To the birds

Like it says.

1.

When the rain had stopped, Paul stepped onto the porch and rolled a cigarette. Licking the paper, he stared out across the dooryard, towards the fields, where the corn stood swaying in the wind. Eyes fixed into a permanent squint, he surveyed the rows, snagging on a stand of yellowed plants before coming to rest on a collapsed stalk lying in the mud just outside the field. 

From there, his gaze crept up towards the sky, where new grey clouds gathered. 

Ripping open the screen door, Paul yelled for Billy to get the lead out. While the door creaked shut on its rusted springs, he clamped the smoke between hard lips and took the sagging steps down into the muck and up to the field, pausing only long enough to light up and spit out a loose curl of tobacco. 

“Goddammit,” he mumbled around the cigarette as he spied two more further in, stalks leaning sideways at a drunken angle. Broken? He couldn’t tell. But as soon as he bent to look he saw another one, slid down almost to the ground, its roots reaching with fibrous fingers. Pulled free as easily as a piddling weed.

Straightening, he looked to the house. There was still no sign of Billy. Hands on his narrow hips, Paul sucked at the cigarette, let out smoke from the corner of his mouth. Itching to tramp back up there and give the boy what for. Instead he shook his head and made for the barn. There was work to be done.

He was coming out with the wheelbarrow when Billy came running, pulled up short by the doors and doubled over with his hands on his knees, panting. Paul set down the barrow, waited for the boy to catch his breath. 

When Billy started to speak, Paul clouted him, hard enough to slap him down to the mud. The boy looked up at him, all the blood drained from his face, leaving the red mark and the freckles. 

“That’s for dawdlin.” Paul relit the smoke. “Now get to work.”

When the boy didn’t move, he yanked him up by the arm. Clamped a hand around the back of his neck as he pointed into the rows.

“You see that, boy? That there’s our bread and butter, goin to the dawgs while you’re draggin your feet.” He shook him, straw blonde hair ruffling. “D’you like food in your belly? D’you like a roof over that empty noggin a yours?”

The boy nodded in his grip.

“Then get to workin,” he said, shoving him towards the field. Billy stumbled, almost went sprawling again. But he managed to stay upright. Rubbing his face, he disappeared into the rows.

Without taking one of the shovels, of course.

Paul sighed and took up the handles, brought the wheelbarrow up to the side of the field. First they’d walk the field, upright what stalks might be saved; toss that couldn’t. Then they’d check for standing water and signs of rot— which seemed inevitable. Too much water. And still more coming, if the weather report had the right of it. They’d dig another ditch. But if this kept up— It didn’t bear thinking about. 

He could kick himself for not taking Milford’s offer on the drainage pipes last year. But the yield had been poor and money tight. And besides, it hadn’t been water then, but the lack thereof. Planning for a deluge had seemed a laughing matter. 

But he wasn’t laughing now, was he? Oh, no. Milford was the one laughing. He of the hundred acre farm. Meanwhile, Paul could look forward to slogging through the mud to save what remained of his meagre holdings after two bad harvests.

The mud sucked at his boots as he moved into the field. The first few plants he inspected hadn’t snapped, merely toppled over. The third had been damaged, some of its shoots snapped off and hanging from the stalk like severed fingers connected by a bit of tendon.

Paul tossed the spoiled husks in the wheelbarrow, moved on.

As he moved through the rows, the wheelbarrow filled. But the real bad news came when Billy yelled out. Coming on him, Paul could only stare at the stalks, jutting from the shallow pool of water that extended through the rows.

“Son of a bitch,” Paul exhaled. 

Billy went and fetched the shovels and together they started on the first ditch. It was rough going; the mud eager to fill in what they took out. But they couldn’t afford to lose another second while the crops drowned all about them. Sweating, they toiled beneath the darkening sky. Already the first hesitant raindrops pattered on the leaves. 

Absorbed by his labours, Paul didn’t hear the bird until it voiced its first rusted caw. Looking up from the shallow ditch, he ran the back of one hand across his brow, glancing about until he spied it, further down the row. There stood a scarecrow, dressed some of Francine’s old clothes and a drift-store hat. Atop the hat perched a crow, bold as brass. As Paul watched, it began to preen. A beat later, a second one landed on the scarecrow’s widespread arms. It gave him another hoarse cry in greeting, before hopping onto one of the stalks and starting to dig its way into one of the husks. The first one followed suit, picking one of the plants to the other side of the row.

Paul stabbed the shovel down into the muck, clapped his hands together. Startled, the birds took flight. But not far. A little ways down the row, they touched down again, on different stalks.

“Goddammit,” Paul snapped. He squelched his way up the row, clapping and waving his arms. “Go on, get!” 

The birds watched his approach with mild interest. When he got close enough, they beat wings just enough to relocate. 

Paul glared at them with twisted mouth. Part of this was on the weather as well: birds were not as much deterred by the scarecrow’s presence as they were by the scent in the clothes. All the rain had washed the smell away, rendered it useless. But even so the crows had been persistent pests this year. The bits of mirror and tinfoil worked into its attire had done nothing to dissuade them, and the warblers scared the family more than it did the black bastards. Meanwhile, they ravaged his crops. Each day he found more and more torn husks. 

Watching the birds going about their business with such disdain, Paul felt a flame blooming. In that moment, all the rough going solidified and took the shape of the two crows tearing at his crops up the row. He turned to the boy.

“Get the .22.”

Billy seemed about to say something, then thought better of it. Slipping and sliding, he struggled his way towards the house, while Paul went back to his work, slopping out mud with his shovel, a cold smile on his face. Every now and then, he looked up to see if the crows were still there. 

There was a spattering of rain, the clouds turning their faucets on and off, trying to make up their mind. Neither Paul nor the birds were much concerned; both went about their business.

The rush of leaves announced the boy’s return. Holding the rifle up against his shoulder he skidded to an awkward halt besides his father. 

“You check it’s loaded?” Paul said, taking it from him and pushing up the bolt to peer inside.

“Yessum,” Billy said, breathless, just as Paul caught the gleam of brass inside the chamber. “I got these, just in case.” He dug into the middle pocket of his bib overalls and pulled out a fist full of bullets. Two escaped his grip, splatted down into the mud.

Thinking of the shells he might’ve strewn across the field, Paul’s hand shot out to ring the his bell again before he caught himself. He’d deal with the boy later. 

Right now there were others deserving of a lesson. 

After taking two steps up the row, Paul socked the butt of the rifle against his shoulder and took a bead on the crow closest to him. Squeezed the trigger slow. The sound of the shot was a flat clap rolling across the field. The crow was snapped from the stalk in a drift of surprised feathers, fell down into the muck like a stone. 

The other one took off… but not towards the heavens. Trailing its flat arc, Paul was sure it was just picking a quiet spot where it could continue its thievery undisturbed. It had to be dealt with. He gave pursuit, the wet leaves slapping his face, only making him angrier, while from up above the clappering of wings came, when the bird took off again.

Reaching the end of the rows, Paul hustled, broke free from the field just as the crow flew across the low fence towards the woods. Fumbling with the bolt, he raised the rifle again. Took the shot without much faith. 

He was surprised to see the crow tumble to the ground besides the path. 

“That’s what you get!” Paul yelled, shaking his fist at the dark lump… when he heard another raucous caw behind. 

Wheeling, he saw the crow, sitting atop one of the stalks, the plants swaying underneath. 

“Sonofabitch,” Paul hissed, pulling the bolt back. For the third time he brought the rifle up, aimed—

“Why don’t you leave that poor bird alone?”

Paul glanced back to find a woman standing on the path running along the fence. Her hands were clasping the straps of her backpack. Beneath her floppy hat, two wide blue eyes found his.

Distracted, he’d waited too long. Now Billy came charging out the corn and the crow took off across the field… before settling down in the rows.

“Now look what you did!” Paul cried, raising his free hand to the field. He turned to her, furious. 

The woman met his ire with calm. “Those poor creatures are having a rough enough time as it is without you shooting at them. The rain makes it difficult for them to forage. They’re just looking for food to feed their families.” Her eyes dipped toward Billy, who’d joined them by the fence. “You can sympathise, can’t you?”

“Lady,” Paul said, “right now they’re takin food outta my mouth.” He began to reload the shots he’d fired.

“Well…you could always put up some feeders.”

Paul looked at her through his eyebrows. Grunted. “You must outta ya mind. Why don’t we built ‘em a hotel while we’re at it?

“It will stop them raiding your crops.”

Paul shook his head, slipping in the second bullet. “You can’t be feedin ‘em. Before you know it, the whole place’d be full of the damned things.” He ran back the bolt. “And they’d still be at the crops, most like.”

He wasn’t even done talking before he caught movement from the corner of his eye. Turning, he saw the next one light on the fence that ran back towards the house.

“You still shouldn’t shoot them,” the woman said. “Don’t you know it’s bad luck to kill crows?”

“Yeah?” Paul said, bringing up the rifle. “Well, luck ain’t been that hot anyways.” He took aim. “I’ll take my chances.” 

Clap.

Down went the crow, trailing two see-sawing feathers.

He had to admit, he was glad to see the tight expression on the woman’s face before she took off down the path. City folk. The hell did they know?

But as they turned back to the slaving, the crows returned. And Paul began to wonder if she might’ve been onto something with regards to the feeders.

2.

The next day, after the chores were finished and the ditches had been dug, Paul took the truck into town and bought a couple bags of nuts, a ten pound bag of sunflower seeds, and a twenty pound bag of high quality birdseed. And feeders, of course. The boys at the store laughed and wanted to know if the place had finally gone to the birds. Paul smiled as he counted out his hard-earned money. As he stepped out, he told them all to kindly kiss his ass.

Back home, he filled the feeders and stuck them wherever he could, carried some spare fence rails out to the field and put them in the ground at intervals, hung feeders of them as well. In the evening he made Billy fill some bowls with nuts and seeds and some fruit and place them out past the corn, by the walking trail. Just to make sure.

Not long after, a faint drizzle began. Later, the rain started in earnest. Waking from his sleep, Paul listened to it for a while, for once not with a sinking feeling. He just hoped the bowls would be alright. 

3.

After breakfast, Paul stepped onto the porch, watched the fragile dawning light paint the fields in soft hues. Filling his lungs with air that still carried the night’s cool touch, he dismounted the crooked steps, taking care not to step on the dead pigeon lying splayed at the bottom.

There were a lot more in the dooryard. Still more studding the gras leading down to the field. Turning, he even found a few on the porch roof, marooned like strange frisbees. All kinds. Sparrows, grackles, robins,… and crows, of course. Plenty and plenty of crows— especially down towards the fields.

When he and the boy set to cleaning up, Francine and the little one came out onto the porch. Watching him toss another dead crow onto the heap piled into the wheelbarrow, she wrapped her arms around her scrawny body.

“It ain’t right, what you did. It ain’t right.”

“They’s robbin us blind, Francine!” He stabbed a finger towards the field. “Whatever the rain don’t drown, they steal. You wanna end up homeless?”

“It’s bad luck to kill a crow,” she said in a strained voice.

“Don’t you start.” He flapped a hand at her. “Why’nt you help out? The quicker they’s gone.”

“What’re you gonna do with ‘em?”

He shrugged. “Burn ‘em. Out by the fence.”

She took a step. “You’re asposed to bury ‘em, wearin all black.”

That forced a laugh from him. “We ain’t got black and you know it.”

“Be it on your head, then,” she said and turned without another word, the little one in tow.

Paul swept another hand through the air after her. Then he snapped at the boy: “Let’s get to movin, boy. Daylight’s a-wastin.”

Together they swept through the field, picking up the litter. It was tough work, with the bending and the long trips with the wheelbarrow full of feathers and foam-stained beaks and staring, empty eyes. And getting tougher with the birds that still found their way to the poisoned feed, despite the warning signs scattered all about. Floundering, they struggled their agonising way across the ground, before coming to a spasming end in a puddle of their own liquefied innards.

Limp, the blood still warm within, they came up with strings of gook swinging from their beaks. The boy threw up three times before Paul told him he couldn’t get anything right and said to stick to the cold ones. 

By late afternoon, most of birds had been collected by the back fence, where he usually did the burning in the fall. Looking over the great profusion of feathers, he thought it a shame: they might’ve made good fertiliser if he’d been able to bury them. But this worked, too. He raised the can and began to douse the chest-high hill with gluts of gasoline. 

The can was near empty when he caught the woman coming down the trail the other way. He dawdled, satisfied to see the hitch in her step as she spied the contents of the pile.

“What did you do?” she said, aghast. This time, when she met his eyes, there was no calm in them, but repulsion. “Why would you do this?”

“They left me no choice.”

“There’s always a choice.” She shook her head, looking over the tumble of wings and talons. She met his squint again. “I’m going to tell the sheriff about this.”

“Be my guest,” he said, giving her a smug smile. Safe in the knowledge that sheriff Dawson didn’t give a tin shit about some birds, and held fast to the belief that what a man did on his own land was his business. 

“They will remember,” she said, shrinking back from the fence, looking as sick as the boy did picking up the fresh ones. “Crows are smart. Smarter than you. They will tell their kin what you did. They will tell them what you look like, mark your land as a hateful place.”

Paul was not impressed. “So long as they remember to stay away.” 

Striking a match on a thumbnail, he threw it onto the pile. With a soft fumph the flames sprung up. He watched as a loose feather caught fire, its barbs withering and curling. 

When he looked up, the woman had moved away again. Good. He didn’t need the aggravation.

A choking smoke began to rise from the burning feathers and Paul fell back a few yards, coughing, to where he’d told the boy to stay. Together, they watched as the flames rose, and thick smoke boiled up towards the low hanging clouds. There’d be rain again but with a little luck, not just yet. 

As the heat rose, there came loud pops, as the birds exploded deep within the pile. Paul pulled out his pouch, began to roll a cigarette.

“Pa, look,” Billy whispered.

He followed the boy’s pointing finger towards the woods beyond the fence. When the smoke shifted, he could see them. Crows. Dozens of them, perched on the branches of the trees that stood along the path. Despite the smoke, they didn’t move. Motionless, they sat, watching.

“Take a good look!” Paul yelled. “That’s what’ll happen to the lot of you, you don’t leave my fields in peace!”

Grinning, he set back to rolling his cigarette. 

“Pa, you figure them birds is mad?”

Paul gave the boy a slap in the back of the head, making him stumble forward. 

“Don’t listen to women,” he said, clamping the smoke between his lips. “They ain’t got no sense.”

The fire raged and crackled and popped, before the flames shrank and the mass at its heart lay hissing and squealing. Now and again, a sharp snap sounded.

At last, a drizzle began and doused the last of it, sending up white screens of smoke. Until there was only a charred, crooked mass left.

All the while, the crows bore witness, silent and stoic in the trees beyond the path.

4.

In the morning, they rose early, to make up for the time lost getting rid of the birds. Before breakfast, Paul went out onto the porch and surveyed the field beneath the twilit sky. There were some news birds studding the dooryard but less than yesterday. Far as he could tell, none of them were crows. Which was good. It was a little premature to start celebrating, since the cornfield was most important, but things were looking up.

So buoyed, he took place at the breakfast table and poured himself some coffee, waiting for Francine to finish the eggs. The children were eating sandwiches. 

“You’ll have to knuckle under, today,” Paul said to the boy. “I can’t afford you bummin around out there. There’s work that needs doin.” He looked to the lightening window. “With some luck, things may start to look up for us.”

“Yessum,” the boy said, hunched over his plate.

“Yes, who?”

When the boy didn’t respond, Paul started to reach out, then flinched when the skillet clanged to the floor. He turned to see half-raw bacon and slimy eggs, lying in a steaming puddle underneath the upturned pan.

Francine ran around the kitchen, face pulled into a mask of pain.

“Goddammit, now look what you did!” Paul snapped, before something bumped the table hard enough to make the plates jump. He turned to find the boy hunched up on his chair. Opened his mouth to say something… when the youngest swooped up close beside him. Shrinking back, Paul saw one wide-open eye stare at him sideways, pupil bouncing and flitting around, while the head moved in short, jerking movements.

“Wha—“

That was as far as he got before the boy hopped up on the table. Paul shot up just before one of the legs gave and Billy went down in a spill of limbs and crashing plates.

“What do you think you’re doin?” Paul roared, rounding the wreckage to where he lay trashing. His itching hands tried to clutch a handful but the boy’s arms whipped the air with such fury, his legs kicked out with such violence, that he was forced to retreat.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he moved backwards. “Francine, can you—“

He broke off when she didn’t stop running, grabbed her by one flailing arm. “Quit on it! I said quit! Can’t you see that—“

Francine kept struggling in his grasp, eyes rolling, looking at everything but him. Her mouth opened, wide enough to see the rotted back molars. But what came out wasn’t words, or even an outcry of pain. It was a harsh, nerve-scraping caw, deafening in the small kitchen.

Another one went up from behind, coming from the young one. She was standing next to her brother, who was still trashing amid the spilled breakfast. Paul’s strength left him as she saw her bending down towards the food, body jack-knifing as smooth as if she had no bones. Her head darted into the mess again and again, lips smacking as she put away the food.

Francine, freed from his grasp, fled across the kitchen, where she struggled up against the corner of the room, arms flapping.

Shuffling backwards, Paul’s eyes bulged as he stared at the scene. He flinched as another raucous cry went up, this time from the boy. Francine answered from where she fluttered in the corner. The young one straightened, eyes towards the ceiling. Her throat worked as she swallowed her food. Then she gave voice to her own rusted caw. 

Paul fled, the harsh cries following him as he ran for his truck.

5.

“Well?” Paul said when the doctor came back out.

“Well, sir. That’s just about the darnedest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“No shit,” Paul said, pulling his lip. Then he realised. “Sorry.” He let out a breath. “So, what now? You got some pills or sumpin?”

The doctor put down his bag, took out his cigarette case and opened it. Held it out to Paul, who took one, brought it to his lips with trembling fingers. 

When the smokes were lit, the doctor said: “I’m afraid this is beyond my care, Paul. Thing like this— You can’t fix something like this with medication. Your family is going to need some special care. It’ll cost, of course but—”

Paul’s hand froze, bringing the cigarette back up to his lips. 

“— if you want, I can recommend a couple places.”

“Thanks, doctor,” Paul said in starched tones. “I’ll think on it.”

“Paul,” the doctor said, hesitating. “I don’t think you realise—“

“I do. I’ll think on it. Thanks for the help.”

“Alright,” the doctor said, flustered. He was on the steps when he turned. “That’s right. We forgot to settle up.”

Sighing, Paul pulled out his billfold.

6.  

He had a devil of a time getting them out of the kitchen. Every move he made sent them racing through the room in a profusion of fluttering limbs and deafening cries. Even the youngest was near impossible to get a hold on, flailing and trashing in his arms like something possessed— which, he supposed, was the truth of it. Her head craning and turning, trying to get at him. 

With effort, he managed to manoeuvre them through the open door and into the living room, where they promptly began to knock things to the floor in an effort to escape. With repulsion, he saw the boy perched on the armrest of the couch, toes curled in a semblance of talons. Meanwhile, Francine was struggling up against the windows, arms beating like a scarecrow pulled free from its cross during a storm. 

This wasn’t going to work. He had to get them someplace safe, where they wouldn’t be able to harm themselves and they could ride out… whatever this was. Not the barn; they’d spook the animals. But upstairs, maybe. In one of the bedrooms. 

Letting out a sigh, he set to work getting them upstairs.

7.

The next morning he woke up sore as all hell. With it came the memory of what his life had become and for a few minutes, all he could do was lie there and stare up at the ceiling while a few doors down, his family bumped and rustled and talked to one another in rusted croaks and cries.

The day had run late, with the chores and the clearing of the new dead birds still needing tending to after all the day’s incomprehensible business had been taken care of. He’d come back in after dark and checked on them, and the boy almost escaped, squawking as he pinned his arm in the door. In the end he’d managed to toss some cold sandwiches in there, before getting to his own meagre dinner, exhausted. 

When he couldn’t put it off any longer, he got dressed and checked on them, hoping there might be some improvement. But no. As soon as he inched open the door, the room exploded in a flutter of moment and shrill noises. 

Paul closed it again, started to move away… when he remembered the key, which was still in the lock on the inside. He had no idea if they could open the door but—

Crows are smart.

As soon as the thought formed, he brushed it aside. That was his family in there. His family. But still… it wouldn’t hurt to lock them in, just to be safe.

Opening the door again, he slid himself into the room, one arm up to protect himself against the whirlwind of beating limbs as he tried to fumbled the key from the lock. They struggled around him, nails raking thin lines of pain across his face and forearms as they tried to get out. Paul threw his weight against the door as he turned the key this way and that, striking out blindly until they gave it up and retreated.

In this relative calm, he was still working the lock, when he noticed a light patch  beneath the brass key plate, where the paint had been removed. The wood beneath was scarred with a mass of deep scratches and gouges. The soft wood stained with blood.

Tendons creaked in his neck as he turned to look at them, heads tilted this way and that in thoughtful stares. The youngest one’s beak—

her mouth, her mouth

— was smeared with red, her lips, chin and nose rubbed raw.

“Jesus Christ,” Paul blubbered, yanking and struggling with the key until it finally tore free from the lock. Ducking out, he pulled the door shut behind him and locked it, falling against the wood while his heart thundered against his ribs.

8.

Despite everything, the work needed doing. Paul did the chores, working straight through noon. There was too much to do. And he’d lost his appetite, if he was being honest. Around two, the rain started up again. He went out into the fields to inspect situation but the new ditches were doing their part. They might just be okay, on that score.

He kept busy, not in a rush to get back to the house. But even out here, things were starting to get on his nerves. A deep quiet had settled over his land, broken only by the hiss and patter of the rain. At some point, he stopped what he was doing and looked up at the sky for almost ten minutes. Not a bird in sight. 

Apart from the ones inside the house, that was.

Beneath the empty skies, Paul toiled in his fields, alone.

9.

Dawn found Paul on the porch bench, smoking. His eyes stared into the middle distance, lost in the formless swirl of his thoughts.

He was tired. Hadn’t slept more than two hours. He’d stretched the day for as long as he could before returning to the house and its inexplicable inhabitants. Another meal of cold sandwiches, for them and for him. Another cold bed waiting for his exhausted bones. 

He’d shot up in the small hours, heart pounding. At first he thought it’d been a dream. Then another thump-rattle-thump had sounded and he was up and out onto the landing in a flash, just in time to hear another clattering noise. 

His heart had known the truth before his mind, picking up its pace as he hurried down the hall.

The key had turned beneath his hand. The door had swung open… onto an empty room. Bloody shards had clung to the frame, the window itself lying shattered on the roof of the porch. 

The birds had flown the coop.

But not far.

He’d listened to them all night, in the dark. Rustling and rooting. It was a fool’s business, going stumbling after them, blind.

Now, as the night pulled back its curtain, he watched the stalks whipping and shuddering with their progress. Saw the mass of toppled and trampled plants

Plucking the cigarette from his dry bottom lip, he pitched it and started down the steps— a sagging man on sagging steps. 

The rifle was clutched in one hand. 

Not the .22. That wouldn’t cut it, this time.

Paul set off towards the field, to see to some birds.