Matthew Kirkpatrick
They started at the edge of the forest and looked out across the old field using their hands to shield their eyes from the setting sun. All of them in a row, ready to go. The air felt nice for a change, lighter, the particulate density so low they could see forever. Behind them, the forest steamed and seemed to be moving as if it was one living thing, the thickets of trees and bushes and tall grasses gyrating together in the warm wind as dusk crept in. Misty in front led Ron, who watched her closely from behind—how she lifted her chin and focused her gaze, scanning the orangish horizon looking for danger, no doubt, though really, what was there to be afraid of?
When it seemed like everybody was sure, Misty looked back and gave Ron a big wink, the kind of wink that in another context—say the two of them at opposite ends of a long, crowded picnic table about to dive into a hot bucket of prairie clams—might mean something else entirely, but here he took it just to mean that she was happy to be his lead and she was happy to think that he was happy following her. He returned her wink. Mentor-on-mentee winking. He was, he thought, really happy to be following her, happy to be given the chance to learn whatever there was to learn about whatever it was they were about to do. It just seemed old-fashioned. A little outdated. But whatever; he was happy and ready to follow.
Up the line Ashley whistled, stuck her finger up and swirled it around. Go time!
Misty skulked into the field and Ron followed behind with his bag open and in front.
His favorite bag was an obvious discard he'd found blowing along as if it was meant just for him the way the sunlight glinted off the shiny inside at just the right moment. He was sure it was a signal only he could see. He couldn't believe his good fortune, couldn't believe that somebody hadn't claimed it—bright and orange and blue with an image of a whimsical-looking cat-creature chasing after orange curls of excrement with its mouth. Maybe you've seen a bag like this? The other bags he'd plucked from the bag tree were unadorned and functional—big openings, handles. He held his colorful sack in front, ready for whatever Misty would toss his way.
What are we doing, exactly? he whispered. They had to be swift and quiet, careful not to alert whatever it was that they were afraid of. He'd been an apprentice for so long—collecting bags, doing his jumping jacks, learning the stories—he could hardly believe he was finally in the field with all the other bag boys and their girls, about to do something even if he didn't know what.
Shut the fuck up, she said. I'll tell you what you need to know. Hold that bag up, do you hear me? Hold it up!
Her voice was electric. He winked, even though she wasn't looking. She poked at something on the ground with her stick, bent down and picked it up. A dead bird. She tossed the bird back and it landed in the bag.
Score, she said, though Ron didn't know what that meant.
They walked in a line parallel to Jennifer to their left and Crystal to their right. Ron could see them doing the same thing—poking at the ground, finding a dead bird, tossing it into their bag boys' sacks.
After a few more birds—maybe five?—Misty spoke again.
I'm sorry. That wasn't called for, she said.
Ron was silent. If he felt anything, he didn't show it.
Back there, I was a little rough with you. This is hard work.
To Ron all this was his duty, the lore of why fragmented and mostly lost, but still—it seemed very easy. Still, he paid attention—he didn't want to miss a thing. She found another bird. The ground was lousy with them. She poked it with her stick, tossed it back and into the bag.
What was hard was carrying the bags. When the special sack was full, Ron hoisted it up and held it against his chest with his elbow while also holding another bag open with both of his hands. Special as it was, the nice sack didn't have handles. At the rate they were going he'd soon have to abandon it for some other lucky bag boy to find.
How long are we going to be out here? he asked.
As long as it takes, fuck face.
A long time. They'd gathered a couple dozen birds—mostly small birds, the kind of birds that were probably finches, but also bigger birds—a red bird, a couple oily-looking metallic birds with little black eyes, a spotted bird. Nothing as big as an owl or eagle. Most of them were stiff, but some of them felt freshly departed.
I'm sorry, she said again. That was harsh.
Ron's face went hot, panicky—the same feeling he felt every night trying to fall asleep when he heard something strange and not-so-far-away—the screeching, the howling, the peculiar thunder. The whoosh, whoosh, whoosh always cutting through the silent darkness. Every night he sang himself to sleep even though he was only able to guess what a real song might sound like. But now the feeling was something else—his muscles tightened, the back of his neck began to itch. He was sure something was about to surprise him from behind, to hit him in the head with a shovel, to crack the back of his knees. What he felt was the feeling of something unknown and impending bearing down.
Nothing was happening, but something surely was going to happen.
Ron gathered himself, reminded himself of his duty. What are you doing with the stick?
If you can't tell what I'm doing with the stick, then I can't help you. Please think of a better question.
Why are there so many dead birds?
I'm done answering questions for today.
Ron winked again, tried to picture the two of them together at that picnic table. The clouds started to thicken a bit and stew, swirling and graying. He seemed to be the only one who noticed.
Another bird, then another. Misty yelled up the line: found one! She held the bird—a big mottled white and gray thing—on its back in her hand, its stiff claws curled into hooks, its eyes black and empty. The bird could be said to have a peaceful look on its face, its death perhaps not so bad—not painful or fearful, at least, but who are we to say what birds look like they have felt?
She touched its torso with the back of her index finger and stroked the bird's chest. She pinched open its beak and angled the bird so that the setting sun would illuminate its throat. From her fanny pack she took a pair of long-nosed forceps and with them she reached into the bird's mouth, carefully extracting a mouse-sized bee, its fuzzy coat and wings wet and heavy. She placed the bee carefully on the ground in front of her and it began to wiggle, stretching its wings and twisting itself onto its feet. It took a few tentative steps and flew away. The bird in her hand went through a similar transformation—first contorting its body as if it was wringing life back into itself then stretching its claws, its wings, its neck before jerking itself into the air to fly away.
Simply beautiful.
Look out! Somebody up the line shouted.
Though they didn't know where to look, it quickly became evident as an enormous red thing—like a cart, but bigger, shiny, metallic, not of their Earth—tumbled out of the sky and landed a chain and a half—maybe two chains—away. The thing began to smoke, then fiery tongues erupted from beneath it. A man emerged from the twisted ball of metal and managed to run away as the thing burst into a great fireball. The heat from the explosion burnt their faces.
Suddenly they could hear the constant hum and see the strange gray structure stretched across the sky. The word for it—highway—hadn't been lost, though they rarely said it; they knew it was special, but not why. The way was indeed high—high above them, held in the sky on thick gray legs extending to the ground. They almost never noticed them as they were quiet and part of the landscape—something as innocuous to them as a boulder or tree or brook, but less interesting because it was so static and far away, never changing in any way unless it was flinging something down to them—a treasure like an empty bag or fiery wreckage. When something called their attention—an unusual noise, a lack of noise, something falling—the highway became suddenly obvious again, strange and unknowable.
When they were given a treasure—a colorful bottle, a partially consumed piece of fruit, a sock or mitten or scarf—it felt to them as if they weren't alone. It felt as if somebody was watching over them. When the highway gave them the miracle of a single shoe they waited patiently—sometimes years—for another in their size to fall. But this was the first time something like this had happened—a ball of flaming metal, bright red and roaring, a man fleeing the wrekcage.
Though they'd told him not to think too much about what was up there, Ron had always wondered, imagined that it meant something more than shoes or treasures; only he could not comprehend what that something might be.
I pause to look at the faces around our little fire: rapt, as usual, my pupils stunned into silence at the apex of my tale; each pair of eyes, glowing in the orange light, focuses on me and my story. I pull the end of my mustache, twist it a bit with my thumb and index finger, and nod my approval. My praise is subtle, but clear. I am so far happy with their behavior. Before I continue, I check in.
Can anybody tell me why Misty and Ron were collecting dead birds?
No hands. Then a single hand, quickly retracted. I wait. Don't be shy, I tell them, there are no wrong answers. Another hand.
To eat?
When I say there are no wrong answers, I'm not being completely honest with you.
But they do eat them, right?
Yes, but that's not the main point. They're preparing for the Feast of the Passerine Jamboree.
What is that?
We don't do it anymore. It doesn't matter.
Oh, okay.
Freeing the bees from the chosen birds was always part of it. I just thought you should know.
Does the… Jamboree? Does the Jamboree have something to do with the wreckage?
Not directly. If somebody tries to tell you they do, then they're lying. We note the Jamboree when we're telling the story, but we don't ascribe it significance.
Oh, okay.
How long ago was this, exactly?
Nobody knows for sure. Hundreds of years ago. Thousands of years ago. Though we don't have numbers that go higher, some think this happened even longer ago.
That's hard to comprehend.
Can you hear it now, the highway? In the distance?
A few nod. I'm not so sure I believe them.
In some versions of this story, the man fleeing the fire—our Father—is often himself on fire—and in that version, Misty, Crystal, Jennifer, Ron, the other bag boys—everybody—is frozen in a kind of terrible awe as they are unable to help this visitor from above. They watch him as he frantically pats at his flaming body before dropping to the dusty ground to roll. They listen to him screaming—sometimes in pain, sometimes audibly something like why won't you people do something?
In still another version, it is not just his clothes that are on fire, but his body is somehow doused in flaming oil—a kind of napalm that cannot easily be extinguished. Anguished, he pulls a long strip of his own burning flesh from his body, throws it on the ground, and stomps it out as if it can be returned intact to his body. Dropping to the ground does nothing, but that's what he does. When the fire finally runs its course, his skin is charred black where it hasn't melted off of his bones. Truly gruesome. Though he's barely alive we can still clearly see his face: still framed by flowing dark hair, still the virtuous mustache, the big eyebrows, the easy smile. In this version of the story, we asked questions—how long did it take to heal? how was he not permanently scarred?
In my version of the story—the most historically accurate version—he is not on fire, but his appearance is still exciting.
In my version of the story, the man stands in awe of what has happened—repeating more quietly than you would imagine, but loud enough for all to hear, especially as they gradually approached: my furrarree, my furrarree, my furrarree. For you see, he called the flaming red cart in which he arrived his furrarree.
The thing—his furrarree—burned and sparked, barely recognizable. Since his landing, we've come to know the source of the woosh high above—the sounds of other furrarrees on the highway, cruising at the speed of sound.
The man who had landed was strange but not completely unfamiliar—he was recognizably them, but also not them—Ron looked into his fancy sack full of dead birds and felt suddenly very small. The man was, Ron thought, amazing—fully erect, in clean pants the color of the sky, his shirt depicting various blooms in explosive color. On his face, a glorious mustache and strange dark windows covering his eyes. On his head, a cap.
Are you from Earth? Ron asked.
Shut the fuck up, Misty said.
Keep your mouth closed, Crystal said.
I'm sorry, that was rude, Misty said, and then, whispering—he's from Earth, you idiot. Just not this Earth.
There's another Earth, Ashley said. A Good Earth, and a Bad Earth. You can guess which one this is.
The Good Earth? Ron had no clue.
Yeah, the Good Earth. Will you just look at that guy? You take one look and you know this isn't the Good Earth. Fucking doof.
So this is the Bad Earth.
Yes, this is the Bad Earth.
Slowly, they surrounded the man as he wept looking at his flaming furrarree. Though only minutes had passed, it felt like much longer.
Hey? Finally Ron said something. Are you okay?
Misty hushed Ron, though without her usual authority. The strange man was so exotic, so alien, he nearly shattered them.
The man turned, startled. He was in such shock he hadn't noticed them.
Who are you? he asked.
We're the people, they said. They didn't really have another name for themselves since they hadn't needed to differentiate from anybody else. Maybe they'd never need a word—soon, they'd send this strange thing back to where it had come from.
Who the fuck are you? Misty stepped forward.
My name's Thormas, he said. Thormas Mangrum. He was looking at his arms, his legs. Checking his head with his hands. I can't believe I made it out of that. I should be dead.
He looked up. They looked up. The highway was a long way away—eight chains or so? A furlong? Another world. He should have died.
Why didn't you die, Thormas? Misty asked.
I don't know, he said, still inspecting what he could of his body.
It's a miracle, Jennifer said.
Thormas found something in his pocket—a flat glowing rectangle—and began to peck at it with his fingers. Does anybody have a phone I could use? Mine's not getting a signal.
They tilted their heads, ignorant.
How do I get back? Up there?
They tilted their heads to the other side. They understood what he was saying, but not really.
That's it, Misty said. There's no way back up there. You're stuck down here forever. I'm Misty.
For fuck's sake, Thormas said. There has to be some way back up there. The highway just spans the valley.
He looked up, the highway going off into the distance, disappearing over the horizon.
It's probably, what, a three-day hike? Five?
Misty shrugged. Crystal shrugged. Ron shrugged. Could be. Could be. They formed a circle around him, came a little closer. They clearly weren't used to dealing with panic.
He looked again at the wreckage. My furrarree, he said. My furrarree.
They took a step closer. He noticed.
I don't know what you've heard about us, up there? He pointed.
I don't think we've heard anything, Misty said. Have you heard anything?
I haven't heard anything, Crystal said.
Same, Ashley said. I didn't even know there were people up there.
Ron had heard some things, but dared not say. Of course they'd heard of people up there, but what did he know? I haven't heard anything, he offered.
Did anybody say you could talk? Misty asked.
That's good, Thormas said. I mean, I'm one of the good ones. From up there.
One of the good ones? Misty asked.
I just don't know what you've heard.
Well, we're lucky, Misty said. If you're one of the good ones.
I'll just need some food, some water. Can I borrow some food and water?
Ron held up his bag of birds.
We can help with that.
Just three days? Maybe four? He stroked his mustache.
It's true that Thormas was scared and desperate; they could hear it in his voice. His desperation made them nervous, because they didn't understand why he would want to go back up there, what was so great about it. One of the good ones. From the Good Earth. If he wanted to go back so desperately, maybe they wanted to go too? Maybe he needed to stay, some of them thought. Maybe going back wasn't such a great idea.
What'd you say your name was? Misty? Thormas Mangrum smiled, his face suddenly electric. He winked. Can you help me get home?
Misty blushed and winked back. Ron couldn't believe it.
I'm not sure there's any way to get you home, Thormas, but I'll do my best. Misty took a step toward him.
Same, same, Ron said. I'll do my best.
Shut the fuck up!
I stop and look at my audience, their orange eyes reflecting the dying embers. It's late. Some of them have lately begun to mustachio, others are still waiting. I'm proud of all of them.
Can you hear the highway? Out there in the darkness?
I indicate a silent pause with my index finger. I cock an eyebrow and tilt my head in an exaggerated way to let them know that I'm listening. I listen: in the distance, the highway still breathes: woosh, woosh, woosh. And we are all in awe.