have absolutely no idea who you are or where you came from, correct?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Well, I want you to know that this is perfectly normal. We all begin that way, in fact. I was once like you are now, a while back. I woke up one day just before sunrise, realized that I was a bird and could fly and hadn’t the least idea what in the world was going on. I had no identity. No memories. It didn’t quite feel right being a bird—even though it was clearly a fact. Does this all sound a bit familiar?”

  Greshmere was stunned. “Totally familiar! But how do you know all of this about me?”

  “Like I said before, it’s my job. I have been chosen to look after you, Gresh. To see that you are made aware of what is happening so that eventually you can make your own way in this wonderful world.”

  “What does that mean, make my own way?”

  “Hold your horses a moment and let me go on. Do you have any idea where we are right now?“

  “I just found out, actually. Babylon, New York.”

  “Very good—I’m impressed! And now that you know where you are do you have any idea why you are in Babylon, New York?”

  “Not a clue.”

  “Of course not. But the important thing is that you are aware of your existence and that you know you are on planet earth. That is very important.”

  “Where else would I be? It’s where I come from, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, quite true. But don’t you think it’s odd you know that you came from earth yet you know absolutely nothing else about your past? I mean, how can you be so sure about coming from earth but not know anything else?”

  “Hmm. I see what you mean. I guess I know I’m from earth because I’ve never been anywhere else. I guess.”

  “Ha-ha! But do you really know that you haven’t been anywhere else? If you’ve forgotten everything about yourself, how can you be so sure that you haven’t come from somewhere besides earth?”

  “From where, then? Outer space? Like Mars? Is that what you mean? But that’s ridiculous!”

  “Why do you think it’s ridiculous? How can you say that?”

  “I think I see what you’re getting at. But somehow I just know that I’m from this planet. I don’t know exactly how I know, but I know it.”

  “Very well. I can assure you of one thing, Gresh, and that is you are indeed from earth. Funny thing is, that’s about all I know about your former life.”

  “What do you mean
by my former life? You mean before I lost my memory? Is that what has happened?”

  “I guess you could say that, in a sense. But your memory, as you call it, is not really what you’ve lost. You’ve lost something much greater than that.”

  “What are you saying? This is getting weirder by the minute.”

  “It gets even weirder, trust me! The important thing is that you keep your mind open to what I’m about to say. For if you don’t, it will set you back further than you already are. Can you do that for me, Gresh?”

  Greshmere had a feeling he wasn’t going to like what he was about to hear. He could sense it from the sudden intensity Shnarker was displaying.

  “Okay, I’ve got an open mind. Tell me.”

  “You used to be a person, Gresh. That is to say, a human being. You were never a bird before today. You were a person living on this earth, living your life. But something happened—something that happens to everybody some day. And to some of us it is considered a bad thing. For others, a good thing. Do you know what I’m referring to, Gresh?”

  He had a pretty good idea, but he didn’t let on. Out of fear and denial, more than anything else.

  “No, I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I think you do, Gresh, but you don’t want to acknowledge it. We are all the same way—nobody really wants to ‘go there,’ as they say nowadays. But we must. So I will come right out and say it. You died, Gresh. In another life. And that’s why you are here now.”

  Greshmere was speechless. He had been a human before and then one day he’d died. Then he became a bird. What does it all mean? And why did he feel no sadness or regret? Shnark seemed to think he might be sad, maybe even devastated. But he wasn’t in the least and the reason was simple: he had no recollection of the life he had lost as a human in the first place! So there was nothing to feel sad about.

  “Am I supposed to feel sad, Shnark? Because I don’t—not at all.”

  “And that is to be expected, too. Why should you feel any sorrow? You have just learned that you passed away, but since you don’t know who you were or what your life was like before, it doesn’t register as any big deal. That is a good thing, Gresh!”