James Gardner - The Last Day of the War, with Parrots

In blind rage, he swung his fist at my jaw. I managed to block with my free arm and took the blow above my elbow. The crunching impact hurt like hell, his knuckles hammering into me deep as the bone. Then he whispered, “Oh, shit,” and his grip on my other arm went slack.

I writhed away from him. He fell over facedown and stopped moving.

For several seconds, I kept my distance, panting and rubbing my arm. He still didn’t move. Had he fainted? Or was he just faking? But why? I thought of reaching for my parrot to see what was in his mind; but if he was just faking, that would infuriate him.

I stretched out my foot and nudged him. No response.

Harder. Still nothing.

At last I bent beside his body and rolled him over. The exertion hurt my bruised arm but I gritted my teeth. Roland’s breathing was very shallow. There was an odd smell in the air too, a thin, metallic smell. I sniffed more closely, his body, his clothes, trying to find the source of the odor.

It came from his fist — still clenched tightly around the parrot.

The parrot had been crushed like a handful of grapes when Roland’s punch landed on my arm. Bits of its flesh bulged out between Roland’s fingers and a dark fluid spilled over his knuckles.

I pried his fist open, using a stick to lever the fingers so I wouldn’t have to touch the blood. The smell grew stronger. The parrot looked like a squeezed rag. Indentations shaped like Roland’s fingers had crushed into its body.

The parrot had died and Roland collapsed. I wondered what he’d heard in the moment of the parrot’s death.

I dragged the roadies away from “Orange Puppy” and told them to hoist Roland into his bed while I got Jerith’s medical robot out of storage. The bot was decades old, scratched in places, and tarnished around the sampling mouths, but it moved easily over the rough terrain and its voice was free of static as it asked me to describe the nature of Roland’s problem. Jerith obviously maintained the bot with great care... which only made sense when the closest doctor was seven light-years away.

I considered keeping mum on the circumstances of Roland’s collapse, then decided to tell the bot everything. Medi-bots are programmed for confidentiality. Besides, no matter how furious I was that Roland hit me, I didn’t want him to die.

By the time the bot and I got back to Roland’s hut, a crowd of people had gathered around the bed. Teary-eyed Alex knelt on the floor, holding Roland’s hands in his. Helena stood behind him, her hand patting Alex’s shoulder over and over again. I was reaching for my parrot to see what was going through their minds when a roadie spotted the bot and me. He raised a fuss, making such a show of dragging us over to the bed that I didn’t have a chance to touch the parrot. A moment later, Helena drove the roadies and me out of the hut, saying the “doctor” needed room to work. Yeah, right.

I headed off to my own hut. I shared it with Violette who did makeup, but she and the other roadies went back to the main hut, so I had the place to myself. Good — peace and quiet. I took the parrot out of my pocket and set it down on the dressing table. The others weren’t close enough for me to hear their thoughts distinctly. When I touched the parrot, I only picked up myself and a background mumble from everyone else in camp.

The parrot yawned itself awake, stretched, and decided to walk around the table a bit, sniffing at the powders and perfumes Violette and I left lying about. I wondered if the little animal was hungry. I got out some bean sprouts I keep for snacking, but the parrot just snuffled at the sprouts, then lay down on top of them.

“Probably bad for you anyway,” I said. I went outside for a moment, pulled a few blades of the local grass, and laid them down under the parrot’s nose. One of its antennae waved above the grass briefly, but then the parrot pointedly turned away.

“Not good enough for you?” I asked. “Won’t eat anything but Silk?”

The parrot stared at me without blinking.

“There must be something else you’ll eat. If the Silk came here as a weapon in the war, that was only seven hundred years ago. What did your species eat before then?”

The parrot closed its eyes and went to sleep.

I laughed softly. “You don’t care what kind of garbage your barbarian ancestors chucked down their gullets. Only modern cuisine for you. I don’t blame you — I probably couldn’t stomach what my ancestors ate either.”

The door opened without warning and for a few fearful moments I thought it was the Singer. No. The shirt was buttoned and it was only Alex, but Alex looking grim and worried. “Roland wants to speak to you,” he said. He didn’t look me in the eye.

“Roland is awake?” I asked.

“He’s awake, but he’s not...” Alex’s voice trailed off and he looked down at his hands. One palm had a brown stain on it. “He’s not very good, Lyra. Maybe seeing you will calm him down.”

“I don’t know,” I said, wondering how obvious it would be if I just picked up my parrot from the dressing table and put it into my pocket, “Seeing me might only upset him.”

“He’s asking for you,” Alex replied. “He says it’s important. Roland, he’s... Women affect him strongly, you know? That’s why he writes such good songs. Women affect him. Sometimes they make him mad and sometimes he just burns himself up wanting them. Most guys... this is hard to say, Lyra, but for most guys, being with a woman is nice and all, but it’s not everything. Not to live and die for. But with Roland, it is. And whatever happened between you and him before he got all keyed up... I don’t know. It’s just, the only thing that calms him down when he’s upset is attention from a woman. Talk, I just mean talk. But you have to go see him.”

Sighing, I stood and reached toward the dressing table.

“Don’t take the parrot,” he said. “That will only complicate things.”

He took me gently by the arm and guided me away from the parrot on the table, toward the door. I tried not to wince — he’d taken the arm that Roland punched and it throbbed with pain when Alex touched me.

Alex immediately switched his grip to my other arm. I thought, Oh, shit, but he said, “Shhh, shhh.”

As we crossed the compound I tried not to think of anything. In my head I sang that Trash and Thrash song, “Damn it, slam it, break it; I don’t want your repercussions.” I sang it over and over again, hoping it would fill my thoughts, drown out everything.

At the door to Roland’s hut, Alex whispered, “Songs make flimsy shields, milady. I live in songs.” He closed the door between us. I was left alone in the hut with Roland, and I was trembling in cold, cold terror.

Roland groaned, “Lyra?” I didn’t answer. I desperately hoped I would faint, shut down my mind... but I wasn’t the fainting type. Had it been Alex? Or was it the Singer? His shirt was buttoned. And back in my hut he’d talked like Alex, fumbling for words, shying away from unpleasantness. But he’d told me not to take the parrot, and he’d known about my sore arm, about singing that song in my head.

“Lyra!” Roland’s voice was louder. The medi-bot whirred briefly but did nothing. “Lyra!”

“What?” My voice was hoarse.

“Lyra?”

“Yes. What do you want?”

“Come here.”

I stirred myself and approached the bed. Roland’s face was pale but with flushes of pink on both cheeks. “I look worse than usual, don’t I?” he said with a weak smile. “I know what you’re thinking.”

“I thought your parrot died.”

“Oh, yeah. It died.”

“Looked like a traumatic experience for both of you.”