Chapter Text
Your name is John Egbert.
You’re all of nine years old, although you feel a lot older most of the time, and you supposedly haven’t had that much in the way of life experience. Your interests include movies that everyone else thinks are terrible and piano and avoiding your father’s many attempts to fatten you up on cake. By now, you’re pretty sure he’s fattening you up to be a sacrifice for the pagan god that he gets his fatherly powers from. You think it’s unfortunate that you don’t have a brother or a sister to take your place on the pagan altar when you’re half-convinced you’ll end up dying.
Actually, sometimes it feels like you do have a sister. Sometimes, a name crawls out of the tight knot of sadness that sits permanently in your tummy, crawls up your throat and balances on the tip of your tongue. The name hovers there for a while. Seconds or minutes, or hours or days. No matter how long it sits there for, it can never quite manage to jump off. The name always slides back down your throat and re-joins the heavy feeling in your tummy. Sometimes you can just about forget that there’s anything heavy in your tummy at all, but it doesn’t happen often.
As people go, you’re not a very interesting person.
You haven’t got enough darkness in you to make you scary or complex. You’re just kind and sweet enough to be dismissed as a ‘nice guy’, the kind of guy that people are aware of liking and not much else.
You guess you could be interesting, if you knew what to do with all that weight and that sadness. You could be like Batman. You could be like Van Gogh, all those other artists who take their pain and put them into paint or paper.
But you don’t know what to do, and you’re not like an artist.
You’re just a kid that knows a little bit too much about himself already. You’re just John Egbert; a nice guy.
The sky is a heavy grey today. The kind of grey that makes the sky look like it is bowing inwards and about to collapse on top of everything. Faint rumbles overhead promise thunder, and the black colouring of the bellies of the cloud make you very glad you have an umbrella sticking out of the top of your bag. You hum to yourself as you walk along the streets, excited in anticipation of the puddles that will soon be everywhere. Nothing more satisfying than the splash and splatter of rain-puddles underneath your gumboots.
Also, you like to pretend, when you’re dressed in your yellow slicker, that you’re in a Stephen King movie. You wander up and down your street and peer into the storm drains, muttering under your breath: “Everything floats down here.”
Technically, you’re not supposed to have seen that movie. But your dad left in it in the DVD player one night. Unable to resist your curiosity, you sneaked downstairs and watched the first half hour in headphones. The next night you did the same thing until you had managed to finish the movie. There were no nightmares, as your father warned you could and would come with the consumption of horror movies at your early age. The only negative effect so far has been a slight distrust (and it’s logical anyway, you think) of clowns and a love for Tim Curry that almost rivals your love for Nicholas Cage. Almost. No one can really beat Nicholas Cage.
Knowing how many movies you could be watching right now, you grow frustrated by the thought of how far you’ll have to walk before you get home. Two more streets at least! Breaking into a run, you grab your backpack and pull it tight against your back so it doesn’t flop stupidly all over the place.
It occurs to you that you might not be so eager to get home and in front of the TV if you had somebody to play with. Most of the kids play with their friends after school. Then again, most kids have to be picked up from school, or walked home by their parents even if they live on the same block as the school. You live two and a half blocks away and your dad lets you walk home by yourself.
You don’t mind being different. But it wouldn’t be so bad to have someone to play soccer with, to help you build forts on the river and to maybe play dragons and knights.
With these thoughts rattling around in your head, you dash up your gravel drive and retrieve the key from underneath the plant pot. The rumble of thunder competes with the crashes as you toss your bag off and throw your damp shoes in the general direction of the shoe-rack, pulling on a pair of water-proof boots. Zooming into the kitchen, you wrinkle your nose at the sight of half a plate of cookies that have your name on them and reach for an apple instead.
Your dad will be home before five, which gives you about an hour and a half to play. Technically you’re not supposed to go outside on your own, and especially not into the woods. He’s filled your head with stranger danger since you were old enough to stand up on your own. He says there’s no better place for monsters and bad men to hide than in the woods that your yard backs onto, but you don’t believe him.
In your opinion, monsters belong in the vacuum of space. Monsters whizz past the astronauts in giant meteors and call each other strange names, or they live in pipe-organs covered in oil. While other kids checked underneath their bed for the monsters, you lifted up the lid of the piano (despite the warnings that you could crush your fingers doing that) and searched for little, stunted figures lurking underneath the strings.
Bad men? Well they’re all over the place. It’s only a matter of time until you run into a bad man, so you might as well live it up until you do and you’re scared too badly to go outside.
To make sure it looks like you were hanging around, you stick a DVD in the TV and fast-forward it to the very end, leaving it paused. This way, when you get home stained with berry-juice and a little muddy, you can make it look like you went straight from the TV to the bath.
It has occurred to you more than once that you’re kind of like a spy. An undercover agent that’s only pretending to be a kid.
You slip the key to the back-door into your pocket and make sure to shut it tightly behind you. In the afternoon, the forest is brightly green and welcoming. The lowest branches are bare and tan and just demand that you scale them and get a good look at the rooftops of your neighbourhood. Even with the thunderclouds hanging over your head and the tree-tops being tossed from side-to-side in the wind, the forest isn’t scary at all.
You rush to it without sparing a backwards glance at your house. There’s a loose board in the fence that you have dug a shallow hole underneath, allowing you to squeeze your little body underneath it and to freedom. When you straighten up, you have a lot of dirt to brush off the front of your slicker, but you don’t mind.
Like a foraging animal, you have made your own path into the forest. Since it has so far only been pounded out by little feet, the track is so faint most would miss it if they didn’t already know it was there. The grass is waist-high on you and full of long-stalked daises and crickets that leap out of your way at the last possible moment. Once or twice, you have to throw up a hand in front of your face to stop one from getting into your mouth or hair.
At night when your father washes the dishes, he sometimes beckons you over and puts you on the counter so you can see the fireflies. The forest is lousy with them. When darkness falls, the bugs ripple in great swathes between the trees, like a procession of ghosts or fairies. He’ll ruffle your hair with a soapy hand and tell you about his visits to the reservation when he was your age. Back then, he says, they had so many fireflies that you had to take a paper fan with you to push them away if you were going to walk through them. Even then, you’d step out of the fields looking like a disco ball.
You’ve already decided that when you get older, you’ll tell your kids all about this forest.
About the little trail you made, and how it circles the oak trees where owls slept and mice were afraid to go. How it loops around a boulder twice because you look for a badger’s set as you go by, and have to pass twice every time just to make sure you didn’t see its little black eyes glittering from the hole under the rock. How it takes you through a little clearing full of bluebells that looks like a scene right out of a fairy tale, where swallows crowd the tree-tops and squirrels march up to you to demand nuts if you happen to have found some.
Finally, you’ll tell them about your stream and the fort beside it.
The fort isn’t much. You had to build it by yourself and you’re not very strong. That kind of heavy-ish labour is hard to do with only one pair of hands. The fort is built onto the back of a rock so if your front or side walls ever fall away, at least you’ll always have a back wall to prop up the corrugated roof on. You brought some of the spare curtain material and carpet from the stash in the garage to keep out the drafts and to sit on. You learned the hard way not to keep a food stash here- that attracts squirrels, badgers and foxes.
The fort leans on the rock by the side of a wide stream that’s so shallow your ankles are barely submerged when you step into it. During the big rains, the stream turns into a smaller river that carries a lot of dirt so you can’t see the bottom anymore. Today, the stream is clear and cold, and a shoal of fish no bigger than your pinkie dart between the moss covered rocks. You plunge your hands into the water and throw a handful of it into your face. The temperature makes you feel like a layer of your face is being peeled back, but it always looks really cool in the movies.
You’re wiping the water from your eyes when you hear the first cry.
More of a tiny, pathetic peep actually, the noise a lost kitten will make. Or maybe a baby bird that has fallen from its nest. Freezing in place, you strain your ears. The was only one cry, so weal and quiet you’re not sure you heard it at all. You’re about to pass it off as a trick played by your ears when the tiny sound comes again. This time, you’re sure you’ve heard it because the sound sends a stab of pity straight to your heart.
Determined to find the suffering thing, you straighten up and creep forward carefully. Your eyes wander across the ground, searching. You’re very careful of where you put your feet as you step into the grass.
Another peep comes from behind you. You turn around and spy something brightly coloured and very small lying in the grass. You kneel a safe distance from it. You part the curtains of grass with hands that tremble from a sudden rush of adrenalin.
It is a bird. Almost.
When its big, red eyes find you, the noise that comes out of its beak is certainly a bird’s chirp. But it’s only a bird from the waist up. After the swell of its downy chest and back, where its tail should be, there is a torso the size of your little forearm that tapers off into a smooth, scaly tail. Kind of like the body of a snake, but a little thicker, a little more fluid. It has something like feet, in the place where arms would be. Small limbs that end in the curl of tiny claws, like a chicken’s feet or a T-rex’s arms.
“Wow.” you breathe.
The bird’s feathers are a bright orange shot through with pale yellowish-whites and reds that match its eyes. It’s wings are a lot bigger than they should be for a bird its size- obviously not that much older than a baby. They’re kind of like a crow’s in shape, though you’re not sure if you’ve ever seen wings so well-defined and glossy.
Then again, you’ve never seen a bird that has little arms like a T-rex and a snake’s tail too.
The bird lies on its stomach with its wings tightly folded over its back. The tail is drawn up close, but not tucked underneath it. You see a large, red scrape running the length of the tail and your heart melts.
You start to talk softly to it “I’ve never seen anything like you before.”
The bird lowers its head and tucks it into its breast, shivering.
“Oh, hey, I’m not gonna hurt you. You’re just a little kid, right? Don’t worry. I am too. I wouldn’t hurt you. I’m not mean like that.”
You’ve seen cornered cats attack people before. Their fur sticks straight up and they arch their backs and hiss, then swipe with their sharp claws. This bird looks more scared than aggressive, but you know fear can quickly turn to violence.
You’re not sure how you know….only that the lesson wasn’t taught to you by any movie.
“You’re hurt,” your eyes are drawn to the long, deep cut in the tail “Let me help you.”
How will you help it? You’re sure you couldn’t take it to the vet. One of the lessons that a movie did teach you; as soon as the government gets wind of something weird, they send in scientists with all kinds of nasty experiments to do. ET has traumatised you towards any kind of government contact, and that’s probably not a bad thing.
They probably would take the bird-snake-thing away to cut it up and see how it got made. Steven Spielberg wouldn’t lie, would he? So the vet is out of the question.
“My dad can help,” you offer “He was raised on magic and stuff by his grandma. We’re Chinookan. We kinda…we kinda believe in not-normal stuff, I guess, like magics and animal spirits. Wow that sounds racist.”
It suddenly occurs to you that your dad might be right to hold a cautious belief in animal spirits. After all, what else could this be, but an spirit?
“Are you…are you my spirit guardian?”
You feel silly the moment the question is out of your mouth, but the bird stops shivering at last. It lifts its head and peers at you with heavily-lidded eyes (do birds have eyelids?), clicking its beak slowly.
It looks so tired.
“So, not my spirit guardian then,” you say with a sheepish smile “Sorry. You’re just a bit weird…listen, it’s gonna start raining.”
The bird stares back at you. You almost get the feeling it understands you. There is a definite gleam of intelligence in those big, dark eyes. Reaching forward carefully, you open your palm and put the back of your hand on the floor, a few inches from the bird’s beak. Like offering your hand to a dog.
And the bird does lean forward ever so slightly. It doesn’t sniff at your hand like you hope it will, but it does graze the tips of your fingers ever so lightly with its beak.
You smile “See? I won’t hurt you.”
Thunder booms overhead.
The bird lurches upright at once and begins to scoot forward on its tail. It presses its head into your out-stretched hand and nuzzles you like a cat would. You stroke the top of its glossy head and are surprised to feel a slight warmth under its feathers, the kind of vestigial warmth you would feel if you touched a surface where a candle had been lit a moment before.
Its wings are tucked tightly into its back. You resist the urge to reach down and pet those too- you get the feeling it’s a fragile, sensitive area and you don’t want to scare the bird off.
With your free hand, you unzip the front of your rain slicker “Here.”
The bird pauses for a second, seeming to consider what it is about to do.
You wonder if they taught it stranger danger back at its nest. What kind of nest would this thing come from anyway, a snake’s, or a birds? Are there more like it?
The bird presses into your shirt and shudders again, making you shudder in turn with it. A soft chirrup buzzes in its throat as it pulls itself into your shirt. The same, strained cry that first summoned you comes again as it tucks its injured tail in after it. Beads of blood trickle down its tail. Afraid for it, you gently cup its back and help it to straighten out so the tail can hang. A little of the blood smears onto your hand, and it’s like touching cooling wax.
“All good?”
The bird looks up at you and chirps. Taking that as a yes, you zip the bird into your jacket, careful not to catch any of its feathers. Now, the bird is carefully situated inside your slicker and has made a sort of hammock of your shirt. The tail hangs out to the side so it looks like you’re the one with the tail. You’re painfully aware of how slim and light this warm, shivering body pressed into your chest is. You absolutely cannot fall over and land on it, no matter what.
“Are you hungry?”
You reach into your pocket and retrieve a single blackberry from the small cache you picked on your way over. The bird twists its head to the side and pinches the flesh of the berry with the side of its beak, then snaps it back in one swift movement. The way it moved, it was almost like the bird went out of its way not to peck your hand.
“You are smart, aren’t you?”
It closes its eyes. Suddenly, its downy feathers inflate and make it swell to twice its size. You can’t help but giggle and run your finger over the top of the fluff.
“Like a penguin.”
The bird lets out a weak peep, reminding you it is in pain. You set off, looking all around for another blotch of orange in the forest.
“Do you have a mom? A dad?” you ask “How about a nest? Tell you what, I’ll take you home right now and then tomorrow, when I haven’t got school, I’ll look all over the place for your nest. If I find your parent, then I’ll take them to you…I’m not sure how that will work, but we can figure that out.”
The trip home seems to be an eternity. You’re painfully aware that every step you take sends a jolt through the bird’s entire body. How much more blood can it lose before it dies? What the heck are you going to tell your dad, and how is he going to help such an alien creature?
As the wind roars in the tree-tops, your mind buzzes with worries.
So far it’s been sweet enough, but that could change. That could change fast and violently. What if it’s some kind of horrible monster and wants to feast on your bones? What if it finishes you off and waits, glutted and satisfied in the armchair, until your father comes home and pounces on him?
What the heck is he?
And when did it become a ‘he’ in your head?
And why do you get the sneaking suspicion that you’ve seen something like this- an animal that was bird and snake- outside of your day-dreams?
For the briefest second you consider dropping him and running, forgetting you ever saw him, but he picks this exact second to turn his face to your chest and nuzzle your chest, letting out the tiniest peep yet. The guilt that washes over you actually makes you dizzy. Yeah, you’re going to be feeling terrible about that for a long, long time.
“We’re almost there.” you promise, even though you’ve still got to get past the boulder and the crickets’ field.
The path finally seems to start moving around you. Something shifts in your mind- a switch from an urge to get him safe to a choice that he is yours to keep safe. You think. You’re not exactly sure what it is. The back of your throat itches like one of the names is about to climb out of your tummy.
In no time at all, you have passed the boulder. You don’t bother to circle it twice, although you’re sure you catch a glimpse of black fur retreating into the set.
The bird perks up a little bit as you pass through the crickets. You shield your face with one hand and his with the other, but he tries to get around your hand. He must be hungry. You file away his reaction to the crickets, planning to come later back to gather some for him.
Just as you’re ready to dash across the field and hop the fence to your back yard, the heavens open up. Rain comes down suddenly in a sheet and brings thunder and lightning with it. The winds grow fierce and cold, like razors cutting into your skin. You tug your jacket up over the bird’s face to protect him as best you can. With your heart thudding in your chest, you run into the rain. Thankfully, your slicker does a good job of keeping the rain out. Squinting, you can just about keep the rain from blinding you, but it’s coming down so thick it’s hard to tell where you’re going.
If you hadn’t made this trip over a hundred times, you’d have no idea where you were going.
Even saying that you almost bump right into the fence. Suddenly, you’re presented with the conundrum of how to get over the fence. You can’t very well scoot under it on your belly like you would normally do, crushing the bird. In a moment the hole under the loose board will become a mud puddle anyway and you know from harsh experience it’s not a good idea to squeeze under that when the ground is soft and spongy.
“Hang on, I’m just gonna stick you over the fence in case I fall over.”
The bird makes a small peep of distress as you take him out of your slicker. Unable to bear it, you stri your slicker off as quick as you can with one hand and wrap the bird up into it. Then you pry the loose board up and hold it up with your foot, putting the bird under it. Once he is safely on the other side, you grab the top of the boards and hoist yourself up and over laboriously. Your hands slip more than twice and get a few splinters every time. The inside of your legs are scratched and pricked through your jeans. When you finally manage to get your feet planted on your own lawn, you look like you fought a vicious log with your bare hands and lost.
You scoop the bird up, still huddled into your slicker, and get the back door open as fast as you can. Once inside, you have to push against the door to get it shut. The wind wants to blow it back open and squish you against the wall. Finally, you stumble sopping and stinging into the living room, kicking off your boots as you pass through the hall.
“Well, we’re safe now.” you say to the bird.
You ease him out of the slicker and put him on the couch, nestled between two cushions.
“I’m gonna go upstairs to change. Stay right where you are.”
The bird blinks at you.
You feel a sudden, inexplicable urge to offer your name. It’s like when your throat itches with the names you’re supposed to know, except this time the word comes away with no trouble.
“My name is John.”
Then you run upstairs, dripping all the way. Shivering, you select a pair of long-sleeved pants and a long-sleeved shirt, then two sweaters. You figure you’ll wrap the bird up in one after you’ve towelled him off. You head downstairs, the towel and the sweater in your hand, formulating an excuse and an explanation for your father in your head.
The bird is gone when you get back.
The tail has become a pair of battered, bruised legs that are cut open at the knees. The plumage has retreated, leaving skin as pale as a corpse’s in its wake, which is nearly bruised black and cut to ribbons too. You can almost count his ribs through his skin. His hair is light and blonde, almost white, like the streaks that ran through his red feathers. He has folded his arms tightly across his bare chest and hunches over, covering himself as best he can. The wings have stayed in place, shiny with water and blood.
He looks sheepishly up at you through a curtain of hair.
“My name is Dave.”