Magnus Mills - A Cruel Bird Came to the Nest and Looked In

‘It’s no good,’ he said. ‘I can’t do it any longer. I’ve tried my best and I’ve obviously failed.’

‘Well, shall I do it then?’ offered Smew.

‘If you like,’ said Garganey. ‘You’ve coveted the crown long enough. You may as well take it for yourself.’

‘The crown is no more than a hollow golden ring,’ rejoined Smew, ‘and kingship a mere feather in a man’s cap.’

A murmur of assent passed around the table.

‘All the same,’ I said, ‘someone’s got to wear the crown, haven’t they?’

‘Naturally,’ said Wryneck.

His voice was wary. Smew said nothing.

‘I mean to say,’ I continued, ‘you can’t have an empire without an emperor. It’s even more ridiculous than an empire without any ships.’

‘Or an empire without a proper telescope,’ added Whimbrel.

‘Precisely,’ I said.

I was pleasantly surprised by Whimbrel’s sudden ride to my rescue. I’d swum into much deeper water than I intended and I almost regretted speaking out. Still, it was too late now. The unclaimed crown remained at the centre of the table. Neither Wryneck, nor Smew, nor Garganey seemed prepared to pursue the matter any further. Not for the moment at least. In the event it was Brambling who spoke next.

‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘did you say without an emperor?’

‘Yes,’ I affirmed, ‘I did.’

Again I surveyed the faces around the table. All my colleagues were apparently engaged in thoughts of their own. Dotterel was studying his textbook closely; Whimbrel was gazing at the clock; Garganey, Wryneck and Smew were all looking at the ceremonial crown; Sanderling was staring vaguely at a portrait of a former emperor; and Brambling was peering at me. I was about to attempt some kind of explanation when Wryneck broke the silence.

‘It seems the bird has flown the nest,’ he announced.

‘Oh,’ said Brambling, ‘I see.’

‘You mean he’s not here?’ said Whimbrel.

‘Correct.’

‘Does this have anything to do with the dancing girls,’ enquired Sanderling, ‘the ones who became great with child?’

‘It’s quite possible,’ replied Wryneck.

‘I thought as much,’ said Sanderling.

‘Well, Wryneck,’ I remarked, ‘you should be congratulated on your opacity.’

‘Thank you,’ he said.

Dotterel glanced up from his book.

‘Well if the bird’s flown the nest,’ he said, ‘why on earth did he bother issuing those preposterous edicts?’

‘The folly of youth,’ said Smew.

‘More to the point,’ I said, ‘how are we going to resolve the succession?’

‘There’s only one answer,’ said Wryneck.

‘Which is?’

‘A regency.’

Without a further word he raised the crown and placed it on Smew’s head.

NOTICE:

TO MARK THE OCCASION OF THE TWELVE-DAY FEAST

MR GALLINULE'S COMPANY OF STROLLING PLAYERS WILL PERFORM A TRAGEDY

AT THE MAYPOLE.

THE COMPANY COMPRISES:

MR ORTOLAN

MR PUKEKA

MR ROSELLA

MR MITTERIA

MR CHIURLO

MR PENDULINE

MR MESTOLONE

AND

MR GALLINULE

EARLY BOOKING IS ADVISED

During the following week these printed posters began to appear all over the royal quarter. I had no idea how Gallinule managed to gain access to a printing press, but these days his resourcefulness never failed to surprise me.

Moreover, word had reached the cabinet that the strolling players were rehearsing the very same play as we were. It was generally agreed that they would make a better job of it than us. Consequently, Smew’s first decision as regent was to abandon our amateur production and hand full responsibility to the professionals. As a gesture of goodwill a further loan of half-a-crown was granted to Gallinule’s company, the payment to be made from the exchequer. When Brambling protested about this, Wryneck intervened to explain that the sum involved could be shown in the books as a ‘balancing figure’.

‘Balanced against what?’ asked Brambling.

‘Itself,’ said Wryneck. ‘The original subvention can be regarded as a disallowable claim upon the state. The cancelled amount can therefore be brought forward and balanced against the current debt.’

‘Oh,’ said Brambling, ‘I see.’

‘That’s agreed then,’ said Smew.

He was sitting in the previously unoccupied emperor’s chair. On his head he wore the ceremonial crown.

I had expected Garganey and Dotterel to raise the loudest voices against Smew’s assumption of power. In fact, though, they both seemed to have accepted the new regime as a lesser evil. Perhaps they thought it would be easier to deal directly with Smew than with an unapproachable emperor. Even so, they made it clear what their priorities were:

‘Surely there are more important matters to discuss than Gallinule’s financial affairs,’ said Dotterel, at the first meeting of the ‘regency’ cabinet. ‘We really must sort out this question of the clocks.’

Dotterel had a point, of course. The cabinet had met at ten in the morning, yet we’d all had to find our way there in fading darkness. At five in the evening the sun would set unwitnessed behind masses of dark clouds. Winter was almost upon us and there were precious few hours of daylight available. This was evidenced by reports from Garganey’s postmen. They had no objection, they said, to rising from their beds before dawn. Actually, they were quite accustomed to such demands and recognised them as part of their job. The persistent gloom, however, was causing some postmen to lose their way. They complained of ‘disorientation’. Accordingly, even more letters were going astray than usual. Meanwhile, Dotterel’s artisans were spending so much time adjusting the clocks that all their other duties were being left unattended to.

‘The imperial gates are meant to be painted once a year,’ he said, as an example, ‘but so far they remain untouched.’

Furthermore, it was becoming clear that the populace in general disapproved of the five o’clock sunset. They preferred the gradual descent into darkness that traditionally signalled the approach of the twelve-day feast. True enough, they were getting plenty of darkness as things stood, but they wanted it in the afternoons, not in the mornings.

With these thoughts in mind, the cabinet unanimously agreed to revoke the offending edict. Whimbrel was given the task of calculating exactly what time it would be if the clocks hadn’t been altered. Then a date was chosen for the ‘great readjustment’ and a public half-holiday proclaimed by way of recompense. As Wryneck observed, it was the least we could do. The cabinet quickly voted these measures through and by the end of the meeting we were feeling very pleased with ourselves.

Only later did it occur to me that maybe I should have mentioned the railway. After all, its rapid encroachment was bound to affect life in the empire just as surely as the episode of the clocks. I was reminded of it on my next visit to the orchestra. I’d decided it was high time I dropped in on Greylag, whom I hadn’t seen since our foray to the edge of the wilderness. As I neared the cake there suddenly came an extraordinary sound from within. It was very like the shrill piping we’d heard in the east, and for an instant I thought the railway engine was inside the building. This was impossible, of course, so I listened again and realised that what I could hear wasn’t the exact sound but rather an impression of it.

After a few moments it ceased and silence returned. I opened the door and entered the auditorium. Down in the orchestra pit I could see the musicians having one of their pauses for reflection. They were talking quietly to one another and attending to their instruments. In the meantime, Greylag sat at the piano plinking odd notes and making alterations to a manuscript. Nobody had noticed my arrival so I found a seat in the back row and watched. After a while Greylag went to the podium and gave some instructions to the orchestra. Then he held his baton aloft before quickly bringing it down again. Gradually he spread his arms outwards and the sound returned, distantly at first but steadily drawing nearer, then rising up in a great single chord. It immediately conjured up the railway engine, but now transmitted through ninety-eight musical instruments! Yet at the same time there was something else as well. The chord Greylag had created contained not only an industrial shrillness, but also a kind of sad cry. It was as if he had attributed feelings to this mechanical beast.