Ecopunk!

by Liz Grzyb

  Edwina had started talking again. He looked in her direction, arranging his features into what he hoped was an intelligent expression, hoping that she had not noticed anything of what went on inside his head.

  They decided on a course of action and went to bed early, nursing cups of rambutan juice. He fondled the hairy fruits, holding Schleswig-Holstein Tages close to his heart, trying with all his might not to think of goose with red cabbage.

  * * *

  Father Howlieberry had decided that there were some very odd goings on lately in his part of the world.

  He was out foraging one morning, collecting rambutan and mushrooms and jackfruit, trying to decide how he was going to transport the 42 inch specimen he had found lying on the grass, when he saw them.

  The two men were walking on tiptoe, one of them brandishing a butterfly net, the other awkwardly holding a small picnic blanket over his head. He went behind a tree, and peeped from his vantage point. The men were walking as in a dream, with deliberately slowness, until suddenly they lurched forward at the same point, and both fell flat on the nearby shrubbery.

  The men got up and started gesticulating to one another with animation, one of them pointing expressively at the bush they seemed to have tried to trap, and which obviously had not moved from its position, while the other threw his fists into the air in desperation.

  “What were you thinking? I said ‘slowly’!”

  “Ah! And what on Earth do you think I was doing, running a race?”

  “Oh, Ponsonby . . . We both know you are the one who wants to take the prize to the lady.”

  “Don’t you dare!”

  “Your eagerness made the bird escape!”

  The other man relaxed a little, and at the end they were both sitting panting on the grass. Neither of them looked particularly fit, or muscular.

  “Bloody hell. We’ve been three days at it, and this was the first sight of the bloody thing!”

  Father Howlieberry left at that moment, before he was spotted, not without first hiding his precious specimen of delicious jackfruit beneath a mound of gigantic leaves.

  Later that evening, he was taking his usual stroll when he felt the call of nature. He moved towards his favourite spot, in the middle of the round meadow. He liked to be there surrounded by what he thought were large Rafflesia plants, with their characteristic strong smell, and something that resembled a willow tree but he wasn’t sure what it was, from which creepers and bindweed hung in profusion. He positioned himself in the centre, unbuttoned his trousers, and set about his business, hoping for no other interruption like the one a few days earlier, when he had heard a male voice blaspheming in his direction.

  Then he saw it.

  Right in front of him, there were a few shoots of young wild asparagus.

  They were green and erect and inviting.

  A little feathered friend appeared out of nowhere, considering the green sticks.

  Father Howlieberry did not move a muscle.

  It was a bird. He couldn’t see from where he squatted which kind of bird. A water bird, perhaps? It was too far away from the marshes. It looked like some kind of duck, but that was simply impossible.

  It was a pink-footed goose.

  Hadn’t that woman said she had seen one?

  It couldn’t be!

  He got up as slowly as he could, making as little noise as possible. He decided to stay close to the floor, and he crawled on all fours, hidden by the overgrown grass. He had to be fast and not make a noise, not an easy feat. Advancing was more difficult than he had imagined, and soon his elbows and his hands were scratched and covered in bits of grass.

  He heard a strange sound he couldn’t place . . . A honk! It was a honk! Halleluiah! He hadn’t heard the sweet sound in far too long . . .

  “Ponsonby! Over here!”

  He could not believe his ears! Those fools again!

  Goodness gracious! What were they doing now?

  The bird was moving away more nonchalantly than could be imagined, and these fools were incapable of trapping it! He observed them making their awkward progress through the forest, wading through the grass like two clumsy bear cubs, picking up their legs as best they could, losing their footing and tumbling sideways with each step. They seemed to be sweating like mad in their stupid outfits, complete with hunter jackets and motorbike goggles, which only increased their ludicrous aspect.

  These fellows are not from these parts, he thought.

  It was clear then that if anyone was going to get that bird into a pot it would be him.

  * * *

  They talked strategy over a lunch of baby hare stew with thyme and radishes. The options were not many at that point. They had spent four days combing the area as best they could. They had seen the bird three times. The first time, they weren’t ready. The other two, “the characteristics of the countryside”, as Thomas had put it, had made it impossible for them to trap her.

  “My dear friends, perhaps it’s time to admit that I will never have this bird under my loving care.”

  Edwina had spoken with sadness, but also with a twinge of resignation. The two men looked at each other. It was obvious that they both wanted to jump at the opportunity to stop the charade. It was also obvious that neither of them was keen to be the first one admitting defeat.

  “We could . . . ” Albert started tentatively.

  “Perhaps . . . ” Thomas continued.

  “Exactly . . . It may be possible . . . ”

  “Just what I was thinking, old chap!”

  Edwina looked at them both in succession, a wave of disbelief crossing her features like a lightening bolt that made both men shut their mouths. Her faced contracted as she tried very hard to swallow the tears that were rapidly filling her eyes.

  Without saying a word, she got up from her chair and left the room.

  The two men stayed there saying nothing to each other for some time. Eventually Albert got up and started pacing the room, opening every little alcove, looking behind every single book.

  “My dear fellow, what are you doing?”

  “Looking for wine.”

  “There’s no wine left anywhere in the whole world!”

  Albert sighed.

  “I know.”

  * * *

  Edwina was lying in her darkened room. She had to accept it: the pink-footed goose had flown! She had been so close to trapping her!

  To make matters worse, she was certain Albert thought she was a very silly woman. She had expected this visit to be the last one, to convince him to stay out here with her. But her longing for him meant nothing; it was clear he wasn’t interested.

  And, to add salt to the wound, now the pink-footed goosie had gone for good!

  She would have to continue facing the future alone, without Albert, without the aviary filled with the species she would find, rescue, nurse back into the world. She had planned to ask Albert to stay with the excuse of needing help to run the whole aviary-operation. The goose had given her hope. It had been a nice dream. But dreams rarely ever come true.

  Her own truth was somehow more complicated than she could ever admit, even to herself. She tried very hard not to think about it. So hard that sometimes she had the illusion that it hadn’t happened as it did, but as she had reported it to the RSPB. The truth was, she hadn’t been the last person to see a pink-footed goose; she had been the last person to see one alive. She had, in fact, killed the little creature.

  It had been an accident, of course. The Jeep from the reserve was still running, and she hadn’t seen the little goosie crossing that path. It was dark. The bird should not have been there! At that time of day the geese were resting somewhere, wherever it was they went.

  But the sad truth was that she had killed the last recorded pink-footed goose on the British Isles.

  * * *

  “So many creatures are not here with us anymore . . . Animals that were alive only five years ago are now disappearing! Bees and sparrows and frogs
and whatnot.”

  Edwina was sitting on a rock, utterly exhausted. They had given themselves one last chance, and it had been useless.

  In truth, Ponsonby did not mind that much the lack of little creatures in the planet, although he would never confess this to her. To him, the hardest truth to swallow was that he could hardly remember the taste of some things.

  They were standing close to the old orchard, and he recognised the pear tree, the plum tree, the apple tree, the gooseberry and blackberry shrubs, all dead now, rotten, dried down to their last ounces of life. He tried so very hard to evoke the taste of those fruits in his mouth, the soft meat of a ripe pear, the velvety richness of gooseberry jam . . . It was useless, his memory did not retain an ounce of any of them. He could call up adjectives, ideas, but not the tastes, the smells. He couldn’t recall a soft summer breeze, or August rain, its lightness conjuring up a musky, alive odour from the grass. The new, freakish downpours they endured during the rainy months, typhoons that broke things and tumbled down trees, only smelled of clay and dust and destruction. And of outlandish, bright-coloured fruits, rotting on the ground.

  The bird was gone, there were no traces or signs of its presence anywhere in the forest. It was in fact as if it had never existed.

  * * *

  He gathered everything necessary, the bucket with water, a cleanish tea-towel, ancient yellowish pages of The Times. He chopped the wings off, first breaking through the bone, and then plucked the feathers slowly, one by one. It was better to do it like this, instead of grabbing handfuls. He remembered that much. Next were the neck and the two legs. Once they were gone, he opened a hole and extracted the innards. He collected everything, except the feathers, to make stock and blood pudding later on. Then he prepared the bird for roasting. He thought that it would be one more year at least until the electrical supply would be gone for good. He would have to make provisions to organise a wooden oven after that. Although it was more than possible that by then there’d be nothing left to roast.

  He was forced to experiment, and cooked the bird with chunks of the jackfruit he had foraged. Soon, the cottage was filled with mouth-watering aromas.

  An hour and a half later the bird was ready, and he had had enough time to work himself into a fit on anxiety.

  He would go to Hell; that much was clear.

  Who was he, after all, to deserve survival more than other human beings?

  He knew where to find them. The woman’s cottage was in the old reserve, less than ten minutes’ walk. And they had been so keen on the catching the bird! It was decided: he would share his meal with them.

  With this new resolve, Father Howlieberry found a lid for the Le Creuset roasting dish, wrapped it in tea-towels and set off.

  * * *

  Edwina’s sister and nieces lived in the capital, but she rarely visited them. He could hope to see her again in three or four months, if he was lucky. It was now or never!

  Albert Ponsonby III didn’t know what to do, a state of mind he was only too familiar with. It was difficult for him to make decisions, but once he was set on a course of action, he was also very afraid of putting his ideas into practice. He wasn’t sure he could deal with rejection. At least, while he said nothing he was safe. Safe, but without her.

  He heard someone talking in the back garden, and walked to the little window of his room. Thomas had put a hand on Edwina’s shoulder; he was consoling her. Dammit! Why had he gone to his room? He was an utter fool! He wondered why those two didn’t get together once and for all!

  There was a knock on the front door. Thomas and Edwina didn’t move;. Reluctantly he went down. He wondered who it could be.

  As he climbed down the narrow little staircase the knocking came again. It sounded strangely muted, as if someone was knocking with his head. He opened the door.

  “Hello?”

  It was a priest, holding a delicious-smelling casserole dish, and knocking with his elbow.

  “Good evening, my friend!”

  Albert was at a loss; something was very wrong indeed, he could feel it in his extremely delicate stomach. He looked at the priest face, then at the casserole, and something clicked.

  “What on earth . . . ? What do you have there?”

  “Oh, well. I had seen you trying so hard! It was easier for me, I know this part of the world very well; I used to hunt here with my father as a child.”

  “What?”

  “My friends! Please share my meagre meal with me!”

  To the priest’s surprise, Albert came out and closed the door behind him. Edwina could not see this.

  It was too late. Both she and Thomas had re-entered from the back garden, and were now following into the hallway to find out what was going on.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Father Howlieberry.

  “There’s no time!”

  Albert tried to shoo him out, but the priest was having none of it.

  Edwina was already out, sniffing the air with her delicate little nose.

  “What is that smell?”

  “My dear! Please accept from your humble neighbour . . . ”

  “No!”

  It was too late. Father Howlieberry had just opened the Le Creuset’s lid.

  Edwina’s eyes open as wide as big salad plates.

  Her mouth opened as if she were about to receive a large chunk of wedding cake.

  Her nostrils kept quivering charmingly, as if she were tasting the nicest wine in the world.

  Albert and Thomas turned in her direction, panicked expressions in their faces. The priest looked extremely confusedly from one to another, and back at his casserole.

  Edwina opened her mouth even more, and Albert truly feared to hear a scream coming out from the inconsolable depths of the sweetest, most adorable creature still alive on Planet Earth.

  “Oh, bugger,” she sighed at last. “We may as well eat it.”

  * * ** * ** * *

  About The Editors

  Liz Grzyb was born in the middle of a thunderstorm in Perth, Western Australia. She is the award-winning editor of acclaimed paranormal romance anthologies Scary Kisses and More Scary Kisses, the Orientalist pantomime Dreaming of Djinn, steampunk romance Kisses by Clockwork, feminist spec-fic Hear Me Roar, co-editor of the paranormal noir Damnation and Dames and The Year’s Best Australian Fantasy and Horror series from Ticonderoga Publications. Liz is often to be found sipping champagne and debating the fate of the Oxford comma.

  Cat Sparks was fiction editor of Cosmos Magazine from 2010–2016. She managed Agog! Press, an Australian independent press that produced ten anthologies of new speculative fiction from 2002–2008. She’s known for her award-winning editing, writing, graphic design and photography. Her short story collection The Bride Price was published by Ticonderoga Publications in May, 2013. The book was nominated for an Aurealis Award and won the Ditmar for Best Collected Work. Her debut novel, Lotus Blue, was published by Skyhorse Press this year.

  About The Authors

  Adam Browne, 53, lives in Melbourne. He has published short fiction and three books with small Australian presses.

  * * *

  Matthew Chrulew is a research fellow at Curtin University. He co-edited the book Extinction Studies: Stories of Time, Death, and Generations (Columbia UP). His short stories have appeared in Cosmos, Aurealis, Canterbury 2100, The Worker’s Paradise, Macabre and The Year’s Best Australian Fantasy & Horror. His novella The Angælien Apocalypse (Twelfth Planet Press) was shortlisted for an Aurealis Award. @negentropist

  * * *

  Emilie Collyer is an award-winning Australian playwright and author. Speculative fiction publication credits include stories in Aurealis (AUS), Dimension6 (AUS), Allegory (USA), Cosmic Vegetable (USA). Emilie has twice won the cross-genre category in Australia’s Scarlet Stiletto Crime Writing Awards. After winning a Melbourne Fringe Festival award, her sci-fi play The Good Girl had its USA Premiere in 2016 at 59E59 Theaters in New York and in 2017 has two further productions in the USA.
Emilie has two e-collections of speculative fiction published with Clan Destine Press. betweenthecracks.net

  * * *

  Jason Fischer is an award-winning Adelaide-based author. He has published dozens of short stories, with an optioned TV show, a novel, a short story collection, comics and computer game work also under his belt. He enjoys competition karaoke, and loves puns more than life itself.

  * * *

  Thomas Benjamin Guerney is a writer living in Melbourne. He was a co-founder of The Lifted Brow, and that’s where most of his work was published for a while—mostly things like epic poems and 150 limericks about countries of the world. His 80-minute recorded and voice-acted-out post-apocalyptic poem Valcapella and Dwinn was called an “epic of heartbreak and awesomeness” by Daniel Handler (a.k.a. Lemony Snicket).

  * * *

  Claire McKenna is an Aurealis and Ditmar nominated science fiction writer from Melbourne, a graduate of the first Clarion South Writing Workshop, and is currently collecting typewriters and other old things. She shares her house with two humans and a cat.

  * * *

  R. Jean Mathieu was once voted ‘most likely to phone his friends from a rooftop in Guatemala asking if anyone knows how to pilot a helicopter in a hurry.’ He graduated with his BA in Sociology (with a minor in Business) from Northeastern University in Boston while pouring tea in Zhuhai. He lives in California with his wife, where they attend her synagogue on Saturdays and his Quaker meeting on Sundays, spending the rest of the week exchanging flurries of tender cursing and furious affections in French, Cantonese, and Hebrew. He can be reached at rjeanmathieu.com