L’OISEAU EST MORT. A story of the living dead by Tom Hickman.

 

The bird had seen the old wrecked piece of furniture that lay rotting in the linhay, partially exposed to the elements and had immediately noted the open drawer, and seeing the enclosed space as an inviting and possibly ideal location for a nesting site. The old side table had been discarded several years ago, the paint now pealing and surplus to requirement. Cobwebs and dust-covered household detritus littered the dry scrubbed pine top, while beneath a box of potatoes had been left to chit and then forgotten, leaving straggling shoots to whither and die. The bird alighted and then hopped down into the drawer; although dusty it remain practically empty apart from a small ball of binder twin and the bird saw immediately the potential to build. He made his way to the back of the drawer, which would provide perfect hidden shelter for his expected family, with adequate head height and an easy construction area.

So pleased was he with the space that he hadn’t heard the footsteps and when the shadow darkened he thought it just a passing cloud. The sudden movement terrified him and he froze ridged with fear as he was plunged into darkness and the drawer pushed closed. There followed various rummaging noises and something being placed atop the table, but still he dare not move. Then the footsteps left and all fell silent and still. It didn’t take him long to realise he was in serious trouble as he moved around the space pecking at the sides, probing for some means of escape.

 Then panic struck as he flapped to get free from what he now feared would be his final resting place. Hours past and still he remained imprisoned in the dark, tired and hungry from his exertions he lost track of time and as night fell he finally slept through sheer exhaustion.

When he finally awoke it was due to a sense of movement as the drawer was opened wide. He had immediately thought to fly from the drawer but was horrified to discover his wing feathers had been transformed into nothing more than a bunch of quills. There could be no way these apologies for feathers could aid his escape, and so he moved not a limb as the hand closed gently about him. He found that the warmth of this human hand calmed him and was strangely unsurprised with just how peaceful he felt. He was carried from the shed to the neighbouring red brick farm cottage and still he felt no need to panic. Then, even when he was placed on the clean cool white plate he made no effort to move. The man stepped back from the table and search in an open cutlery tray for a knife and fork, then settling down he pulled his chair up to the table. He stare down at the bird and muttered a few unclear words which the bird thought sounded like “You’re not much of a catch”, and then placing the knife and fork each side of the plate proceeded to delicately turn the bird over between the tips of his fingers. 

Only now as the bird lay on his back in an unfamiliar position did he start to feel uncomfortable. Certain questions flashed through his mind and foremost amongst them was “What am I doing here?” Surely this could not be happening to him and that he would soon awake from this bazaar nightmare. Then to his surprise the man took out a large piece of paper and started to draw. He lay staring back up at the man, watching his deep concentration on his face and he felt powerless to move. The drawing went on for hours it seemed and his mind wandered to all those heights he had flown to, the bushes he’d made nest in and the young he’d help to raise, the close call he’d had once when the farm cat had taken several of his tail feathers. Another terrifying time when he’d become hopelessly tangled in the plastic netting of the strawberry cage. He remembered the big calloused hand that held him so gently as the green plastic was cut from his wings and now realise it was the same hand that had taken him from the drawer. Then just as he thought he was about to get cramp in his left leg the man stopped and rolled him back onto his front. The bird still found himself unable to move and lay there immobile on the plate until the following morning. The man returned at dawn and switching on an overhead light once again began to draw.

 The bird felt calm in his presence and drifted off into a deep dreaming sleep where winds blew strong and skies seemed endless. He rolled and plunged through lashing rain, then floated and basked under a brilliant blue canopy.

 He soared to heights he had never thought possible, rolling and hurling himself backwards to swoop at unbelievable speeds, fireworks flashed and at one point he thought he saw himself floating weightless. 

He was the master of the air, in total control of his body rising in the warm thermals, twisting and flexing every sinew in his body simply for the pleasure. He had found his paradise.