A Different Kind of Birthday

This is a work of fiction. No people, places or events were used. Copyright 2011 Plot Roach

A Different Kind of Birthday

By Plot Roach
　
It is not everyday that you get to watch ducks catch fire while they are flying South. At first I really could not believe my eyes. But there they were, quacking and smoking as they flew past. The smell that followed them in the air was what cinched it for me. I simply stood on the bank of the manmade pond, wondering what to make of such a sign, when all those around me ran back to their cars and drove from the park like all of Armageddon was on their tails.

With the exception of a floating singed feather landing in my direction, I felt relatively safe. I was not the one on fire. And I did not think that the ducks were capable of kamikaze attacks, so I stayed where I stood. I did not think it was one of the signs of the Apocalypse. I remembered something mentioned about four horsemen, angels with trumpets and flaming swords. Maybe even the beast of hell. But I very much doubted that flaming ducks were on the menu -except that soon they would be on someone’s menu. Soon only the park’s caretaker and I were at the scene. “Did you see that?” he asked, as he put his little golf cart into park.

“It was kind of hard not to.” I said. I searched the rest of the park. There were no signs of the other fowl that called the place home and I assumed the worst. “Do you think that the geese and the swans are okay, or…?” I did not want to finish the sentence, as if it would keep those creatures from harm.

“I haven’t seen a feather of them for over three days.” the caretaker said.

“Where would they have gone?”

“Damned if I know. But I ain’t gonna stay to see what happens next.” He put the cart into gear and drove like a bat out of Hell, at all of five miles per hour.

The park, for once, was oddly silent. I took a bench nearest the center of the place and unpacked my lunch. The smell of roasted duck had made me hungry, despite it still being a vulgar image in my brain. Sadly, there was no one to share the scraps of bread and crumbs of potato chips, now with all my feathered friends gone. I sighed and crumbled my potato chip bag into a ball, aiming at the nearest trashcan and missing it by a foot. Once I got up to retrieve my garbage I realized that I was not alone. A small fledgling bird hopped over to the can to investigate the foil ball, pecking at it eagerly.

“Well hello, little fella.” I said. Tossing some of the crumbs from my sandwich in its direction. It scrambled off a short distance when I moved. It was probably more feral than the ducks and geese had been. It was a horrible drab color, like a mixture of dead wood and ash. Its limbs were stubby and barely covered in feathers. But wild, red eyes gazed up at me in a mixture of fear and curiosity.

“It’s okay now." I said, as low as I could to keep from scaring the little thing. “I only want to help you." On closer inspection, it appeared to be a young bird, maybe something along the lines of a pheasant or a peacock. It would have a wonderful wingspan once it reached adulthood. But for now, its tiny little wings kept it close to the ground.

I tossed a few more crumbs and watched it snap them up in a beak fringed with whiskers, almost like a cat. I slowly followed it as it returned to what I could only think had been its nest. Oh no! I thought, for this is where the fire must have started. A big black hole was what was left of the site. A few charred trees stood as sentinels to this atrocity. What kind of person sets a nest on fire? I asked myself, creeping up on the damaged spot. And that was when I saw it, a long graceful neck, coiled back on itself in death. A body that was at once both graceful and plump. A scattering of feathers still chasing the wind showed the color of the mother bird. I snatched one out of the air as the chick attempted to nest under the corpse of the mother bird, now stiff in death.

I studied the feather under the sunlight, not believing my eyes. It was like liquid gold encased by gossamer, with flecks of a rainbow caught between the filaments that formed the feather. I felt a tingle creep up my arm as my brain finally recognized the bird for what it was.

No wonder the poor little thing is alone, I thought. I scattered the rest of my lunch nearby, knowing that none of its kin would be able to care for it, as it was the only one of its kind. The ducks had been the last to see its mother alive as she set her nest aflame to gave birth to a baby phoenix.