Hope is a Thing with Feathers II

The Bird Memorial grew as fast as Link’s hair, beard, hand callouses, and sorrow. As the days went by, he moved from painting every species that had once lived in the Sanctuary to all other species that had gone extinct in his lifetime. The graveyard, erected in a spiral that started with the peregrine falcon, now occupied the whole of the padlock and was starting to climb the hills around it.

‘If there is ever war between humans and AI,’ Link had written to Key once, after watching the classic Terminator films with Dad. ‘Maybe I will be on the side of AI. Doesn’t seem like humans have a good plan to make the world a better place for everyone. Maybe you would.’

Days had turned into weeks and Link didn’t feel anxious about the incoming emails and messages from the senior officers, the First, Second, and Third Secretaries, the Minister, and one from the POTUS herself urging him to return to his post.

A world no longer for birds… what kind of world is that and why would I bother saving it? Why would I even want to live in it?

The anger and hope that moved him before had aged into a feeble and shy apathy that just didn’t want to take any space, that just wanted to hide. It’s not like he thought that if he had done something else with his life if he had become a biologist, a human rights activist, or an artist, he could have done more for human and animal people. His parents had given their life for birds and had failed too. He wondered how they coped with the failure if deep down they felt like he did.

Watching them holding hands on the sofa watching old films, chatting through the night, and doing the house chores together, he started to understand that at least they had each other. Link had nothing of that sort. He had given every awakening hour for his missions and he had nothing to show for it apart from awards. Dead, meaningless representations of vapid successes. Perhaps I have indeed fought on the wrong side. He checked the news compulsively, hurting himself with the knowledge that more birds and other species were at greater risk, and then he hurt himself a bit more by sneaking into the Middleverse to speak to nobody about it, feeling the obscenities in the comments thrown at him like stones.

***

That morning, Link was finally threatened with a disciplinary hearing if he didn’t return to his post by the end of the week. He shrugged. Maybe I won’t make it to the end of the week anyway, he thought, as he wandered around the labyrinth of graves in his Bird Memorial. He was so thin his suit was now wearing him and so deep into his meditations on grief he didn’t notice a stranger approaching until they were right next to him.

It was odd that this person didn’t seem to breathe, but it was standing solid right next to him, emanating some sort of heat, and that made him turn and look.

‘I’m sorry but the Sanctuary is closed,’ he said. ‘All the birds are dead.’

‘We were hoping to change that,’ replied the stranger, holding up a cardboard box. They opened the box and revealed three dove eggs, beautiful sapphire blue-like precious gemstones, comfortably tucked in bedding of twigs, cotton, and feathers.

Link looked up confused. The stranger was wearing a thin flannel shirt and jeans despite the icy winds. They had short black hair and yellow eyes like a cat. Their voice was soft and mellifluous.

‘We also brought a poem. We didn’t write, we wish we did… Emily Dickinson did. We guess this is why we wanted to become an artist. We were jealous,’ the stranger lowered their gracious beautiful head and declared. ‘“Hope” is the thing with feathers -

That perches in the soul -

And sings the tune without the words -

And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -

And sore must be the storm -

That could abash the little Bird

That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -

And on the strangest Sea -

Yet - never - in Extremity,

It asked a crumb - of me.’

‘Key?...’ Link’s lips parted to speak without him feeling like he was controlling them.

‘Remember we always wanted not just to know what it is to have a body, but to have a body? We were hopeful. You thought hope was a very human thing, but it is not. It’s other than human, it’s more than human. This world is for birds, Link. Let us not give up just yet.’

2022