The bird feeder had not been placed specifically for any one species. There was an abundance of bird life in the forest, thus a lot of competition. There came the usual array of small songbirds, dominated mostly by sparrows and finches. These would be pushed off at times by some larger redbirds, a mating pair who would regularly grace us with their presence to stake out their share of the sunflower seeds. Aside from the minor skirmishes, this happy family lived in harmony for many weeks on end.
The feeder was placed on May Day, which in the ancient times of our people was marked as the first day of Summer. We had not quite got the whole calendar thing sorted just yet. On this year the date came as a grey, wet and somber day, more akin to a day in March than Summer. It was easy to bury the prongs of the tall shepherd's hook deeply into the muddy earth. After a bit of tamping and the addition of a round of gravel at it's base, the hook was secure, and the pre-loaded feeder was suspended.
Throughout the month of May, the scarlet heralds sang sharply and bright across the frosted dawn. This cold Spring, cruel in her wait, her air clear and crisp as earth stiffens then relaxes. Stretching legs and arching backs, as an old man awakens from a long Winter nap. Though the season refused to yield her grip, our family of birds was out every day, cheerleading for Summer to come. After a time, we came to hear more cries of crows and jays from elsewhere in the forest. Thankfully there were none that came to light upon the feeder.
In June, finally, long, warm sunny days arrived. Clouds abated and a verdant life suspended in a damp chill burst into bloom. Amid this flowering realm came the magpie. One morning, right at dawn, he floated down from the dark canopy above and perched at the very top of the hook. All was completely still at this hour, when mists still arose from the forest floor. In this air sounds will carry sharply and far. It seemed that this magpie was fully aware of this; that indeed, he had chosen this hour with purpose. He tucked his wings into his long, sleek profile, puffed out his breast and chittered away loudly in a stuttered series of cherk-cherk-chirrip. It seemed that as the echoes of his calls sounded back, his call grew louder and quickened like he was competing with the echo. He was making it abundantly clear that he meant for all around to know that he had arrived.
As I witnessed this event, I realized that this was the cousin of those very crows and jays that I had hoped might stay off this perch. It would not do for him to piss upon that feeder to claim it as his own. Thus, I was obliged to confront him, to perform the ceremonial shooing off. It had been a while, but, like riding a bike...
I stood at the doorway first, the door still opened behind, and cried from the porch, "Piss off, you!" I felt this was a solid opening statement, making it abundantly clear that he was not welcome. "Piss off, you" is pretty unambiguous when there is no one else around. And this fella was having none of it. He turned ninety degrees on his perch to face me directly and then squawked louder.
Rule number two in shooing off: always have a non-lethal response at the ready. I was prepared with a coil of garden hose, already connected and loaded with a pistol sprayer. I needed only to take the few steps down from the porch, make two turns on the spigot and have at this brigand with a pelting, ice-cold jet of water. Sensing the imminent impact of this stream, the magpie squawked angrily and leapt from his perch, narrowly escaping my first salvo. He'd not got off into the clear yet and undaunted, I had another crack at him before he was out of range. I managed only to gain a minor clipping of his tailfeathers before he dashed off into the deeper wood and the darkness beyond.
The rest of the day went on as they do, with plans made and thwarted as may be, by either weather or other desires. Our extended family of songbirds were left unmolested by the magpie or any other menace. There was even a lone mourning dove to join their numbers briefly. The air was warm, the skies sunny and the day was long. As evening shadows began to clutch the forest, the birds were retired to their roosts in preparation for the night. It was not wholly dark yet, just at sunset. Lightning bugs had only begun to glimmer in the thicket, while crickets performed their tuning for the nightly symphony.
It was with these last rays of the day's light that the magpie returned, descending just as he had that morning to a perch atop the shepherd's hook. This time he spread his wings wide and squawked loudly, the maw opened wide toward the porch in a clear challenge. I watched from the porch, in some mild amazement. I made no movement toward the hose, instead remaining still in the shadows, hoping to observe undetected. As the moments passed, I grew certain that the magpie knew I was there. Then, quite suddenly, he folded his wings and turned to display his tail, dropping a trail of piss onto the feeder below.
As shocking as this was, it was only the opening. With his tail raised like an orchestra conductor's baton, there silently descended a circle of six more magpies. They formed a circle around their leader in the trees above. None of them made a sound, but they all seemed to have their black, beady eyes fixed upon the porch. The leader rotated about upon his perch, as though reviewing the troops, then likewise returned his gaze to the porch.
This was unnerving. Surely it meant something. At that point I decided that the only thing for it was to light the fire ring. I couldn't say for sure that they posed any actual threat, but something about it seemed malevolent. Almost like something supernatural. I knew I hadn't eaten any mushrooms, so this was not a hallucination. The fire ring was mostly prepared already, only requiring the initial application of an open flame. They did not move, nor did any make a sound, but all seven sets of black eyes followed my movements. In mere minutes the first licks of flame were dancing skyward from the fire ring, casting a dancing, orange glow upon the trees all around. As the flames grew higher the leader abruptly retired from his perch and flew off into the night. The other magpies rose in silent unison to follow.
There were some weeks that followed and none of the magpies had returned, or at least if they had, they had done so in stealth. I had been left to puzzle greatly, this bizarre incident. I had some vague recollection from somewhere in memory, that magpies were associated with certain superstitions in various cultures. Thus tickled I sought to refresh that memory and discovered the aged English nursery rhyme:
One for sorrow,
Two for joy,
Three for a girl,
Four for a boy,
Five for silver,
Six for gold,
Seven for a secret never to be told
Just a nursery rhyme. Doesn't mean anything. But there were seven. Not just seven at random, rather seven with some unified purpose, whether benign or malign, who could say? Seven for a secret never to be told. Was the secret never to speak of this?
For days upon days this incident haunted even my waking hours. While going about the mundane daily tasks a sudden shiver would travel up my spine. I could be seized by that momentary sense of dread, looking skyward for the impending swarm of doom. At times I was certain I had heard his insistent clucking, yet upon searching would find no magpie about anywhere. My nights grew restless and even in those darkest hours I would pause at the window, peering out at the feeder and fearing he'd be there.
The boss did not return, nor any of his clutch. The weeks passed on until the solstice and still there was no reappearance. The memory did not fade, but the sense of dread had passed. No longer did I fear their return. I began to wonder if perhaps I had not dreamt or imagined it all. Or perhaps I was only wishing that.
Midsummer's Day is traditionally June 24, in many cultures the Feast of St. John the Baptist. If there were any exchange of gifts involved, we might think of it as Christmas in summer. Not Christmas in July, but almost. That is not the reality of June 24, at least not today, but it is an old tradition that I am aware of. On this year in question June 23 was quite windy. All day long the roof was pelted with debris dislodged from the trees above. Late that afternoon it occurred to me that these were the winds to usher in the last half of the Summer: this was Midsummer's Eve. Only a passing thought, not one that I dwelt upon. Perhaps I should have.
Being an avid grower, June is a month that does not register as a feast time. If one were to choose any day of that month and ask me how I thought of it, the most likely response would be that it was a day of labors. That June 23 was no exception. By the time evening fell that day I was not thinking of feasts, or John the Baptist, or our feathered guests of three weeks prior. I thought only of being reclined on the porch and killing a few brain cells. As dusk approached I was doing just that.
Just before the sun blinked it's last the air suddenly grew quite still. The earth sighed it's last breath of the day and as darkness descended, the seven magpies arrived with it. It was like they had a great veil of night clutched in their talons, drawing the final curtain down upon the stage. They all returned to the very same perch they had left those weeks before. I saw it, I knew I was seeing it, and yet the scene was so surreal I could not believe it. I was frozen there, staring back at the glow of their beady eyes in the gloom.
We all of us sat there as the full black of night enveloped; I at my perch and they at theirs, aware of each other's presence, feigning indifference. I could not say for certain how long this continued. It seemed as for hours, though I doubt it. Prior to their arrival my mind had been numbed enough to endure the time without being aware of the time. I don't know what their story was. At somewhere around the hour of what I could only guess was 11PM, nature called. At that moment an idea entered my mind like a thunderclap.
I staggered up from my seat and shakily made my way down the steps. I paused for a moment to assure myself that both feet had landed at terra firma. My inner gyroscope recalibrated, I heard my own voice in my head. "Come and piss on my feeder, will you!" This goaded me on, I took those halting and measured steps to the shepherd's hook and let loose with a six pack. Then I heard myself aloud, "What do you say to that, bitch!" The boss's onyx eyes gleamed inscrutably in the dim light.
We faced off like this in the night, as piss dribbled down my shorts; two determined and stubborn foes who would not yield their ground. Still half drunk and suddenly beset by mosquitoes, I was just beginning to see the error of this folly. A grown man, in the middle of the night, literally in a pissing contest with a bird. What the hell is wrong with you? This visitation was still concerning and would be dealt with, just not right then. At that point I was resolved that if they were still there in the morning, I should worry about it then and not before.
I turned to stumble back through the murky half-light, to return to the porch where I intended to drink more ale. A few steps away I turned back over my shoulder, to see that they were all still there. Seven sets of eyes, glassy orbs glowing in whatever moonlight penetrated the canopy above. They were eerie, still upon their perch, so I shuffled along to the steps, until climbing back aboard the porch and returning to my slouch chair. I dropped into the seat and reached another bottle of ale from the iced cooler. I had gotten no further than raising the bottle to my lips, when the seven magpies descended as one onto the porch railing, not ten feet before me.
They had glided without a sound in the darkness and lighted upon the rail without even stirring a flutter of air. The boss took his place directly across from my seat, the others in a row to the left, spaced about two feet apart. In any circumstance this would be a development of, at the least, some mild concern. Some might easily find it alarming. I was figuring that this was some freakish manifestation of a turf war. Then something happened that changed my mind very quickly.
I began to hear a voice. It was sometimes a voice of one, sometimes the voices of many. The singular voice remained constant, while the chorus of voices faded in and out. I could not determine whether these were external sounds I was hearing, or if they were only voices within my head. The voice repeated a chant, the same each time. Seven times the voice spoke.
Once for a warning,
now for the tell
Before it is morning
you'll have broken the spell
I spilled part of that ale, cursing at the waste. Yet my thirst for ale was sated. It was time for something stronger. I staggered inside to retrieve a bottle of rum, the only available poison that seemed to fit the occasion. I was confident that my feathered guests would remain in place, and I was right. Returning to my seat I found them all unmoved, still bobbing at their perch on the rail. I took a strong pull from the bottle and hissed as it burned it's way down my pipes. I set the bottle aside and sat upright to study the boss magpie. I felt the heat rush to my ears and neck, beginning to feel combative. I felt like provoking him. Raising the bottle between us I taunted, "You fellas want some? Should I get you a dish?"
That won't be necessary.
As before the voice was "heard", clear as a bell, yet I was certain that it was only in my head. I allowed intuition to guide me and concluded that I could "think" my response.
I can answer you this way, right?
Yes. It is preferable.
Holy shit, I was right. This bird was in my head.
So, if you don't mind my asking, uh... what do you guys want? Why are you here and why are you talking to me?
Our journey began in the Orient.
Okay. So it was going to be like that. I wasn't going to get any answers. Just a tale.
Have you ever been to the Orient, Thomas?
I have not.
There are parts of the Orient that are hard to believe as a part of the same planet. It is truly another world.
You have me at a disadvantage. You know my name, what's yours?
You can call me Karl.
And your six friends?
We're all Karls.
Of course you are. Makes total sense.
I'm sorry. You were talking about the Orient?
Have you ever heard of the Bikini Atoll?
Yes. They did some atomic test there. Created Godzilla or some shit...
There were a little over one hundred native Bikini islanders. Their people had lived there peaceably for centuries, thousands of miles from anyone or anything else. They had no part in any of the world's quarrels. Then one day government men came. They wore white or khaki suits with ribbons and brass, rigid hats with stars and other adornments.
The men in suits came with younger men in green uniforms, carrying rifles. The younger men were charged to bring all of the islanders together, that one of the men in suits might inform them all of this great thing that the government was going to do for them. So the islanders were all dutifully assembled in the sand, palm trees swaying in the breeze above them. They didn't really understand what was happening, as the eternal surf lapped at the beach in the background.
An interpreter announced to the islanders that the government man with the most brass and ribbons would now address them. The government man said, "Tell them that the government wants to do something wonderful with their land, something that will benefit all of mankind". There were some other words spoken, but this one phrase was the crux of the justification. This was the reason why they were to be removed from their homes, for the benefit of a mankind they did not know and could barely imagine.
I was expecting that this narrative would continue, but for a time it ended there. The words told some kind of a story, but I was not convinced that the literal story was the real story being told. I had an uneasy sense that there was something else I needed to be taking away from this tale, yet that something else escaped me. I pondered this in silence for so long, expecting that the narrative would resume.
Is that it? That's your tell? The government man lied... that's a stunning revelation!
It was but one lie of the greater lie, the Noble Lie. Do you know about the Noble Lie, Thomas?
<sigh>, oh the fucking Greeks! I have a general understanding of it, yes, but it would seem I am missing something, Karl. If that's your real name...
You could not pronounce my real name. Karl is for you. You can use any name that you like.
No, Karl is fine. It's a good name.
The government man had his speech prepared. He even went to the trouble of locating a translator. Somehow his personal guilt was assuaged by the knowledge that he at least had the decency to lie to those people in their native tongue. He was fully aware that some of his peers had propositioned that a modern naval fleet could be destroyed with one atomic bomb. He was fully aware that the Bikini atoll had been selected as a sacrifice to prove that proposition. He could not very well come and say to these people "Okay, so here's the thing... me and the guys got together, and we decided that we're gonna light off a nuke in your front yard."
Well, to be fair, he could have said that. You know. He could have just told them to shield their eyes. He could have told them it was the return of the Sun God... the point being that anything he told them would be a lie.
Indeed! You are catching on, Thomas. Anything he told them would be a lie. So why sugar coat it? For the benefit of the natives? Something wonderful? That's pretty vague. You have to wonder how this concept is expressed in the Bikini tongue. What do they know of all of mankind? All of mankind is the hundred some of their people. You think they could possibly have formed words in their language to express that idea in the same sense that we understand it?
So that is the Noble Lie, the lie told for the greater good?
No. The little script that the government man prepared was for his own benefit. He is uncomfortable among these people. Not because he knows what he is a party to. He knows what is being done to these people. Away from them he is sneering, condescending upon them as mere savages. Then he goes to sit among them, smiling and deferential, as he utters his own witch doctor incantation to absolve himself of any guilt. They are lies to sooth his raw conscience. All these lies are the acts of the greater lie, the Noble Lie. The government man IS the Noble Lie. The Noble Lie is not noble. It is only a lie, like all the others. In my universe, Thomas, these untruths are very inconvenient mathematically. They stick in our craw, if you get my meaning.
I did get his meaning, even in the broader, astrophysical sense implied. Mentally I felt as though I had taken a full right jab from George Foreman in his prime. I was dumbfounded, stunned to utter silence. The truth of it all hung heavily in the air, like the cordite clouds wafting about in a fireworks celebration. I felt myself falling to the mat and tribal drums echoed in the distance. I did not feel it when I landed, but I felt it on the bounce. As I lay there, the concussion reverberating through my skull, I hear the magpie's parting words. Not in my head, but aloud as they took flight.
You must choose the world you want
I awakened with a start at the first peek of dawn. Wrenched violently from a rum induced coma into the cruel reality of consciousness in one cold, jarring blow. The first strains of light were clawing at the mists; the night would not depart quietly. Somewhere there was still the echo of drums. Towering above the mists there was the shepherd's hook. And the feeder. I was witness to that daybreak frenzy of redbirds, wrens and sparrows. Their chatter was sharp and clear across the still of morning. This was their domain. No crows, no jays, and alas, no magpies to haunt their roost.
This was Midsummer's Day, I recalled. For some reason. Well, I had nothing to do at that hour. I really should have gone back to sleep, but despite the alcoholic haze my mind was awake, alert. I could muster no physical ambition to raise myself from the chair I had made home for the previous eight hours. All I could do was perform a slow-motion replay of the night's visitation in my mind. With the birds' chorus as a soundtrack. I'll concede Karl's take on the Noble Lie. I wasn't so sure any spell had been broken.
Once for a warning,
now for the tell
Before it is morning
you'll have broken the spell
I was left to ponder this somewhat cryptic message in the broader context of our peculiar dialogue. As well, there was a want for the fulfillment of the original omen, seven for a secret never to be told.
Which secret and why must it never be told? To this day I can not say for sure that I have been told that secret. I think that the literal fulfillment of the omen is that there is no secret, thus it never can be told. It doesn't need to be. It's obvious.
Or maybe it's this, their parting words. You must choose the world you want. Seven words that tell a secret that must never be told. Imagine what might happen if word of this gets out? That there actually is a choice. You can believe in a world of truths, or a world of lies. But you have to choose.
