Chapter 10: The Ornithologist
[The previous chapters of this long piece of dreck may be found here. I don’t think this will make any sense if you haven’t read the previous parts.]
As the shadow passed above Sterling it provoked in him a full-bodied paroxysm of fear, as though the outline of the raptor was embedded in his DNA. Somehow he was well aware that the Hawk circled above him. He jumped up and began running on two legs. There was no good reason for trying to run upright, and he would have been better off running on all-fours, but in the moment of panic he did what he had always done, and that was run on two legs, which looked absurd. The pumping of his little forelegs, his waddling gait, the frantic movement of his tail as it swayed back and forth behind him, and the sight of his pink tongue hanging out of his mouth looked ridiculously silly. Had he been aware of his own ridiculousness he would not have cared, for fear had completely overtaken him.
He tried, as best he could, to run along the dirt path that cut through the unrelenting sea of grass. There was the sound of a hawk’s cry high above his head. It was a gleeful, high-pitched, and elongated scream. He was sure he could sense the hawk diving. There was the sound of air passing over the hawk’s wings, and he felt a rush of wind. His mind prolapsed in a moment of frozen darkness. Then there was a sudden, sharp hit on his back of his head.
In front of him a hawk crashed to the ground. It tumbled two times, then quickly jumped back upright. It was as if the bird had appeared out of nowhere. It was suddenly there, in front of Sterling, with big, bright eyes staring at him with a combination of anger and judgment.
“Great Duck, you are a foul smelling American.” Said the Hawk.
Sterling did not know what to say. He felt he should respond and while he was struggling for words something funny occurred to him, so he said, “I am the foul one? I thought you were fowler.”
“Ha, ha,” said the Hawk, “I’ve never heard that before. Oh, wait. Yes, I have. Just about every day of my life. Let me think of the first time I heard that… I think it was through the shell of my egg.”
“Maybe you should strike “foul” from your vocabulary…”
“Strike,” said the Hawk. “I get it. Bird strikes are so funny to me. Ha, ha.”
Sterling wasn’t really sure what a strike was, but he smiled as if he did.
The bird’s voice was low, in contrast to it’s high pitched call. When it spoke it jerked its head back and forth. Sterling could see that it alternated the eye with which it looked at him. It was as if the bird wanted to use both eyes, but couldn’t do so simultaneously. It would say something, then twitch and switch to the other eye. There was a pause, then its head would twitch back. It gave the bird’s speech an odd, syncopated rhythm.
“I suppose you think you are terribly clever,” the hawk said, “You must think you are remarkably smart. I imagine it is only a matter of minutes before you start with the ‘bird brain’ jokes, or calling me a ‘dodo’.”
Sterling wasn’t sure why the bird was so cross. Its luminous eyes, sharp beak, and large talons were intimidating. There was something quite neurotic about the way it fluffed up its feathers and twitched its head while speaking.
“Perhaps to you, we birds lack mental ‘horse power,’ but, let me assure you, there are many kinds of intelligence. You, for example, don’t have enough locomotor smarts to run! Watching you waddle down the road was so stupid looking that I think watching it made me dumber.”
“It never occurred to me that birds were dumb,” said Sterling.
“Oh, please,” said the hawk. Then it stared at Sterling for a while with just one eye. “You’re going to tell me that you think pigeons are smart?”
“Sure,” said Sterling, “Why not?”
“Spare me your insincerity. Why not? Because they are stupid. So very stupid. Pigeons are dumb as rocks, everyone knows that. Beautiful flyers. Really talented in the air and wonderful to eat, but smart? No, not even a totally naive American could think that pigeons are smart.”
“Well,” said Sterling, not sure of what to say and desperate not anger the hawk further, “what about robins?”
The hawk cocked his head to the side and pondered the question for a bit. “Well,” he said, “All songbirds are morons. Titmice and nuthatches, for example, are almost as stupid as woodpeckers. Robins are pretty thick. ‘Dull’, I would say, or, about as smart as a cowbird, which is to say, not very smart at all.”
“Chickadees must be kind of smart,” said Sterling. “They cache seeds, don’t they?”
The hawk paused again and looked at Sterling. His features softened a bit. His eye, still fiercely focused, looked up and down Sterling’s body for the first time. The interval between twitches lengthened.
“Yes, that’s true,” said the hawk. “Chickadees are somewhat smart, or, at least, they’re not as dumb as most other songbirds. A chickadee could think circles around most warblers and blackbirds, and there is a group, I have heard, that live not to far from here, that play cards on Thursday nights. I can’t imagine it is much of a game. Maybe they play hearts or something, but, still, it’s not like many birds can even manage to play a game of ‘go fish’.”
“What are the smartest birds?,” Sterling asked, thinking that this might be the direction that the hawk wanted to take the discussion. It turned out he had guessed right. The hawk didn’t hesitate at all, and seemed more than happy to continue to talk about bird intelligence.
“Do you mean, ‘which are the smartest birds?” the hawk asked.
“Yes,” said Sterling.
“Well, we accipiters are no slouches,” he said, puffing up his feathers a bit, “I mean, we may not be that book smart, but, as I said before, there are many kinds of intelligence. Some birds are excellent fliers, while others are good at birdsong. Minas, mockingbirds, and parrots are all excellent at languages, and penguins are funny. Turkeys have good long term memories, whereas pelicans have outstanding active working memories, and seagulls have advanced abstract reasoning skills. When it comes right down to it, if you put it all together, everyone thinks that owls are the smartest, but that’s not true. Sure, they have some of their much talked about ‘wisdom’ and there is no doubt that they are cagey, strategic, and reluctant to share information, but they are not the smartest birds.”
The hawk stopped talking and looked at Sterling. He moved his head slowly back and forth. First eye, second eye, first eye. Sterling took the hint.
“So, which birds are the smartest?” Sterling asked.
“Crows!” the hawk shouted, “Those profane and murderous garbage eaters. Those ignoble guttersnipes of parking lots and pine barrens. They are, as a group, intellectually gifted, even if they choose to squander their intelligence on fart jokes and flying tricks. They can be maddeningly annoying, and when they target me, for I eat their young, I must admit that it is hard for me to retain my composure. They challenge my nobility not only by provoking my anger, but also by making me laugh.”
Sterling tried to remember if he had seen any crows since coming to the land of the faeries. He was pretty sure he had not. Unsure of why the hawk was so interested in telling him about birds, he thought of a question that he figured might be appropriate to ask.
“What about ducks?” Sterling asked, “How smart are ducks?”
“Oh ducks,” the hawk said with an exhale of derision, “Don’t mistake education for intelligence. Many ducks are well educated, I’ll give them that, but are they smart? The simple answer is ‘no’. Does that matter?” He paused dramatically and waited for an answer before continuing.
“It does not. Who cares how smart you are when you can fly?”
Again, the bird paused and looked at Sterling. Then he said, “Besides, ducks taste good.”
The hawk laughed. It was high-pitched, tremulous shriek of a laugh. It went on manically for a little while. Sterling pretended to laugh along. When the bird was through chuckling, Sterling said.
“Shash said that ducks were funny.”
“Shash is kind, and has a strange sense of humor. Ducks aren’t funny when they are lecturing you about how it is sinful to eat signets and that you should be happy with one formel for your entire life. What’s funny about harangues about the virtues of eating pond scum?”
Sterling didn’t know how to respond. He remained silent while the hawk looked at him.
“Well, it’s about to start getting dark and I have to get back to the aerie. I can see your friends are approaching. It has been good talking to you, my American friend.”
“You are the first creature that didn’t ask me any questions about why I am here,” Sterling said.
“I have very good eyesight and can see that you are lost. What four-legged creatures do in their mud houses is of little interest to me. I am a prince of the sky, and what you do or don’t do, or what you see or don’t see, isn’t of much interest to me.”
“Oh,” Said Sterling.
And with that the hawk alighted just as quickly as it had landed. It took off with strong pumping motions, climbed, circled, and flew away with tremendous speed.
Watching it climb and disappear, Sterling felt both sad and envious.
Next Chapter: Questions
