Birdcatchers

Kristin Robertson

Even though the evasiveness of the green beast makes my blood boil, there’s something worse.
Dead birds.
The ones I couldn’t save.
Finding their limp bodies among my hallowed playground is a failure. It’s my job to guide them home. I’m Davy Jones. The doves are the worst to find; their purity marred by the grime of the underworld. How can something so free die such an enclosed death? It’s sick.
I’ve dreamt of the day I’d find a green parakeet this way. In all honesty, it’s a nightmare actually.
Only he would have the gall to die silently.
After everything he’s put me through, I need to catch him.
But, right now, the tunnels have no green. Only grey.

People are staring, but they hardly care.
“You know, you haven’t changed. Even when we were young, you made it impossible for anyone to give a damn about you.” she yells, her eyes not leaving his face.
Oh, you fool, what have you done?
“Our past has nothing to do with this,” he retorts, “this is about now. I just don’t think this is working.”
“Not working? Are you kidding? A few hours ago I was in utter bliss with you. Am I completely oblivious? Did I miss something?”
She tries to come close but he withdraws.
“Just, don’t make this difficult. You’re right, we have some great memories. Why can’t we just be content with that?”
You fool.
“What are you afraid of?” she asks with narrowed eyes.
Unspoken words.
“You want me to beg? Fine. Please, please, please don’t do this again,” she pleads, as she reaches for his hands.
“I know you. And I know you feel the same as I do. Don’t do this.”
He pushes her hands away and shakes the emotion from his face.
“This just isn’t working out,” he says, as if he was brushing off a stranger.
Tears spring in her eyes, as they have in so many of the others.
“You know, I think I owe you a thank you,” she says backing away.
“You always made it so easy to walk away.”
The words hit like ice shards as she turns to climb the stairs.
King of the fools.
Some are worth letting go. Not this one.

They call me into the office. The smell of coffee gets caught in my nose. There’s all the pageantry about how appreciated I am and how they value my contribution. How their hands are tied. How there’s no money. No money to give a damn about a few useless birds.
One more week.
Good luck.

The tunnels morphed from a gloomy black into a warm charcoal shade of acceptance. Who would see the graffiti? Who would fix the gnawed light fixtures? Most of all, who would free the birds?
My final week of “work” was enough to say goodbye to the sprawling paths I knew. I venture down one of my favorites. It was one of the oldest and about to be “revamped”. Unnecessary, I thought. It was beautiful. All brick and roomier than the others. Why can’t they leave well enough alone? My torch scans the walls that had seen history and I call them my friends. I use the old tracks as stepping stones, my torch lighting the way. But there is something up ahead.
Green.
I pause and instinctively brace for action. I don’t have my net with me but doing this ‘mano a mano’ seems almost fitting.
He stares deep into the torch light and doesn’t move a muscle.
I jolt forward a step to see him react but he merely moves his head to one side.
“What?” I shout.
“Here to rub it in?”
“You won. Well at least you think you did. No one is gonna give a damn about your existence now. Does that sound like winning?”
“You’ll die down here and no one will ever know, you lucky bastard.”
A sob escapes before I can stop it.
After a second, he chirps.
We look at each other and see how old we’ve become.
One step at a time I make my way over to him. With a sigh I close my hands over his wings and bring him up to my chest. No fighting. No scratching. For a second I wonder if it’s a different bird. It couldn’t be, I know this monster. I could pick him out of a line-up if I was blind.
As I make my way out and up the stairs, he breathes steadily in my arms. A madman once again; a weeping man holding a bright green parrot. Children stare.
Squinting into the sunlight, I ready my arms for release.
“Thank you little monster,” I whisper.
I open my hands to let him go but he just turns to stare at me. The past warns me that he might do something crazy, like bite my nose or scratch the other side of my face. But he just stares for a moment and then prepares to jump. Up and away he goes, until the green of his wings become the green of the trees. The breeze cools my face and I feel peace in knowing he will die free.

Some are worth letting go.