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February 17, 2006
The Richest Bird in the World
Scratch says
It can be a strange old place, can’t it? You know what I like about you folk? You separate yourselves from nature. Ha ha! You think your cities, mobile phones, internet, satellites, are apart from nature. But I mean, the rules were in place from the beginning, weren’t they? It’s not like you can cheat. You can’t do anything that can’t be done. Everything you do, you build, you think is a part of nature. Microwaves, plastic bags, sunglasses, oil rigs. Two birds dive into two ant nests and knock them flat, ha ha ha.
Speaking of birds - have you heard the story about the richest bird in the world? It lived in a place called New Hampshire, where the town fucks the forest and the air is crisper than a prawn cracker. A man called Richard trained it – a sneaky little sparrow it was, all cute and brown like a puff of dust. Richard taught it to recognise the plastic trays people in restaurants put money on for the bill. I’ve never known what they’re called, but everything has a name. Let’s call them ‘bill trays’.
Anyway, Richard taught the bird, who he christened Churlish, but whose real name was Zeep the Valiant (rough translation) to recognise bill trays, and retrieve money from them. Churlish would dive down and bounce off the trays, snapping up all the notes in his beak, and the coins in his little claws, and fly away.
People have mixed reactions to being robbed by a bird. Anger, annoyance, amusement, confusion, disbelief, frustration at not having anyone to blame ... it may seem like I listed those reasons alphabetically but I actually didn’t.
Churlish would return to Richard and deliver the spoils of his raids. Richard would reward Churlish with a collection of tasty grubs and bread. But Churlish got greedy. He was a sneaky one, no doubt in hell, and somewhere in his birdy brain he learned that the things he stole had a value. He liked the way people shook their fists and shouted at him as he climbed into the sky trailing coins. Like all good tricksters he loved the trick, and monies accumulated were representative of how many people he’d fooled.
He started skimming from the cash, attracted to the flashy colours of the highest denominations. He stowed the money in a big tree out in the woods where, in its deep hollow, his secret fortune grew.
One day Churlish was eyeing off a fancy schmancy seafood restaurant. The outdoor area overlooked a biting sea and a chill wind that blasted the patrons in their faces as they shoved skinny lobsters down their gobholes. Bills were usually high, but Churlish had been to visit a few too many times before. The waiters had taken to placing their hands over bill trays as they carried them, and watching the skies, ever wary for feathered streaks.
Churlish saw a fat wad of bills heading for the kitchen. The waitress, called Susan, was a fast piece of work, who saw Churlish coming. She pretended she hadn’t, and raised her hand from the bills invitingly. Churlish swooped and she brought her hand down with a smack. She hit Churlish in the wing and hurt him badly, but he managed to flap his way back to the trees.
Over the course of the next day Churlish made his way back to Richard. Richard was horrified to find Churlish in such a state, and took him to the vet. The vet said Churlish could not be saved. He was badly hurt, it would be a very complex expensive operation, and anyway he was just a sparrow. Richard offered the vet all the money he had.
The vet operated and true to his name Churlish lived, for he had a spark in him that was hard to douse. When Churlish and Richard got back to Richard’s home, some criminals were waiting to demand money that Richard owed them. Richard could not pay, so they killed him.
Churlish was left alone in the house to fend for himself. He ate what he could find, and over time he healed. Eventually he was able to shake free his weakness and fly back to his tree. He sat there, on the pile of money that would have saved Richard, a worm of regret gnawing at his heart. But the coins were hard beneath his claws, and the notes were as pretty as ever. He buried the worm deeply, squashed so small that it was almost gone. No one becomes the richest bird in the world by being soft.
And he went back to work.
Posted by Sam Bowring at February 17, 2006 08:02 PM