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

longer still to cross it. The hunting party already had a significant head start when he entered the valley, and they’re likely to have a whole fleet of horseboxes waiting somewhere ahead, to whisk them all away, back to Scotland. There is little hope of him catching them now, he knows. So, frustrated, he turns, and makes his way back to the autumn forest. Maybe he can still get back in time to help with the wounded.

As he goes, he dismantles the rifle. Each piece he sows, as if the gun is composed of seeds. He wonders what kind of plant would grow from a gun seed. It would be a grim, twisted tree, he thinks, and from its branches would hang silver bullets, which would chime in the wind. When only the rifle’s bullets remain, he rolls them around in his palm, and at the edge of the valley he scatters them, watching them flash and tumble and fall among the bright flowers. And then he turns, and leaves the vale of dying wild flowers behind.

* * *

On his return to the autumn forest, Adam spies red and blue lights flashing beside the river clearing where the ruins of the funeral lie. There are men and women in uniform spread out and scouring the woodland floor with spiked sticks, taking a census of the dead, and cataloguing evidence. Adam knows that he will be spotted if he ventures any further into the valley, so he turns to leave, but as he does he spots a small wooden shack neatly camouflaged in a yellowing copse nearby. Something glints in one of the shack’s dark slotted windows: a lens, trained across the trees. Somebody is watching the progress of the police.

There is a rack of binoculars hung up on the back of the shack, and Adam grabs a pair, figuring he can use them as a sort of makeshift club. But when he opens the door, there is only Magpie inside, wearing a brown duffle coat and flat cap, and for all the world looking exactly like a birdwatcher. He flashes Adam a silver smile, and raises a finger to his lips, motioning for him to remain quiet. Then, he pats the empty stool beside him.

The warped wooden stool creaks as Adam sits.

“Any luck?” whispers Magpie.

“I lost the riders.”

“Ah, well.” Magpie lowers his binoculars, draws a packet of gummy worms from one of his pockets, and pops it open. He chews on a bright green worm, thoughtfully. “Nothing to worry about. Frank Sinclair and his pastoral fetishist fan club have threatened Rook, and he will ruin them for it, mark my words. Did you ever visit Rook’s cottage?”

Adam can remember a few of Rook’s homes – the house in Merrion Square, the villa beside the Vatican, and the apartment overlooking Central Park – but he can’t picture any cottages. A cottage seems too small for Rook, somehow. “I’m not sure I did.”

“Well. My dear brother built a cottage up on the east coast of Scotland a couple of centuries back. He spent ages finding the perfect location, and settled on a windswept heath above a cliff edge just north of Berwick – it even had access to a cove with a rocky beach. He spent months hauling rocks up from that beach, and piling them together into a sort of cottage-shaped heap, and not content to simply buy furniture and roofing, he even went as far as to learn a whole selection of trades, and make everything inside by hand. I’m still not sure what drove him to do it, but it turned into a real labour of love; that cottage was a retreat for the summer months, where he would go away from the world for a while and fly along the coast. And I must say, the result was impressive. Say what you like about Rook, but he has impeccable taste. I’m hardly ashamed to say that I stayed in that cottage myself from time to time – my brother has a policy of always leaving a window open wherever he goes, for any errant birds that might need a little shelter for a day or two. That cottage stood the test of time for almost two centuries, weathering the weather and the approaching crumbling cliff edge. In fact, I think Rook was looking forward to that cliff eroding enough that his cottage would fall from the edge. Some symbol of the passing of time, maybe. But he had no such luck, in the end.

“A couple of decades ago, when he showed up for his usual summer retreat, the cottage was gone, and in its place was a golf course. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my brother angrier. Normally, when he’s annoyed at you, he won’t shut up. But this time, he just went very quiet and got to work. The golf course’s owner was some wealthy American developer who figured that the cottage’s owner wouldn’t have enough money to challenge him in court. Rook didn’t bother challenging him in court. Instead, he put each case and client running through Corvid & Corvid on hold for a month, and devoted every resource available to him into ruining that man. He went for the man’s money, and by the end of the month had every penny of it. The fool even showed up at Rook’s office, begging on his knees for his money back. And do you know what Rook told him? That he could have it back, if he rebuilt the ruined cottage. From what I understand, he actually gave it a go. Without any money, the best he could do was go to the beach and do what Rook did in the first place: haul rocks up, one by one. They found him cold on a sand bar after a week, a heavy rock clutched between his bloodied hands, dead from a heart attack. Beautiful, really. And I feel as if a similar fate is in store