A record of the adventures of James, who in his 31st year left the human world and came to the desert.

10.16.2002

 
Birds like bugs, everywhere, on everything. Coy-looking things with hard eyes and shrill calls flew overhead and perched on the rocks. The mix of bleached-out feathers and black beaks made them look like gulls at a distance, or dominos.

James was walking towards something, a human figure in the distance he couldn't make out. The desiccated earth crunched beneath his bare feet and poked at the tough skin. Birds jumped out of his path as he neared. They landed on his shoulders, picked at his tattered brown shirt until he swatted at them, shooed him away. Still they came, calling their companions. The birds massed in the sky, and a thundercloud did the same over them. They swarmed around him and tried to block his path, but still he walked toward the figure on the horizon.

Whoever it was seemed the nexus of the stormclouds; slivered triangles of azure sky pointed in to the black outline, but the dark thunderheads above rolled out and back, towards James. A grey bird with a green eye and a white beak marked with a solitary orange ring flew immediately before his eyes, landed on his nape and drilled its beak into his shoulder.

The thunder rolled and cracked, momentarily drowning the dirge of the birds. James flinched and swatted.

The bird lifted off a few inches, then relanded. More birds came down and copied this brave soldier. James flung his arms about him and broke into a run, but the birds gave effortless chase. He felt a warm spot covering the ache in his shoulder. The ashen rain began to fall.