Birds of Paradise by Oliver Langmead (read any book .TXT) 📗

it the instant he stepped into the stadium. The thatch of thorns in his head must have kept him from realising the strange truth of the place – making it all seem mundane.

Silently, Adam wanders among the plants. At the centre of the stadium, a thought occurs to him, and he removes his shoes and socks. Squirming his scarred feet in a patch of grass, he wriggles his toes and feels the blades between them. Then he looks up at the distant sun, which is a cold silver coin behind the cloud cover. There’s an idea forming in his head. It’s the seed of an idea, which needs nurturing – which needs light, and earth, and water to grow. Kneeling beside the canal through the centre of the stadium, Adam cups handfuls of cold water and sips at them, making his teeth chatter. Then he returns to the chilli plant and plucks a fresh, red chilli from it. The heat of it is like fire down his throat, and it makes his eyes water and nose run, and it makes him laugh; the taste of it is so familiar. It’s a flavour he never thought he’d find again. Pressing his nose into flowers, he breathes in their heady, intoxicating scents, and he goes from tree to tree, pressing his ear against each and listening to the life there – the low creaking and groaning – and feeling the hard bark beneath his rough fingers.

Of course.

“Everything here is from Eden.”

“Yes,” says Magpie, and his smile broadens, revealing his remaining teeth.

Adam feels breathless. He can hear his bloom rushing around beneath his ribs, and he turns around and around, feeling the chilli still burning his throat. He tries to take in every bit of the hidden garden, every last piece of paradise, gathered here upon the pitch and benches, gathered here in secret, where they might be hidden away from the world. “It’s more than just the rose. So much more. You’re collecting pieces of Eden,” he says, and he can feel the tears rolling down his cheeks, blurring his vision, and he can feel the laughter rising from deep within him – the fully formed idea blooming. Collapsing to his knees, Adam bunches the grass between his fingers, and he knows that it will never wither, and it will never die. Nothing here will. It was all made before death, just like he was.

VII

Adam remembers through touch. It’s in the snagging of brambles at his fingers, the cut of the grass across his wrists, and the lines and curls of gnarled bark he traces as if they are a topography of paradise. The artificial river running through the middle of the stadium isn’t from Eden – Adam imagines the futility of using a sieve on the ocean, to try and reclaim every last perfect drop of water – but that doesn’t matter, because when Adam places his hands in the stream between the high reeds and lets the waving weeds on the riverbed curl and uncurl wetly around his fingers, he remembers anyway. When it starts raining, he takes shelter beneath the trees and remembers by listening; the droplets rushing and rustling the leaves draw him into himself and return him to a time when his whole world was a garden.

Eventually, he falls asleep, propped up against a broken goalpost. When he wakes the rain has stopped, and he’s not sure if it’s a new day or the same day. There’s no sign of Magpie, but he can hear voices echoing in the entrance tunnel, and all at once a stream of children appear. There are ten of them – half of them dressed in blue, and half dressed in red – and one of them has a ball, which he kicks from foot to foot. The children in blue run across the grass and make a set of goalposts using their jumpers, while the children in red do the same on the other side of the green stretch.

“Are you allowed to be here?” asks Adam, emerging into the sunlight.

One of the children in blue stops, foot paused on the ball, and studies Adam with an interrogative expression, as if he is the intruder. “Do you work for Mister Corvid?” The rest of the group gather around him, hands in pockets, arms folded.

Adam considers the question. “I’m the gardener,” he tells them.

“Mister Corvid says it’s okay if we practise here,” says one.

“So long as our parents don’t come,” says another.

“And your parents are okay with that?”

The child with his foot on the ball shrugs. “My dad says that Mister Corvid is a ‘good bloke’ for keeping the grounds.”

“Well my dad says he’s a bit strange.”

“My mum says she wants to know if there’s a Missus Corvid.”

“I like his teeth. I want silver teeth.”

There’s a murmur of agreement among the children.

“Do you want to be our goalie?” asks one of the children in red. There are immediate protests from the children in blue.

“Sorry. I’ve got work to do,” says Adam.

The children go about their game, five to a side. Adam is hesitant about letting them run across the grass in their spiked boots, but he quickly realises that he’s being too protective. The grass is tougher than the children are; as they grow up, become teenagers, become adults, become middle-aged, become old, wither and eventually die, the grass will remain green, and sharp, and live on. The grass has lasted this long in the bitter ruination of the world outside paradise, and a few kids running around on it aren’t going to do much to damage it.

Eventually Magpie returns, and the children pause to cheer as he emerges from the tunnel. He beams at them, and half his teeth are silver; his dangerous smile has been repaired. He’s wearing a dark coat over a white shirt, and seems to be in good spirits. “I see you’ve met the locals,” he says, sitting with Adam on one of the