The Beautiful Magpie

La Belle Pie.

Four acts.

ACT I.

The magpie’s name was Virgo.

Buzz off, buzz off, buzz off. The birds twittered, each one shoving against the other. All of them argued for their own space on the undergrowth. Dust flew up in flurries. Virgo beat his wings to keep it away from him.

So mighty were his wings that, at times, they felt like a different entity altogether. Limbs with their own hearts, minds, and gizzards. Certainly no other bird could feel such power pulsing through their feathers. The pigeon valued his head too much. The honeyeater valued his beak. Why, if it had been a matter of wingspan, Virgo would certainly be the favourite above all others. No one could compete.

But Virgo did not like thinking like this—squabbling among each other over something they could not control. He shook his head at his own folly.

And anyway, he was seldom his own favourite. It was selfish to think of only himself during the seasonal meeting.

All manner of birds attended the meeting. The galahs; grey and gusty in grand groups. The lorikeets; lovely, lucid, languishing amongst the branches. The butcherbirds, the kookaburra, the miners, the parrots; why, even the gulls, though they were invited again this year only once it was assured that they would not bring their whole flock of fifty.

Virgo was the only magpie. He had been the only one for a long time.

The birds spoke of many things: the safest yards for water, the strongest trees in summer. The forests to avoid in case of sparks. They spoke of island cats and of reflections, especially about the dangers of glass.

Then—Virgo held his breath—the council leaders brought out the dead bird.

She was hidden under a blanket of dry leaves: a bluebird, with blood streaking her feathers like red rain. A piece of glass, stuck in her throat. Wings all bent and broken. Bones where feathers should be, blood and guts where they should not. Virgo shuddered. Oh God, oh God, oh God, the birds twittered. This was the first time they spared her even a glance.

The figbird, Kensington, lifted his head. “One of you,” he said, in his booming voice, “must take her body to the Barrow”.

Virgo tensed. No one had volunteered to take a body to the Barrow in years. Most dead birds were left lying where they were, left to be a banquet for wormy ground creatures, and then to rot. The Barrow was a choice, but it had become customary to offer it when a bird died. One of many methods for the final disposition of the dead. Virgo’s wings shivered.

“Cause of death?” the galah Shimmer hummed.

“Crashed. Into a window,” the raven Pho replied. “One of the cars on the low way, you see.”

We see, we see, we see. Feathers fluttered. The twittering birds mused that the bluebird had, perhaps, thought there was another bluebird out to get her territory. This was not an uncommon story; birds can be quite territorial, but it was made more glamorous by the mysterious bluebird. She had been the most beautiful bird, by far, having been blessed with the colour of the sky. Had been, they said, had been, had been.

“Anyone? Come now, anyone?” called the council. “We must have someone.”

Not a single bird stirred. They were all wondering how long it took for the bluebird to die. Minutes, or perhaps instantly.

Instantly. It had to be instantly, Virgo thought. At least I know the difference between a reflection and a real bird. The thought of reflections gripped his mind with a cold touch, but its permanence in his mind made him feel like an expert on the matter. He always knew, for instance, that in windows and water, the ugly black-and-white bird before him was himself. There was no other island magpie, after all, curious as the fact was. And no other bird was cursed to look at horrid as him. A dull monochrome on his best days, a distressed mess of greyscale on his worst.

Often, he would think about his reflection by the pond near the wattle-tree and sift through his feathers. One by one.  How many of his feathers were black, how many white? Virgo gazed again at the blood on the bluebird’s feathers. How could someone be so perfect? How could someone, like me, be not?

Then, a volunteer.

Virgo was not a dreamer. But he surrounded himself with them, hoping to catch some of their light. And this dreamer, this volunteer, was named Ani.

Ani flew up from the gossiping cluster with a burst of song. He faced the council and all the rest of them. “Stop,” he cried, “Stop! I will take care of the body.”

And it was this action that began the afternoon he and Virgo would spend. Working, alone, and together. Ani was a small, grey shrike-thrush with a wingspan far smaller than Virgo’s. Ani could not carry a bird for long, but he did carry Virgo’s heart, whether either of them knew this or not.

ACT II.

The Barrow is a place of white ghosts that can only be visited at night. There is no birdly explanation for it. Very few birds, perhaps once a generation, have brought bodies to the Barrow, and even fewer spoke of their experience. But it was common knowledge: the Barrow could not be visited by birds in the light.

So with the sun still very much at its peak, casting illusions along the simmering asphalt of the highways and crackling the dirt under them, Virgo reminded Ani of this. Ani explained that they were not bringing the bluebird to the Barrow at all.

Instead, the two of them brought the bluebird to the grove of the eucalypt trees and laid her to rest in the sun, covering her body with leaves and flowers. With her body free of the shadows between the trees, bathed in sunlight, she almost looked alive. It frightened Virgo, but it made Ani sigh.

Maybe it was the way Ani breathed through his beak, but it sounded like a soft whistle. He often sighed in Virgo’s company, and when asked why, Ani only said that he felt calm around him. “I’m sharing my sighs,” he explained, “because I feel you will understand.”

And when he was not sighing, he was singing. Birds, as you know, sing anyway. A trill in one tree, a coo in another. But Ani always sung alone. And once, when Virgo asked him why, the grey bird had said something about waiting to sing with perfection. Virgo, flustered, decided not to ask whether perfection was a bird or an idea. Or worse, a reflection.

Either way, it didn’t matter. Ani’s voice was perfection itself. Songbird. The word echoed in Virgo’s head. Songbird, songbird. Ani’s sighs, his joy, his sadness, even his rage, had a melody. Virgo wished he could leave something as powerful as a song one day, a song just for Ani. Or perhaps a glance, a look, a movement, that would remain burned in Ani’s mind, so Virgo would never be forgotten.

They prepared the burial shroud as if it were a dance. A warm breeze blew past them and uncovered one of the bluebird’s broken wings. The red-on-blue almost looked like a painting, but its glistening made Virgo’s gizzard churn. He ambled over on his feet and replaced the flowers and leaves hastily with his beak, ignoring the creeping feeling in his bones.

“No bird should have to suffer like this,” Ani said softly, placing a sprig on the pile. “I knew her. She was kind. Beautiful.” Ani covered the bluebird’s face with a dandelion. “But it doesn’t matter now.” A pause. “I hope you never die like this.”

They worked under the stares of the koalas, mammals as still as statues, on the branches above them.  

Virgo stepped around the body of the bluebird, making sure everything was in its place, while Ani hopped around, unable to stop adding things to make it beautiful. Or, perfect, Virgo thought. Perfect, perfect, perfect.

He couldn’t help but sneak another look. Red-on-blue. He had seen blood before, but blood was not meant to be this glossy. It covered her wings—her small wings, he just noticed. They were broken and awkward in death, and he wished such a thing would never happen to him. If he were ever to die, he knew his wings would be his best feature. Perhaps then, they would not look upon the starkness of his colours. Perhaps then—

“Virgo,” Ani whispered. “Virgo.”

Virgo stopped. “Yes?”

It felt as if something had passed between them. This always happened, though Virgo believed it was only the wind playing tricks.

Ani inched closer. His head cocked to one side, then the other, lifting it to meet Virgo’s gaze. Virgo lowered his head to match the other bird’s height. Their feathers ruffled at the neck. They looked at each for seconds, minutes. A breeze passed between them and Virgo wondered at what second had they begun to take flight. To have suddenly risen above the island, to have only the clouds and the tops of the eucalypts for company? By the beat of their wings, the bluebird was left behind.

There is nothing very special about a bird’s eyes. All are black. Beady. As shallow and shiny as a pebble. But in the sky, above everyone, with the wind keeping them adrift in its arms, Virgo saw himself in Ani’s eyes.

ACT III.

They stayed with each other for a long while after burying the bluebird,, and as soon as Ani left, Virgo felt as if he had been viewing life with the wrong pair of eyes. Flying home, he looked across at his wings. Left and right. Black and white. The light of the stars made them shine.

The rain was not meant to fall that night. The water had started to rush down the paths, creating muddy banks along gravel, making the air warm and thick with a presence that was months too early. The kind of storm that a smart bird would avoid, but that a magpie could survive.

Birds signalled at him from under thickets and trees. Won’t make it, wind’s not friendly, the storm is a stranger. None of them moved. Virgo cawed against the wind and it only roared louder against him. Land, you must land, you must land, you must land, the birds gasped.

Virgo’s wings fought against the storm, his eyes closed to the torrential rain. And when he opened them, he was lost.

Virgo wondered when the trees around him become dense like walls. He tried to slow his wing-beat, but the storm pushed him on. The turns became sharper with the wind sprinting past the gaps in this strange forest. He trembled when the dark bark of the trees began to glisten with something more than moonlight. The whole world became shrouded in silver and white, and only then did the storm allow Virgo stop.

He had stopped at the Barrow.

His wings kept him aloft, beating wild, in time with his heart. The silver glow of this world made the white of his wings brighter. A sharp light caught him—and he dropped from the air as he covered his eyes with his wings.

Stone broke his fall. Opening his eyes, he saw a wall of reflections in front of him. A wall made brighter under the moon. The ugly black-and-white bird staring back, fallen.

Not me, not me—he screeched. He brought himself up to his feet and pecked at the wall. Not me, not me, not me. Virgo brought his beak forward, a savage strike to the reflection. Once, twice, three times, until it broke with a crack.

The Barrow came alive. Phantoms rose from the walls—birds of the hereafter, stretching their wings once more, flying with more freedom than they could have in the sky. Feathers like smoke. Birds caught in a corps, dancing in the air in tandem. A vision of Ani filled his senses, imploring him to fight.

The expert hands of the Barrow captured him, baptised him in a nest softer than twigs but stronger and seamless. Water, he thought, water, water. He felt as if he was in an egg once more, smothered in darkness while bathed in unnatural light. In the egg, he was pulled and anointed and moved to perfection. Beautiful, he heard a gravelly voice say. Just once.

He could not feel anymore. They took the moonlight’s shine on his wings and made it permanent. Frozen in time. His beak kept shut, he could not cry. The vision of his Ani in his mind cried for him, watching from the other side of the glass, his wings failing to keep him up as he fell to the ground with a wail.

ACT IV.

The Curtain rises. The Barrow is revealed.

The emptiness of the store is made worse by the chime of the cuckoo clock on the hour. No thank you, no thank you, no thank you, the mechanical bird seems to say. The Barrow scowls. His finger strokes the stiff feathers of Virgo’s poised wings, as if in the middle of a triumphant dance. He finds solace in his fixedness. No bird is prettier than one who is happy. The cuckoo clock ends its chime, and then it is the emptiness who speaks to him: alone, alone, alone. The words hover in the air like dust in a stream of sunlight.

He picks up Virgo’s figure by the base, the polish coming off on his hands. Hums a broken suite as he places the bird back on the display cabinet at the front of the store. Shoves the other bird to the side, a grey shrike-thrush captured in the midst of sorrow, so his feathers do not have the same shine. Still, they make a pretty pair.

The door jingles as a new customer comes in. The Barrow can hear his mind twittering, his fingers tapping on his wallet, his mind bouncing at the idea of having such a perfect specimen, catching light on his shelf.

“Gloss paint,” the Barrow offers, when asked.

Hard-wearing. Fast-drying. Consummate.

The Customer cannot tear his eyes off Virgo. The Barrow is skilled in that way, in bringing life to the dead. Skilled as a diener to a morgue. The choreographer to a dance. The Barrow lowers Virgo from his shelf, and presents him to the Customer. But the Customer scrunches his nose. He finds a glistening tear in the bird’s eye, and slides Virgo back across the counter, with a half-hearted promise to come back.