Chapter 20: To the City of Birds
Pisthetaerus: First I advise that the birds gather together in one city and that they build a wall of great bricks, like that of Babylon, round the plains of the air and the whole region of space that divides earth from heaven.
--Aristophanes, The Birds
“If I should get through this with my ninth life still very much my own,” Schrodinger said while pulling himself up the next branch, “I’ll retire from field duty and serve solely as a library cat.” Of the climbers, his claws allowed the most secure purchase. Even so, he was exhausted.
“If you lost your ninth life, would you be able to do anything, period?” Bennu made loops in the air. He possessed the most stamina, prompting no small number of glares his way.
“Not everyone has the degree of immortality you do.” Schrodinger licked his paw free of lemon jellybean.
“Shouldn’t immortality be the same for anyone who can’t die?” Diana asked from Goldtalon’s back. The griffin only carried whoever seemed most infirm at the time. The recent all-candy diet only provided so much energy. Even for him.
“Yeah, how could there be different levels of living forever?” added Fox. “You are or you aren’t.”
“The Djieien had one form of immortality,” pointed out Grace, “which could be reversed.” She hardly figured they could climb all the way to the clouds. Won’t we run out of air first? Her father talked about lightheadedness, and that was inside a plane. Here, they were exposed to the elements.
“We’ve reached a crossroads!” Bennu cheered. “How wonderfully uncertain. Practically makes your stomach churn…with joy!” His body flashed magenta. He had shown off the entire trek up, routinely giving encouragement that was not in any way needed.
“Crossroads” was not the best way to describe it. The jellybean stalk grew into multiple spirals, each supporting a unique location. Some branches went higher than where Grace and her friends currently rested. Other were pretty much a straight walk. But to where? No path led down.
Bennu gestured to the highest branch with his once-broken wing. Nephelokokkygia was obstructed by a mass of clouds. “That’s where Grace and I will go. Goldtalon is welcome too, if he wishes.”
“I’m not leaving mommy.” Goldtalon carefully let Diana down on the sticky ground, where Fox took over as guide.
“Didn’t expect anything less from Goldtalon the Puissant. The issue is where the rest of us go.” Bennu alternately glanced at Schrodinger, Fox, and Diana. “Before I left, my home was already in dire crisis. There was a great deal of suspicion towards outsiders. There is, nevertheless, precedent for augurs being welcomed with open wings…”
Fox rolled her eyes beneath her goggles. She wore them now not to protect from stones, but wind. “What you’re hedging around is no one else’s welcome. Which, I can understand the cat…but even if I don’t get to see exploding heads, it’ll even out if I avoid becoming a zombie.”
“Why were we brought this far if we’re not invited?” asked Diana.
“Because,” Bennu’s voice turned more grand, less nervous, “my neighbors ought to know exactly who saved them! I’m not saying there’ll be medals, but each of you has done such good for my city—and sacrificed much—without asking anything in return. Nephelokokkygia is wealthy, as we get prayers that don’t reach the high heavens. I realize that, after this, some among us have little to return to. I vow, you won’t be sent off into the world with nothing.”
“But for now,” said Fox, “we need food. And places to sleep. We’ve no idea how long you’ll be in the clouds, convincing everyone how nice we’ve been or whatever.”
Schrodinger mewled. “I can’t eat any more candy.”
“There are plenty options,” Bennu spoke hurriedly. “I’d have to be a real birdbrain to bring you otherwise! Wait, bad phrasing. Aha, I’d have to be a wet match! See, there to the left,” he motioned with his iridescent tail, “you can visit Magonia.”
“I’ve read about there,” said Schrodinger. “The floating city of giant shepherds. It anchors here sometimes, but usually it follows the nearest storm.”
“What would they have to shepherd in the sky?” asked Diana. She lay between Fox and Schrodinger.
“Wet, nonsolid sheep.” Schrodinger stated as if it were obvious. “Magonians collect, herd, and pen clouds. They do this because clouds are the brain matter of a dead frost giant named Ymir Pan’Gu. He was killed by three gods, now themselves deceased. Odin, Hoenir, and Loki were their names, though some accounts list different gods, or more, or less. Since this took place four billion years ago, it’s understandable few would remember the details perfectly.”
“That’s terrible.” Through her bandages, Diana cried. “Why would these three—or more, or less—gods decide to kill the giant?”
“Ymir had once been a hero. A great leader.” Bennu took over Schrodinger’s story, which made his ears twist back. “This was during the oldest war, between the giants of frost and fire, the latter led by an overlord named Surt Apollyon. After a ceasefire was declared, Ymir became king of the cold realm. But a corrupt and abusive ruler, as bad as his enemy. It wasn’t pretty, but his godly descendants stepped up to defeat him. Worked out for us, since Ymir’s body was divided to make the planet Earth.”
“Big giant.” Goldtalon only half-paid attention.
“Indeed,” Schrodinger resumed while flashing eyes glowered at Bennu, daring him to take over the story again. “His blood became oceans, his bones mountains, the bacteria inside him evolved into elves and dwarfs. But what’s important for Magonians is that Ymir’s brain matter, which became the clouds, continues thinking. Even death can’t turn off a mind so vast, and his given state of mind dictates the weather.”
“You never wondered why they’re called brainstorms?” interjected Bennu.
Schrodinger’s tail flicked. “When the clouds rage and thunder, Ymir’s thinking angry thoughts. Nice fluffy clouds indicate happy memories. Rain designates sadness. Snow—well I’m actually not sure what that signifies—but fog and mist are either confusion or a hangover. And if you watch clouds you think resemble objects, well, that could well be Ymir thinking the same thing.”
“Okay,” said Fox, who sat cross-legged next to Grace, “Say I accept that, why are the giants in Magonia herding these thought-clouds?”
“It’s believed,” Schrodinger responded, “the thoughts of Ymir contain all sorts of secret wisdom. Once captured, the Magonians are said to run them through machines, ‘sheering’ what knowledge they can to build more machines. Library cats are actually quite interested to know what’s stored there. Millions of stray thoughts just for the taking, but nobody can hold onto even one for forever.”
“At that point,” Bennu jumped in, heedless to Schrodinger’s hissing, “Magonian cloud shepherds send them out to pasture, and the cycle of weather continues.”
“We could go to Magonia while waiting on Bennu to sort things at home,” Schrodinger said through clenched jaws. “The first problem I see is it’s unlikely to be especially hospitable. Most shepherds are said to commute, so there’ll be few places for accommodations. Even so, if there are rooms for boarding, they’d be scaled to giant proportions.”
“Okay, other options.” Fox shook her head, granting a survey of other spiraling branches.
“Ooooh, I know this one.” Bennu flew loop-de-loops. He nodded to the east, pointing to a windmill the height of a skyscraper. Looking closely, the blades were shaped like long, grasping arms. “That’s the home of Bonegrinder, a nine-headed ogre. Bit smaller than giants. Fine fellow, honestly. Just don’t take his stuff.”
Fox squinted. ‘Who would try stealing from someone named ‘Bonegrinder’?”
“His birth name was ‘Wildeflower’” answered Bennu. “He changed it to something fiercer because humans kept breaking into his home and ransacking it. He thought if he sounded scary, the small people wouldn’t dare torment him, but in fact they attacked him more.”
“In all my fairy tales,” said Grace, “giants are stupid and violent, and we’re never asked to feel sympathy for them. But it sounds like Bonegrinder’s really the victim.”
“He’s still pretty broken up about it,” confessed Bennu. “Most humans don’t believe in giants anymore, much less steal their lawful property. Still, it’s sadly easy to justify taking things from people who look different. If Schrodinger, Fox, and Diana wish entrée to his castle, I suggest asking politely at the front door.”
Diana moaned. “I wouldn’t want to be a bother. Can’t anyone see a spot that’s already vacant?”
“House over there.” Goldtalon’s eagle eyes spotted a small cottage, supported on thin, wooden stilts. The paintjob had mostly flaked, the windows were shuttered, and the door was on an uneven axis, leaving it ajar.
“Seems abandoned, at least,” said Schrodinger. He leapt to the porch on his own, but Goldtalon had to carry Fox and Diana. Fox observed if it were not for taking boots from O’s closet, their feet would be stabbed by splinters and rusty nails.
“Good thing we don’t have to wait out here then,” said Schrodinger. “At least the inside isn’t visible to our enemy.” He turned to Bennu. “Carry our half of the formula to Nephelokokkygia. I hope they can take it from there. Regardless, we’ll be here.”
As the three entered the cottage, Grace could hear Diana saying “Does anyone else smell gingerbread?”
Grace followed the phoenix’s lead, in turn leading Goldtalon. However strong the griffin was, he was worn out, and should only fly when necessary. Initially, a dome of clouds blocked a direct view of Nephelokokkygia on their walk across the multicolored branch. The stuff she just learned was the brain of a giant thinned to a heel-fog, moistening her socks and shoes.
The city gates were finally visible. In a sermon (she could not remember whether at her mother’s or Grandmam’s church) she heard about the “pearly gates” of Heaven. This was not nearly as pretty, but the tall bronze bars must have also been for decoration. They stood alone, without walls or fences stretching at its sides. That was near to changing.
Grace got her first look at the birds who called Nephelokokkygia home. (If they had no problems pronouncing the name like she did.) Species were hard to discern under sticky mortar and rubble, but most appeared flightless.
Not everything that goes up necessarily needs to come back down. Have you ever lost a balloon outside? You must have wondered what exactly happened once it floated out of your sight. Some will explain the balloon simply popped from a sudden lack of pressure. This is a reasonable guess. But the truth—something even airplane pilots are not privy to—is it wound up in Nephelokokkygia.
City workers have the task of rounding up stray balloons, as well as kites and plastic bags. Today, one had the chance to net an umbrella with a blinking eye. Collected sky-detritus is then recycled in factories to make whatever items are needed. A portion goes to expanding the city’s borders.
While workers came and went their rounds, the messy, flightless birds railed against them. “How do you expect us to put up a wall if you keep making the city bigger?” asked a strange little bird Bennu identified to Grace as a “dodo.” In contrast with his fellows, he looked completely clean, wearing a triangular hat whose rounded corners curled up as he squawked. The hat was black, but that was hard to tell under all the gold badges.
The dodo’s head was swollen, yet hardly seemed enough to support his even fatter beak. His wings were too small to be any use, but he flapped them wildly. His feet were smooth and unblemished, with manicured nails. His plumage was a cross between cotton and steel wool.
A yellow cardinal sighed. “It’s just a city project, to provide fledglings with more living space.”
“My taxes pay for that?” The dodo sounded incredulous. The gang of flightless birds behind him complained along a similar line.
“How many taxes do you pay, Dodo?” she asked.
“Not important! And address me by my full name: Dodo Clarion Dodo the Third!” The bird became so flustered, he made a noise like “Ghlbtsk.”
Everything about him, from his high-strung pouting to his erratic flapping made him look preposterous. While knowing it was not very nice, Grace could not help but laugh.
Noticing Grace, Dodo Clarion screamed “Human, human! Oh, the humanity! This can mean only one thing: Extinction!” (He said it so loud it has to be capitalized when written down.) “Your kind are banned from stepping onto our cloud. I’m not sure what that four-legged eagle is, so he must leave, too.”
“Don’t talk about my griffin that way!” retorted Grace.
“You dare try to censor me?” Dodo Clarion scoffed. Glanced to either side of him, he kept scoffing until the messy birds around joined in. “I’ll have you know I belong to the bird congress. Anything I say is now and forever law, so you trespassers best stay on my good side, or I’ll have you shot! Rules are the only thing keeping out anarchy. That, and the wall.”
“There’s no law saying humans can’t visit Nephelokokkygia,” insisted Bennu. “Or griffins, for that matter. Not as long as they ask for invitation at the gate, which has served us fine without this…well, I can’t really call it a wall.”
Bennu hopped over what the flightless birds (save the dodo) made a mess of themselves building. The uneven clump of red bricks did not so much as rise to Grace’s knee. “Also, the city doesn’t even have guns, so you couldn’t shoot visitors even if they were illegal.”
Dodo Clarion laughed. “But I say it is illegal! Unlike other congressflowl, I don’t bother with the hassle of voting. Much easier to just make up laws as soon as they pop into my head.”
“Enough out of you,” shouted a peacock behind the bronze gate. He held a ring of keys with which he opened the gate.
With red eyes and white feathers, he reminded Grace of Ol’ Hoary, meaning she was predisposed not exactly to like the peacock, but at least to trust him. He was clearly not a normal bird. Closer to a phoenix, or even a banshee.
As if to make up for the absence of eyespots regular peacocks famously possess, the albino was followed by dozens of floating eyeballs. In color, they ranged from blue to yellow, thus mostly compromising on green. Whether cyan, teal, or topaz, each seemed to move independently, while sticking in the peacock’s general proximity, like Fox’s stones.
Dodo Clarion clearly relished being the center of attention while arguing with the female cardinal, but under so many gazes, he practically turned meek. There was no winning a staring contest with the peacock.
The flightless cronies were similarly intimidated, and bolted across their wall, some bothering with the excuse of needing “To wash up.” The dodo himself could not surmount the short barrier, so instead dashed through the now-open gates.
Bennu was not at all unnerved by the extra eyes. His prismatic tail unfurled, as did the peacock’s. They chattered excitedly. Even knowing their language little helped Grace follow the rapid exchange. The peacock was eventually introduced as Melek Panoptes, who, among other duties, watched over the security of Nephelokokkygia.
“I keep eyes out everywhere,” said Melek. “That’s how I spotted the danger of Ostara’s spores so early, and dispatched Bennu on his search.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, sir,” said Grace, “How’d you get so many extra eyes?” Goldtalon had actually wanting to know, but became too shy to ask himself. Instead, he whispered the question to her.
Melek played with a ring on one toe. “I was there at this city’s creation. My friend and I were the only witnesses. We knew he’d have to leave, so to help record events for posterity, I acquired eyes to…view things from every angle.”
“Like me, Melek never sleeps,” said Bennu. “It’s what made him a perfect mentor. I wouldn’t have graduated the muse program without his support.”
“Don’t give me too much credit.” Melek shook his head. Some eyes followed suit. “I think it better to allow youngsters to teach themselves than have an instructor peering over their shoulders. You taught yourself how to amuse.”
Knowing Bennu had lived thousands of years, Grace wondered how old Melek must be to think of the phoenix as a “Youngster.”
After ushering them into the city, Melek sent his eyes in various directions. “They’ll call the rest of congress together so we might hear what you have to report.” A line of buoyant “boats” were tethered at a dock beside a river of clouds. They were various sizes, some round like nests, others narrow like canoes.
“Pick a gondola, please.” Melek waited. Given they traveled with a griffin, they squeezed into the largest available, still barely fitting.
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“It’s like Venice down on Earth,” said Bennu. “An Italian city built entirely atop the sea, slowly sinking into oblivion.” He laughed. A real thigh-slapper, which he literally did. “Quite a silly idea for a city. For human, I mean. Venice would have been a terrific idea had it been designed for merpeople…”
“Italy?” asked Grace. “I wonder if my uncle visited Venice.”
As there were no oars to move the air-boat forward, Bennu and Melek directed it with their wings and tails. Cloud rivers were much easier to push along than the watery variety, but Nephelokokkygia was so vast, it would take a while to get to congress. Grace and Goldtalon were never asked to do anything, but they told Melek Panoptes most of what occurred since Bennu crashed into the Murder’s hollow. Despite slow going, there was still not enough time to describe everything.
When Bennu first described Nephelokokkygia to Grace, it sounded wonderful. Indeed, it was. But one’s surroundings always prove less important than where one is thinking about. A sizable part of her hoped this meeting would be the end of it, and she could get back to her family. We’ve done enough. Right?
Goldtalon lacked any homesickness. He stuck his head into the mist, trying to taste it. “Juzzzt-lyk-eyyyyzz-kreeeaaam,” was how he sounded, but he probably meant to say “Just like ice cream.” After swallowing, he became intelligible again. “Without sweetness. There’s no flavor at all, mommy. It’s ‘plain’.”
The actual land making up Nephelokokkygia came from billions of dust specks swept from the ground by tornados and cyclones, plus ash from volcanoes. It was from this earth—so small individually—that a foundation was formed to accommodate every bird: real, imaginary, or undecided. That, in turn, rested on a foundation of clouds. What did the clouds rest on? Clouds never rest, they are always on the move. Fast as thoughts.
Most of the day, the clouds above, below, inside, and between the shops and houses were the mundane gray-white. Severe weather might give the thoughts of Ymir Pan’Gu a darker aspect, but the most dramatic changes happened when they had sunlight to play with. The birds could always count on two “shows” to top every night and day. Typically in that order.
Clouds could not be compelled to make their polychrome extravaganzas. Only when the mood struck them did they turn red, orange, yellow, pink, or purple. None stayed the color they started as for long. Clouds traded with their partners, a red would bump into a yellow, and both would come out a bit orange. Showtimes varied depending on season. Transitions sometimes only lasting a few minutes. Then, the clouds rested. The comparative boredom of the average white/gray/black palette as seen from Earth was in actuality because clouds need breaks, just like everyone else.
At Nephelokokkygia’s heart, buildings were taller than those along the far edges. Every artistic flourish adorned them. The visitors could not turn without spotting murals, stained glass, spired towers, ornate arches, or flags. Treasures, too, were embedded in the architecture: gold, silver, jewels.
Citizens clustered as close to the gondola as possible. Every bird breed Grace had seen in her life, with plenty she never knew existed. The unpredictable appearance of a human and griffin was probably the most they had to gossip about since they started losing their heads.
Next to the Congress House stood a cathedral-sized structure like a regular white chicken egg, somehow balancing on its pointed end. Its lack of windows or doors might be explained by it being laid by a bird bigger than the Aniwye and Djieien combined.
Melek explained to Grace and Goldtalon that after abolishing the position of king, Nephelokokkygia became governed by a congress consisting of thirty birds, called “the Simurgh.” The signal spread by his extra eyes must have gotten out. Politicians were already entering. While not as voluminous as the egg-cathedral, the House had the distinct advantage of doors and windows.
At the time, Grace did not notice exact details of each individual present. Too many novelties existed to pluck her attention away from any one area. Goldtalon was even more distracted. You, however, have plenty time to familiarize yourself with the birds composing the Simurgh. If things go by too quickly the first time, just read it over again. Like so:
There, in the reception area, is a flamingo, Diego Featherstone, leaning on one leg. Before the spores, he had plenty of friends, keeping a personal garden where he was tickled pink entertaining madcaps of gnomes. (“Madcap” is the proper name for a group of gnomes.) Now he was stuck with Falkland Malvinas.
Falkland was a Chinstrap Penguin who carried a cane and wore a top hat and monocle. For the rest of his appearance, there exists no scientific method to determine where his feathers ended and his tuxedo began. He insisted “We really should start walking upside-down. It’s quite the fashion at the South Pole.”
“What about gravity?” Diego responded lazily. He offered shrimp cocktails to anyone passing by.
“As I recall from my Iceberg League university, it was discovered by a man who turned lead to gold.”
Standing tall by the penguin, pecking and boxing the air, was Fujian Tzu, a white crane with a black ring around his middle. As usual, he was bragging about his son. “My boy’s learned the secret to win battles. Since he’s his own worst enemy, he technically never loses a fight!”
Beagle Brahe, a cream-colored finch, nodded. He wore his best beak for this session of congress. After losing a duel in the Galapagos, he began wearing a metal prosthetic to cover his ruined mouth. Far from shame, this proved his source of pride. Instead of owning one beak, he began a collection, each modified for size or sharpness depending on what he planned to eat. A narrow, pointed beak assumed insects, whereas a heavy, thick beak implied seeds. His beak today was somewhere in-between.
A toucan, Ramphastos Molhada, tried to sip from a thin glass with a tiny umbrella. This proved impossible, as her beak, banana-colored on top and pepper-colored on bottom, was larger than the rest of her face. Giving up, she chatted with her distant cousin, a woodpecker named Picus Jinx. “And that’s why I mean to settle on the all-fruit diet… next week.”
“Yeah, uh-huh. Interesting.” Picus scratched the red crest on top of his head before boring a hole into the desk where he sat. He had carved his initials there, but spelled it wrong the first time.
Olive Cyprus, a dove, demanded Picus “Stop this at once!” Against his stereotyped nature, Olive strongly supported violence—so long as it was done to living things instead of objects, which he considered too important. His head constantly bobbed, turning beady resentful eyes on everyone else. It seemed clear to everyone except him that he acted haughty to compensate for the worry he might be mistaken for a common pigeon who fell into white paint.
A wild turkey named Abraham Snood complained he had nothing to feel thankful for. “Really, I can’t think of anything off the top of my head.”
“Kweee,” called a pheasant named Francolin Byzantine, presently disentangling himself from a snare he somehow stepped in. “How about the fact that you still have a head to top off? Quite a few American turkeys don’t. Instead, they’re served besides potatoes and cranberries. And I’ve heard unspeakable, dark doings which involve ‘stuffing.’” His white collar contracted with a gulp. “Makes me thankful I’m from Turkey, the country!”
“That’s the thinking!” a bluebird named Joy Qingniao invaded their personal space. “Thankfulness is the first step to happiness, and happiness…well, it’s self-evident why you’d want that.”
“Not to me.” An ostrich named Strythio Modestus alternately talked and dipped his beak into a glass of water. Amazingly, his blue bowler hat never fell off. “Happiness puts your head in the clouds. I like to keep my head to the ground, so I can see my feet are there and I’m not drifting into space.” His drinking left a growing puddle on the floor. Like Dodo Clarion, Strythio was a member of the Flightless Bird Party, but often mentioned, as now, "We prefer the term ‘Differently Flying’ instead of ‘flightless.’”
“Flightless? There ain’t no flying ‘cept flying,” a Ruby-Throated Hummingbird named Huitzilopochtli Saccharine set to debating. Though his diet consisted entirely of nectar, he was far from sweet in disposition, being an avid war proponent. The white breast on his tiny, green body puffed. His long beak always stuck into other’s business, but he quickly got bored and buzzed to bother someone else before they could fight him. Once, Olive Cyprus challenged him, but they passed a joint resolution for the outcome to never be mentioned.
Besides the hummingbird, a dull brown wren was the smallest in congress. He fidgeted nervously among so many meat-eaters. The Simurgh understandably had a rule against politicians devouring each other, but you never know. He usually forgot his name, but his parents called him Christopher Paul. His anxiety never prevented him from snatching any unattended insects off other congressfowl’s plates, but he gave a wide berth to Bennu and his flames.
You have likely seen people with otherwise unwrinkled faces suddenly gain crinkly eyes when smiling. Kingston Eucalyptus, a kookaburra, had the same feature, except with dark brown strips at his eyes. “Oh, lighten up, everyone! If you feel sick, find somethin’ to laugh about. If you’re among the healthy (which so few hereabouts are today, ha-ha!), well it’s enough to laugh at your good fortune!” He fluttered. Turquoise stripes shimmered on his wings.
Kingston could not have joked before a worse audience. Mariner Goon was an albatross, and largest figure in a coalition of Sea Birds. Even factoring the jocular company he kept, Goon had an exceptionally gloomy outlook. He drank a cup of briny seawater, one drop at a time, stopping after each to complain to those nearby about the heavy human-shaped necklace he was forced to wear after losing a dice game.
Hearing him drone, Grace felt Goon would get along well with Diana. That is, once she and Bennu convinced the Simurgh of their friends’ good intentions.
A canary named Fido Newcastle listened sympathetically to Goon when not dizzily tipping over and struggling for air. He had once been pristine yellow, but was so caked under layers of soot he was left permanently gray. “The mine! The mine! Underneath stones. We’re all being poisoned. Nobody else sees it. Icy outside, hot deep down.”
“Young lady.” Grace had caught the penguin’s attention.
Given the reaction of the dodo, she expected the worst. For a time, Falkland did not speak. Simply appraised the dress O had given.
“I must say, your gown’s absolutely marvelous! You realized the Simurgh has a strict dress code, which you’ve brilliantly lived up to.”
Grace did not think it polite to point out that, in the main, the birds in the hall were naked.
A Peregrine Falcon quickly identifying herself as “Hobby Rufter” flew to Grace’s shoulder. Her claws were sharper than any corvid’s. She did not seem to notice her discomfort. Then again, a hood covered the hawk’s eyes. “There’s lots of heat coming off you.”
Grace shook her head. “It’s my friend Bennu who makes things hot. We were just with him, though.” She turned in a circle. In all the bustle, she and Goldtalon somehow lost track of their friend, and Melek.
“Wasn’t the kind of heat I was speaking of,” responded Hobby. “It’s more like something in your blood, like what you have with your griffin.” Under her hood, she stared directly at Goldtalon. “Lots of birds here hate humans, especially those who’re endangered. Not me, though. Just wanted to mention I represent the Raptor Party, which includes eagles. Perhaps we can go hunting sometime.”
“We eat it after?” asked Goldtalon.
Grace did not like the sound of hunting, but could not respond to Hobby, anyway. The falcon skipped off to two birds on the verge of fighting.
Sterling Dewata, a Bird-of-Paradise from Papua New Guinea, shook his long skirts. His custard-and-green head rolled with his flapping red wings. His blue feet stomped. “By all rights, the lotus fruit is mine!”
“Listen here, pretty birdy!” yelled a Blue-and-Yellow Macaw named Eco Repeticion. “And listen twice if you’ve turned deaf as well as dumb: by all rights, the lotus fruit is mine!”
Ramphastos was present. (In fact, many birds had gathered in a ring around the anticipated struggle.) When Goldtalon wondered aloud what a lotus was, the toucan explained “It’s a fruit that steals memories, until the only thing you remember is wanting to eat more. Very bad for diets.”
“Sounds like something sold in Yokai-Town,” mumbled Grace.
Before the brawl progressed, someone called on the Speaker of the House, named Solomon Tereus, to intervene. Grace saw a rather ridiculous-looking bird called a hoopoe, whose bright orange mohawk took up over half his headspace.
Solomon declared “We shall cut this fruity bit of foodstuff in half.”
Hobby Rufter offered her claw. Once the lotus fruit—just catching a whiff off the white petals made Grace briefly forget her senses—was divided down the middle, the disputing birds gazed intently at what the hoopoe would decide.
“Now, these two parts will be given to me. And I will eat both in front of you.” Solomon Tereus clapped his wings.
The Bird-of-Paradise squinted. “What if you just gave half the fruit to me, and the other half to Eco Repeticion?”
“Yes,” agreed the Macaw, “What if you just gave half the fruit to me, and the other half to Ec…I mean ‘Sterling Dewata’?”
Instead of responding immediately, Solomon Tereus popped both halves of the white fruit into his mouth. “Erhem, yes…the issue I saw here was the two of you were arguing. Now, I’ve granted you common ground.”
“Which is?” asked Sterling Dewata.
“Which is?” asked Eco Repeticion.
“Now you are both angry at me!” Solomon Tereus clapped his wings again. “You know, I do believe there’s a lesson in all this: the envier of my envy is my fiend.”
“That’s a horrible lesson. Now we’re hungry.” Sterling Dewata fumed, which Eco Repeticion matched.
“Well,” Solomon Tereus flustered a moment, “Granted, I’m not an official member of the judicial branch. Would you both prefer I call the Inquisitor?”
The Bird-of-Paradise shrieked. The Macaw followed, with the exact same pitch and intensity.
The hoopoe began saying “You know, I do believe there’s a lesson…” but Grace moved on. Goldtalon trotted behind her.
They passed a cassowary named Captain Casque Phobetor, commander of a ship of nightmares. Nearly the same height as Bennu, he had an ancient, even reptilian, quality. Grace preferred zoos to museums (after all, one usually cannot strike up a conversation with something taxidermied) but she remembered visiting a paleontology exhibit. At the time, she wondered what dinosaurs would look like if they were not left nude.
She had some inkling now. The cassowary’s head was bright, gold-flecked blue, with two red wattles and a black beak which merged into a horny protuberance on his forehead. His shiny, quill-covered torso appeared to be missing wings. He moved lithely on gray, scaly feet, whose three nails could pass for daggers. Whether a glare from his interrogating eyes or a kick from a muscular leg, Captain Phobetor could make anyone spill their guts. But he let Grace and her griffin pass without issue.
Even more reptilian than the cassowary, but smaller (about raven-height) was Archaeopteryx, leaning against a thin, smooth marble plate. He went by no proper name because when he was born, they were not as popular as they are today. One simply did not need names in the time of dinosaurs. When the original Simurgh formed, Archaeopteryx was cordially invited to join.
Why not? He had the feathers of a bird, and while the “wings” attached to his knuckles were hardly good for flying, neither were those of the penguin or ostrich. So what if he had the head of a lizard? He was welcomed with open wings at the time, but had yet to retire. Younger birds like Confuciusornis, Anthropornis, and Moa had discussed instituting “term limits,” but nothing ever came of it.
A robin, Sherwood Burnett (nicknamed “Red-Breast,” though her chest was really orange) proved ever-eager to take from the rich and give to the poor. She offered archery lessons to Grace as she walked by, but the girl waved her off.
Numerous benches were available. Congressfowl eyed the girl and her griffin with naked interest, but whether kindly or with malice proved difficult to determine. Grace chose a spot designated for the Corvid Representative.
Goldtalon spotted Bennu, sitting by his peacock mentor on the opposite side of the round room. This was also where Dodo Clarion pranced. The two allies kept their eyes—yes, all of them—on the dodo.
While some magpies had been in O’s cages, Grace never saw one up-close. They resembled various corvid types she knew, but at the same time. Like a raven, Septima Hamelin had a black head and legs. Her wings and tail were similar to a bluejay, albeit larger. Her beak was blue. The lower half of her body was white, but a soft white without Chiaroscuro’s salt-and-pepper or the pink undertones of Ol’ Hoary and Albumen.
Goldtalon sat on Hamelin’s other side. “So many bright things!” The green flecks in his orange eyes danced. His cat hindquarters coiled. “I see gold, like I’m named for. Do you like shiny stuff, miss magpie?”
Hamelin sniffed. “If you are implying, young raptor, that as a magpie I must naturally be drawn to—and consequently steal and hoard—shiny objects, I shall disabuse you of that notion! I have no interest in jewels, so-called precious metals, or anything flashy.”
“He didn’t mean to offend you,” Grace jumped in. “Isn’t that right, Goldtalon?” The griffin nodded. “He can’t help thinking that way. Wanting treasure is in his species’ nature. He even hatched from an agate.”
“Hm, then it is my turn to apologize,” Hamelin responded coolly. “It’s just such a terrible stereotype to be burdened with because of your breed. But ‘I’m sorry’ is just a phrase. You originate from Earth? It’s also rumored you’re an augur. Citizen of Nephelokokkygia need only look down to espy what goes on among terrestrial birds. Any friends you’d care to hear about?”
An amazing thing about the floor of congress was it did not actually exist. Granted, something supported their weight. Looking down, however, all Grace saw was blue sky, the occasional cloud drifting by. Maybe the floor was glass. (It did not feel slippery enough to be ice.) Regardless, there was a clear view below.
Grace described the city she and the Murder lived in. According to the magpie, Albumen (for as Hamelin described the crows, Grace readily identified them) was presently leading Dusky, Waif, Jackanapes, Offal, and Rags back to their city. “There’s also something flying before these six crowlings. Hard to make out. A wispy, shadowy thing.”
That could be the ghost of Chiaroscuro, or a banshee. Whatever the truth, when Hamelin turned her trained eyes to the park near Grace’s neighborhood, she spotted two adult crows waiting in a hollow who could only be Mrs. Tatters and Ol’ Hoary.
It was good news that the Murder would be reunited, even if Grace would not be there to see it. But what she really wanted to know about was her own family. The magpie claimed she could not tell any of the million people down there apart.
“Birds can be black, white, brown, red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple, or any mixture of the above. Compared to that, humans are all the same color.” Nephelokokkygia citizens only bothered watching over other birds.
Grace bowed her head. The leather bag in her lap felt like an anchor dragging her down into the blue.
“I see we have a griffin present.” A vulture sat beside Goldtalon. He nearly had to squish himself in, for his wingspan almost matched the griffin, being longer than Grace’s entire body. “My cousin’s also a griffin, at least by name. Lacks your…feline features.” He introduced himself as “Torgo Ghoulish.”
Had Grace not previously met a banshee, she would have described Ghoulish’s face as “skull-like.” With context, she figured he had plenty of flesh on his head, even if it resembled rotten hamburger. Besides his bald red head and stringy neck crossed by blue veins, he had plumage so dark-brown it might as well have been black. Feathers formed a collar around his neck. Grace was remined how vampires in film posters always wore capes.
Pandora Crepuscular, a nightjar, sat directly behind Grace, sucking a box of goat milk. Though she shied from attention, Ghoulish called her the senior member of the Nocturnal Avian Coalition. Her black eyes blinked to avoid contact with anyone’s gaze. Grace could appreciate that. The rest of Pandora’s body was a mottled set of browns that would perfectly camouflage her amongst bark and dead leaves.
Hamelin pointed out to Grace and Goldtalon a black swan named Ilyich Christian, silently dancing in the middle of the room. Since Ramphastos and Picus thought he was having a fit, they called for a nurse. Kingston informed them the nightingale was obviously busy caring for the infected.
Hamelin laughed, explaining “Christian’s just practicing for his final performance. He realized years ago, even back when other baby birds teased him for his ugliness: life is nothing but a dance with Death. To some, Death is a partner to be struggled with. They’re desperate to take the lead even if they wind up falling flat on the ballroom floor. Others are comfortable following Death’s lead, focusing on one step at a time. Some dance well, others lack rhythm.
Some dances last a long time, others prove tragically brief. The only music that exists, however, is the kind they make themselves.”
“How do you make music?” asked Grace.
“Why, by living, of course,” said Ghoulish.
Hamelin nodded. “It’s very personal. No two individuals write the same death-song. And all are kept secret until after they’ve already passed on. In Valhalla, there’s an entire room full of sheet music made by the living. Unfortunately, there’s only one organ to play them on, and for being built of nail clippings, the instrument’s too heavy to move for outside concerts.”
“If you’ve been to Valhalla, have you ever met someone named Lady Mondegreen?” Grace mostly asked to distract from thoughts of home.
“Quiet!” yelled Muck S. F. Ruckus, a green-headed duck from the Waterfowl Caucus.
Ilyich Christian rushed to his designated seat, as did the other Simurgh members. The crowd settled, putting away any food or drink, and ceased all noise, be it conversations, arguments, boasts, complaints, fights, laughs, or drilling their beak against wood.
An ibis stenographer established all thirty birds were in attendance, in addition to the three visitors. Solomon Tereus, as Speaker of the House, called congress into session.
Everyone stood before sitting down. Then they had to stand back up for some reason, before finally taking their seats once more.
Sherwood introduced Bennu and his companions, plus the terrible circumstances that made the emergency session necessary. “By which, I mean, the p-l-a-g-u-e,” she spelled out each letter as if doing so would keep those present from getting sick. She detailed how everyone should get their time to speak.
Bennu fidgeted beside Melek. No doubt bursting to tell the assembled the good news of his quest. Grace’s guts twisted in a cat’s cradle, but she was prepared to produce the ingredients. Goldtalon felt happy to observe. He never saw so many avians.
As it turned out, the robin’s policy enabled another visitor to Nephelokokkygia their time to speak. Though doors to the floor had already closed, claws crackling with flame forced them apart.
Mr. Aitvaras marched to the center of the room. He had abandoned his human disguise entirely, being the same smoky, demonic rooster Grace and the Murder fought the night he burned down her mother’s church. Around his red, wattled neck hung a gold chain, supporting an equally gold scroll.