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Intro
T h e B i r d S a v i o r s
A l s o b y W i l l i a m J . C o b b
The Fire Eaters
The White Tattoo
Goodnight, Texas
T h e B i r d S a v i o r s
William J. Cobb
U n b r i d l e d B o o k s
This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents
are either the product of the author's imagination
or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to
actual persons living or dead, business establishments,
events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Unbridled Books
Copyright © 2012 by William J. Cobb
All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in
any form without permission.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Cobb, William J. (William James), 1957–
The bird saviors / William J. Cobb.
pages cm
ISBN 978-1-60953-070-9
1. Parent and child—Fiction. 2. Environmental degradation—
Fiction. 3. Southwestern States—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3553.O199B57 2012
813'.54—dc23
2011045575
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
b o o k d e s i g n b y s h · c v
First Printing
For Elizabeth & Lili
Pa r t O n e
The government killed more than 2.7 million "nuisance" animals last year, including starlings, troublemaking birds that destroy crops and contaminate livestock feed. Also killed were wild turkeys and chickens, black bears, coyotes and wolves. The animals were mainly killed because they threatened livestock, crops or people in airplanes. . . .
The largest number of animals killed— 2.3 million— were starlings. . . . Critics say the poison used also kills owls,
hawks, magpies, raccoons and cats.
—" 'Nuisance' Animals Killed in U.S. Program," New York Times, 11 September 2005,
Horses in Red Snow
L o r d G o d i s t a l k i n g a g a i n . H e d o e s love to hear himself speak. A graybeard loon, he sits hunched over the kitchen table, his arms sunburned, nose hooked, hair thin and wiry, ranting hoarse- voiced about sinners and socialists. Outside the foggy window Smoke Larks flutter liquid as living shadows to perch atop the woodshed. When they settle the morning sun backlights their black silhouettes like burnt figures on a woodcut.
Ruby shifts the baby girl in her lap and thinks of the birds, how they must be cold of a morning like this. She's seen twelve this week whole. She counts the birds and invents her own names. She knows people call them by another name, but she calls them Smoke Larks. Swirling in vast flocks in late winter, they look like smoke from a great fire, burnt souls twisting in the wind. Purple- black, dusky, and speckled, the short- tailed birds scatter among the twisted junipers in the backyard, pecking in the dry hay grass.
Ruby began counting all the birds two years before, when she noticed how quickly they seemed to be dwindling. They are disappearing and someone has to note this, to keep it in her mind if nowhere else. The going away of things has to be noted. Especially a thing as perfect as a bird, even the squawky Blackjacks, or an old Grief Bird with claws like voodoo earrings.
Only a handful of Smoke Larks came this winter, rare as snow. She remembers home- school years not so long ago when both snow and larks were common still and taken for granted. She remembers being trapped in the house and staring out the windows, watching the birds, wondering when she would go to school like normal children. And when she did, at age thirteen, she wasn't prepared for it. The smiles and touches. The looking at you and teasing, the telling you how funny you talk, how pretty you are. After years of harsh soap and chores and the warnings against vanity and foolishness. The wanting something from you, something unspeakable but familiar.
She remembers the Smoke Larks in her home- school years, outside her window, her untouchable friends. The cottonwoods in the gulch used to wear them like black leaves every February. Now more often than not the skies are clear and hateful, not a bird shadow or silhouette to be seen. Taken for granted are fires in the foothills and dust storms off the plains.
The world has gone wrong. They pay men to hunt and shoot birds. The fever has the city people spooked. They blame it on the birds, stupid stupid. It's a shame is what it is. Nothing to do but count to the last one. Ruby hasn't seen a Moon Bird in over a year, and Squeakies are just a flicker of what they used to be.
Baby girl Lila tugs at Ruby's nipple and puts her hand on her breast. Lord God says the world is Lila's to inherit and see through to the end. Ruby wants her to grow up in a world of birds and the beauty of spotted feathers. She worries that the last of the birds will be gone before Lila has a chance to recognize their leaving.
Things don't stay around forever.
People don't either. Like her mother. She's been gone for two weeks and Ruby can't take life without her. Life in this house. With its mouse scratchings and bacon grease and Book of Mormon on the table. The sense of Lord God breathing down your neck. Ruby's eyes well with tears as Lila's hand rests against the pale skin of her breast. The baby girl's eyelids blink as if in slow motion, her arms creased with fat wrinkles at the wrist, fingers splayed like the rays of a starfish.
Across the kitchen table Lord God is going on about how he needs to trim the toenails of his one good foot. And the danger of the
