Greshmere

by Scott Wittenburg

  All he knew for certain was that the further away from the city he traveled, the more at ease he felt. Was he going home in a sense? And if so, what would he find there?

  That bridge somehow held the key.

  He decreased his altitude as he approached the outskirts of Pittsburgh and began searching for gas stations. He needed to locate one of the smaller, less modern ones that not only sold road maps but would also be easy to enter. He slowed down and followed what appeared to be one of the main drags of the city, keeping his eyes peeled for a station that fit the bill. He eventually spotted an ancient Mobil station and landed on a rusty old sign that was in dire need of repair.

  Although there were no cars at any of the pumps, there was one on a lift in the garage. The door to the bay was wide open so he flew over to the store entrance and peered in through the glass door. There on a rack near the counter were a couple of stacks of road maps. Because it was a fairly warm day, the door between the store and the garage was propped open. All he needed to do was fly into the garage, through the open door to the store, pick up a map and come back out. He knew that this would be stealing but it would be borrowing as long as he returned the map to its rightful place in its original condition, which he had every intention of doing.

  He stood by patiently and watched as the attendant went about his business behind the sales counter. After a short while, the man headed back to the rear of the store to get something. Greshmere seized the moment. Within a span of five seconds, he bolted into the garage, through the door into the store, snatched up one of the roadmaps in his beak and was back outside en route to the nearest rooftop.

  No one had seen him.

  He touched down on top of a KFC on the other side of the street and began spreading the map out on the roof with his beak. It was a bit difficult to do without piercing or tearing the paper, so he took his time. After he was able to get the map laid out flat, he located the Pennsylvania/Ohio border near Pittsburgh. Then he spotted the Ohio River and traced its course all the way to Smithtown near the southernmost tip of the state. He realized that his best route would be to continue flying west from Pittsburgh until he reached the river and then simply follow it south and then west until he arrived in Smithtown. He estimated that he would make it there in another four or five hours if he maintained his speed.

  It took him a full three minutes to carefully fold up the map until it looked just right. Then he grasped it in his beak and flew back down to the gas station to return it. This time the attendant spotted him. At first the man chuckled in surprise at Greshmere’s seemingly random appearance in the store but then he stared in awe as the invading sparrow proceeded to flutter around long enough to place the map back in its exact former position and split the scene. Greshmere chirped at the man through the store window, who now looked like he had just witnessed some sort of miracle.

  Greshmere took to the sky and headed due west over the city. He could hardly wait to get away from the dingy place and back into the mountains where it was peaceful and wonderful. He realized that he knew very little about Pittsburgh compared to New York, of which he had been fairly knowledgeable. He thought of Shnarker fondly, knowing that the old bird would have argued that this didn’t prove that he had been to New York City but never to Pittsburgh in his former life. Instead, he had simply acquired more knowledge of one city than the other.

  He had spotted plenty of birds throughout his journey yet never once had he attempted to communicate with them. He questioned why he seemed to be such an anti-social soul and wondered if this had been a trait of his in his former life. Again, Shnarker would flatly deny that as being even a remote possibility.

  But how would his Who-Key explain his vision of the General Grant Bridge? There was clearly no explanation for such a phenomenon other than the fact that the vision had been some sort of flashback to a time and place he had experienced in his human past. Perhaps Shnarker would have another explanation if he knew now all that had gone down since that first day.

  He realized how much he already missed his Who-Key, Shnarker and wished he were here right now.

  * * *

  It was late afternoon when Greshmere first caught sight of the General Grant Bridge. As he drew closer to it, he was certain that it was the same bridge he had seen in the web image but doubtful it was the same bridge he had seen in his vision. This bridge looked too long and broad; and the surrounding landscape looked totally wrong for some reason. On either side of the Ohio River were the same nondescript tree line banks he’d been observing for the last fifty miles. In his vision, the trees had seemed taller, more majestic.

  He flew up to one of the highest towers of the span and eased himself down on the thick steel cable. From this vantage point, he could see the city of Smithtown a few miles further downriver. The town appeared to be even smaller than he had imagined and was nestled comfortably in a pocket formed by several adjacent foothills.

  He gathered his bearings and knew that he was facing due west with the state of Ohio on the northern bank of the river and Kentucky on the south. He closed his eyes and tried to visualize at what angle the bridge had been viewed from in his vision but it was impossible to do. He did however recall that the bridge had been quite a distance away, viewed from above, and ran diagonally to his line of view. This meant that he had to have been either at a southeast, southwest, northeast or northwest vantage point. The only way he would be able to find the exact spot was to locate an aerial perspective of this bridge from either the Ohio or the Kentucky side. Such as somewhere from the top of a foothill.

  He decided that before he did anything else he would check out the city of Smithtown just to see if anything looked familiar. He flitted off the tower and resumed his route down the Ohio River.

  There was a massive floodwall in Smithtown that ran along the river for a half-mile or so, indicating that there was the serious threat of flooding here. He flew over the floodwall and went higher so he could get a better look at the town. He spotted several old dilapidated homes and buildings including a couple of abandoned factories as he soared to an altitude of a couple hundred feet. In stark contrast to the run-down appearance of these forsaken structures were several beautiful churches built in majestic neo-Gothic style. He noticed that there had been efforts to restore some of the older places in this area of town, resulting in a sort of potpourri of old and new.

  But not a single thing looked familiar to him.

  He continued flying north past a rather run-down, barely surviving assemblage of stores that evidently comprised the downtown area of Smithtown. He had the feeling that this town had fallen upon hard economic times yet still struggled to survive. There was a sort of old town community feel to the place as he observed the humans walking the streets going about their business.

  He soon came to an area where all of the northbound streets ran uphill. The homes became more numerous and attractive the further north he flew beyond the summit of the hill. This was evidently the predominantly residential part of the town and was quite remarkable. As he observed the well-manicured yards and crisply maintained streets and homes, Greshmere wondered where all of these people earned a living after seeing the sort of hopeless state of the downtown area.

  He headed west a bit until he came to a main drag that ran parallel to the Scioto River and resumed north along it. He soon arrived at the city limits and noticed a towering foothill to his right that could very well be the highest point of the city. He gathered speed and flew at a sharp angle up the side of the hill until he reached the top. He chose a tall elm tree and settled down upon one of its topmost branches.

  The view was absolutely spectacular. Below him, the entire city of Smithtown lay sprawled out to the south all the way to the Ohio River and beyond that were the hills of northern Kentucky. To the west he saw the Scioto River flowing south until it ran into the Ohio River. Further west he saw a couple of bridges crossing the Ohio, neither of them the General Grant Bridge. Greshmere looked further sou
theast to where the bridge should have been visible, but it wasn’t. There was another steep foothill that ran north to south and totally blocked his view.

  Since he was now standing northwest of the bridge, he could cross off this vantage point from the list. That left southeast, northeast or southwest. He looked out toward the southwest and saw nothing but forest. He decided that this would be a good place to look next—especially since he had already come from the east and didn’t feel like backtracking; at least not yet. He spent a few more moments enjoying the beauty of the view before leaving the scene.

  He flew west over to the Scioto River and followed it south to its termination into the Ohio River then began tracing the Ohio River west. He recalled from the map that if he followed the river for a couple of hours or so he would arrive in Cincinnati. He decided to increase his altitude until he was able to get a good bead on the General Grant Bridge from over his shoulder. He flew until the bridge came into view from over the hills. The bridge already appeared to be at a diagonal to his position, which was inspiring. He decided to maintain this altitude until he felt that the angle of the bridge became a bit more like it had been in his vision. Then he would enter the forest and start working on the distance from there.

  Having flown approximately ten miles, the bridge appeared quite a bit smaller, but not as small as it had in his vision. Its angle, however, looked perfect. Greshmere broke away from the river and headed toward the nearest high peak on his right hand side. He recalled that there had been a state forest in the vicinity of Smithtown and this was apparently it. All he could see for miles and miles now were lush foothills of trees and ribbons of asphalt and dirt roads winding through them.

  As he scaled the hillside, he was aware of the stillness of the forest. He heard subtle sounds of wildlife below and spotted several species of birds in quick order. He slowed down his pace a bit to take in the ambiance of this wildlife refuge. He felt a gradual warmth sweep over him, bringing with it a sense of peace and contentment. The air seemed cooler the higher up he went in contrast to the warmth radiating through his body. The calls of birds and the rustlings of the forest’s inhabitants became louder and more distinct. Greshmere warbled in utter contentment.

  Now this is heaven!

  He reached the top of the hill and lit on a branch of a hickory tree. For a moment, he simply perched there and took in the sounds. He began identifying the various calls he heard: cardinals, blue jays, crows, robins, sparrows. This was nothing like Central Park. Central Park was nothing more than a microcosm of nature totally engulfed by a manmade world of steel and concrete.

  No comparison.

  He spotted a couple of robins—a male and a female—a few trees over. They appeared to ignore him, although he knew they were aware of his presence. He watched them as they flitted from branch to branch, gathering materials for their nest. They were a couple and would remain together for life until death took one away from the other. It was lovely—he felt a great reverence and happiness for them.

  Greshmere questioned his obvious knowledge of birds. Where had he picked this up? Granted, he was for all intents and purposes a bird himself, but this body was simply being used as a place to house his human soul—a means by which he could exist and travel in heaven.

  So there was something about his former existence that had enabled him, or should he say prompted him, to learn quite a bit about birds and the natural world. Interesting, yes. But what was it?

  All he knew for certain was one thing: ever since leaving New York, he had felt himself gradually becoming more like a bird and less like a human. It was weird. The biggest change he had noticed was his lessening interest in humans and his growing interest in nature. This seemed to be in contrast to most of the other souls he had met thus far like Fleitzer and his group. They seemed to be more human and less bird-like—to the extent that their idea of a good time was visiting a zoo because that’s what humans do. Why in the world would a bird want to visit a zoo, anyway? Zoos symbolize the total loss of freedom for wild animals! They are snatched from their natural habitats and thrust into manmade environments, all for the sake of human amusement.

  And why did the others seem so bent on remaining in an urban setting, where humans make all the rules? Perfectly content to observe humans and all of their accomplishments, good and bad? This was the very thing that Shnarker had told him would make him more knowledgeable and wise. And content.

  But then there was the dictum: heaven is whatever you make it. Most of those souls he had met for the most part chose to simply live for the moment and enjoy their new lives, which was fine.

  But he did not feel comfortable doing that.

  It boiled down to the reality of the situation: he felt the absolute need to rediscover himself. That was what set him and others like Kloob apart from the rest.

  Greshmere looked out into the distance but could not see the General Grant Bridge from this position. All he could see were the trees of the forest. He needed to find a place higher up on the hill where the river was visible. Either this particular tree was not tall enough or the hill wasn’t oriented in such a way that the Ohio valley could be seen from here, period.

  He bounded off the branch and soared in an upward arc, well above the tree line of the hill’s crest. It wasn’t long before he was able to spot the bridge again in the distance, making him realize that although the hill was probably high enough, there needed to be a clearing in the trees along the hillside in order to see the bridge in the valley below.

  He maintained his altitude and began flying along the hill, searching for a clearing of some kind. He flew until he noticed that the angle of the bridge no longer looked right so he turned around and flew back in the opposite direction. After a mile or so, he thought he spotted a clearing and flew down to check it out. But when he got there, he saw nothing through the clearing but more trees.

  He was just about ready to take to the air again when he suddenly heard a young female voice in his head.

  “Can you hear me?” it said.

  Greshmere looked around but couldn’t see another living thing. The voice was so crisp and clear that he actually expected to see a human standing around somewhere on the ground.

  “Yes, I hear you. But I can’t see you.”

  “I’m over here, to your right. In the birch tree.”

  Now he knew that the voice was not coming from a human. He glanced over to his right and saw a female goldfinch perched on a hickory tree branch staring over at him.

  “Well hello, I see you now! What’s your name?” Greshmere said.

  “Mitzy. What’s yours?”

  “Greshmere. Nice to meet you, Mitzy.”

  “Mind if I join you?”

  “Sure, come on over.”

  The tiny yellow bird flitted over and lit on a branch beside Greshmere. “How long have you been here, Greshmere?”

  “You mean in Ohio?”

  “Whatever—Ohio, heaven—you know.”

  “A few hours in Ohio— and just three and a half days in heaven. How about yourself?”

  “Forty-three years in heaven—about half of that here in the Buckeye State.”

  Greshmere was unable to hide his shock. The girl’s high, animated voice made her sound like she wasn’t very old at all—early teens at best—yet she had been here long enough to make him feel like a newborn!

  “You’re doing the math, aren’t you?” she suddenly said. “You’re thinking, ‘this girl is only a child, man!’ Well, you’re right-on about that. I was just a kid in the swingin’ sixties when I passed away. And correct me if I’m wrong, but I must be the first child/soul you’ve met here.”

  “Yes, that’s true. I don’t think it ever crossed my mind if younger humans show up here.”

  “Well, now you know. Nobody is exempt from this place—except maybe the baddies, that is!” she chirped.

  The girl’s odd sense of humor was refreshing. But what he really found fascinating was that she still used the
same vernacular and expressions that she grew up with in the sixties as a human—like right-on and man. It made him wonder about aging in heaven. Did souls age or simply maintain the same age they were in their former life and age no further? He thought back to Shnarker and now realized that if the latter were true, then the Who-Key must have been pretty old when he passed and had never aged anymore in heaven. Perhaps that explained why senior souls like Shnarker were the ones chosen to be Who-Keys.

  Or was it because of her young age when she died that she still spoke like a child of the sixties? Children who die young haven’t had the ability to develop fully, or to mature. Perhaps that explained Mitzy’s childish manner. But what about very young children, and babies? Did their souls come here too?

  He wondered about this. But right now he wanted to know something else about this vivacious bird.

  “Have you by any chance rediscovered yourself, Mitzy?”

  “You gotta be kidding, man! I’m having way too much fun to want to do that!”

  “I hope you don’t mind my asking—I was just curious.”

  “That’s cool. You aren’t the first, nor will you be the last. Hey, you wanna go meet some of my friends? We’re playing hide-and-seek and they’re probably all wondering where in the heck I am!”

  “Sure, that would be great,” Greshmere said.