Birdwatching
Garrett W. Vance
Prelude
The flash was so bright it pierced her closed eyelids, waking her from her nap. A thunderclap followed, Pam Miller felt the deep vibration even in bed. Spring storm, maybe I’ll get up and watch the show. After a few minutes with no further drama offered by the April skies she went back to sleep.
Awakening hours later in post twilight gloom she felt disoriented. It took her a moment to remember it was Sunday and she was home in bed. A “mental vacation” she had called her lengthy afternoon nap, although she didn’t feel particularly rested. She reached over to switch on her bedside reading light. After several clicks with no response Pam noticed the digital alarm clock was also dead. Great, the power’s out. She fumbled around in the bedstand’s drawer, groping for the flashlight she kept there; finding it, she got out of bed with a groan to make her way to the kitchen.
She had left the kitchen door propped open; a chill breeze blew through the screen door, smelling strongly of pine. Her nose wrinkled at the unusually powerful scent. Pam peered out into the darkness of her garden, her flashlight playing across the six-foot-tall tower of the bird feeder, then the row of large rhododendron bushes that made the border between her yard and the copse of box elders and maples stretching up the hill beyond. There were a few pine trees up there, she thought, but couldn’t recall them ever putting off such a noticeable smell before. She shivered; the breeze was unseasonably cold, so she hastily closed the door. After a dreary dinner of cold pizza, which the candlelight failed to lend any romance to, Pam sighed and decided to call it a night. So, this is the exciting life of the divorcee. At least her ex-husband had helped warm the bed sheets.
The next morning she woke up before dawn feeling refreshed, finding the unusually cool air pleasantly invigorating. It must have blown here all the way from Canada! The power was still out so she made a fire in the wood stove that helped save on electricity in the winter. Soon she had a nice cup of rich “Italian Roast” coffee, milk no sugar, warming her up, and sat down to enjoy the morning show at the little table she had placed beside the picture window looking out on the garden. Breakfast time at the bird feeder! A group of black capped chickadees were already enjoying some sunflower seeds in the pre-dawn grayness. Soon they were joined by a pair of rufous sided towhees, an attractive bird with a black head and rust colored sides. She sipped her coffee, enjoying the company.
Pam had always loved birds, it was fostered in her at a young age by her grandmother in Fairmont who delighted in the nature walks they took together through the friendly West Virginia wooded hills. She had learned their names and over the years had observed their habits. She never really thought of herself as a “birdwatcher,” but her interest had only increased as the years went by. A well-worn copy of Peterson’s Eastern Birds field guide lay beside a small but useful pair of field glasses on the table before her—nothing fancy, just a hobby. The birds had become regular company once she had put up the bird feeder. It was company she welcomed a little more than she liked to admit. After the divorce she had rented this little one bedroom house on the outskirts of town, a truly tiny place but featuring a spacious garden for her to putter about in. It was good to keep busy, between the garden and the birds she didn’t feel all that lonely...most of the time. Morning with the feeder had become a daily ritual.
What in blue blazes happened to the power? Pam got up to pour herself another cup of coffee from the old copper kettle on the wood stove. Returning to the table she hoped that her favorite birds would make an appearance today; it would be nice to see them. A few minutes later her hopes were rewarded. A flash of flaming scarlet winged over the rhodies to alight on the bird feeder in red splendor. The cardinal had come. The brilliantly plumaged male dipped his crest at her in what she liked to think was greeting and proceeded to help himself to the sunflower seeds. Even in the lingering shadow of night he glowed. Soon he was joined by his olive hued mate who wore just a blush of rose on her head and wings—nowhere near as striking as the male, of course, but still a very elegant and beautiful bird.
She watched them closely as they ate and was mesmerized for a time, deeply enjoying their bright movement in the stillness of the dawn. No wonder they were chosen as our state bird—we weren’t the only state that had chosen cardinals, either! The cardinals sometimes seemed to her as if they didn’t even belong in a place as normal as West Virginia; they had the look of a fanciful jungle bird from some exotic clime, such was the glamor of their crest and hue. They brought a sense of wonder to her garden and she was awfully glad to have that...it was important. Everything else seemed so drab these days.
Her eyes were taken away from her cardinals by the fluttering of a new arrival at the feeder. A bird about the same shape and size as the towhee was now testing the sunflowers with an inquisitive peck. It had a brown back, a creamy light orange border on the lower breast curved up around an eye catching bright blue bib flashing from breast to beak. It was a lovely thing and she realized with some surprise that she had no idea what it was! A new bird for her list and one definitely not common to the area! She grabbed her field guide in excitement and began flipping through its pages in search of the new, her attention torn between studying the strange bird and trying to locate it in the pages. As she searched it was joined by two more, another sporting the blue patch and then a drabber brown bird that shared the same creamy breast and belly—the female, obviously!
“This is ridiculous.” Making herself go slowly and concentrating on each page she made her way through the entirety of Eastern Birds. There was nothing that matched the strangers at her feeder. Eyes narrowed stubbornly she went over to the small bookshelf by the bedroom door. She found the little Golden Guide to American Birds she’d had since she was a kid. On a whim she also grabbed the rarely opened Birds of the World her ex had given her as a birthday present. It was a typical gift from him, an attempt to show that he knew what her interests were but a failure to know them in any depth. He didn’t understand her birdwatching, or for that matter her, at all. In Trent’s mind it was a pastime for doting little old English spinsters. Which is what you are becoming, isn’t it? Shaking the bitter thoughts from her mind she hurried back to the table. Amazingly the new birds now outnumbered the ubiquitous chickadees, nearly a dozen of them feasted in her garden!
“All right then, so they’ve wandered in from the western states.” she mumbled to herself. The Golden Guide was quaint and full of pleasant childhood memories but it was an overview of all of North America and really wasn’t any use. She would have to order Peterson’s Western Birds; strays were rare but they did happen. She picked up her coffee then nearly dropped it in surprise. The cardinals had flown away and a new bird had taken their place at the feeder. It was as large as the cardinals, its body was a powdery orange combined with patches of light gray and it sported a bright blue bar on its wing. In place of a crown it had light and dark stripes running back from its sharp beak. It called out in a harsh rasping call causing the chickadees to scatter away into the safety of the rhododendron. She had never seen this bird before but she knew its voice: it was a jay, and it sure wasn’t blue!
“What the hell!?” She grabbed Birds of the World, flipping directly to the corvids, the family that included jays and crows in its genealogy. There it was in a color plate photograph. The Eurasian Jay. Definitely a European bird and here it was helping itself to her feeder.
Maybe one stray in a day but not two, not two in a whole season! The odds are too much against, especially across the damn Atlantic! She watched in amazement as the big bird made itself right at home in her garden, devouring the sunflower seeds with messy relish in the morning sunlight...the morning sunlight....Pam stood up at the table, the wonder of the stranger birds forgotten.
Pam ran out the kitchen door into cold air, rife with the scent of too many pine trees. She stopped near the feeder, the birds scattering into the bushes at her intrusion. Pam watched the morning sun climb higher above the hill into a somehow too blue sky, no haze, no drift of pollution. The sun was beautiful, the sun was warm. The sun was in the wrong place.
“That’s not possible.” A lot of people go through their lives not caring or noticing where the sun rises and sets throughout the seasons and she was not one of them. Pam paid attention to things like that, to the world around her, and this was wrong. She stood very still in her garden as the shrill cries of a bird that shouldn’t be there rang out in a morning that shouldn’t be happening.
She was afraid to move for a very long time.
One Year Later
There was no coffee left. Pam sat at her table with a cup of hot water that she’d poured some fresh cream and a single drop of artificial vanilla into—a poor substitute but it made the morning a little warmer. She watched what she now called the “bluebibs” at the bird feeder picking at a meager assortment of flax and some wild grasses she had gathered. She couldn’t give them very much since she was saving the sunflower seeds for next year’s garden.
Pam frowned at herself. If she had been smarter last year she would have planted the entire yard in sunflowers! She, like everyone else in Grantville had been too busy just trying to survive. Her cranky landlord’s precious grass had been turned up to put in vegetables in the rush to grow enough food for a seventeenth-century German winter. Pam had grimly enjoyed that; the mean old coot hadn’t even allowed her to plant a few trees along the road; such was his obsession with that damn grass. At least she’d had sense enough to plant one row of sunflowers in the midst of the chaos; twelve dried sunflower stalks from last year tied in a bundle leaned against the wall beside her garden window, their round heads full of seeds. There had been times when she had looked at those seed pods hungrily but had not allowed herself. If she could get enough of them growing this coming year she would have enough for the birds and not feel guilty. No one starved, I’m right to horde the seeds.
A few black capped chickadees that had come with them through the Ring of Fire mixed with the native German birds at the feeder. They were tough little buggers; they had made it through the first winter and just may have a chance here. I’m glad to see them, I just wish...She knew she should just forget about it but she had never given up hope....I just wish the cardinals were still here. She knew the chances of a breeding population were entirely too slim. Pam swirled her faux coffee around in the cup. She had been through it in her mind a thousand times. First of all I can only guess at the number that came through with us. Anywhere between the six I actually saw at one time at the feeder and maybe ten...twenty...or more? Wishful thinking!
By autumn of that first year there were none to be seen. She had spent every morning watching for them but now only the chickadees and the native birds came to her feeder. She sometimes tried to make herself feel better by considering that there were still lots of cardinals...across the Atlantic. It never really helped much and usually just made her feel more lost. Even so, she couldn’t help thinking about her lost cardinals. Were they eaten by some new unaccustomed predator? Various stoats and weasels from the Thuringian forests had found their way to Grantville and the formerly spoiled up-time house cats turned hungry feral predators were probably the biggest danger. Maybe they flew away too far to find each other again. That was also pretty likely. The chances of a successful breeding population remaining here in Thuringia were extremely low. And even if they did, she wondered if it would really be a good thing.
Whenever nature’s balance was changed something inevitably paid. Transplanted species had often become pests back up-time. The English sparrows and starlings brought to America to make it feel more like home had bred in such numbers that they often threatened native species. The starlings, begun with only one hundred introduced to New York’s Central Park in the 1890s, eventually spread throughout the entire North American continent. It wasn’t natural. But then again, neither are we. There was some small hope for cardinals in Europe, if they stuck together and could breed fast enough for their population to grow. They are out there somewhere, out there in this time’s Germany. I need to believe it.
Pam found herself becoming more and more devoted to her birdwatching. It was a hobby that didn’t require technology or resources that could be better spent on Grantville’s survival. She began taking long walks around Grantville, sometimes even stepping over what she personally called “The Rim” to venture into Thuringia proper. This edge was becoming less and less apparent as West Virginian and German plant species mixed and mingled along the ring’s edges. Grasses and runners had already covered most of the raw exposed earth created by the mismatched elevations. Nature at least was going to absorb the presence of this misplaced chunk of the world quietly. “Not so its people!” She laughed aloud thinking of the political turmoil their American presence had created across this century’s Europe. We are a weed that isn’t going to die off too easily.
* * *
On a fair June afternoon Pam was watching a flock of native birds playing in the pine trees at the forest’s edge from a vantage point atop a crumbling Grantville embankment in the process of sliding into a Thuringian meadow at the rim. The birds were about thirty yards away across the meadow. She sat comfortably in the tall grass with her legs dangling over the rim half in, half out, enjoying the bird’s antics with her field glasses. They were true beauties, bright lemon yellow with black wings and tail. She was quite sure they were orioles and had dubbed them such in her notebook. She put down the glasses to look at the pencil sketch she had made. It was in black and white, she was hoarding the lone box of colored pencils she possessed back at the house until she became a better artist. Around the simple but fairly accurate drawing she had described the colors in detail in her notes. At the bottom of the page she had whimsically written “Lemon Oriole.”
“And why shouldn’t I give you a name?” she asked the distant flock. It’s not like anyone else cares. She had made nonchalant inquiries after European bird books at the school library and every private book collection in Grantville. Oh, just thought it might be interesting to know what’s in my garden these days. Even a guide from Great Britain would have been useful as she knew it shared many species with the mainland. There wasn’t a single one. What the hell do coal miners care about European birds anyway? This made her frown; she felt self conscious at her hobby. She had publicly kept her interest quiet, she really didn’t want the other townsfolk to know how much it had come to mean to her.
Pam dreaded the day when someone would inevitably refer to her as “The Birdwatcher”—yeah, that would stick. “Then they’ll be sure you’re a nut.” She thought of her ex-husband Trent down at the mine chuckling along with them. “Yeah, I always thought she was a birdbrain!” Pam blew a blast of air at a loose strand of hair that had fallen across her face. She knew she wasn’t being fair; Trent wasn’t mean-spirited like that. He would keep quiet and just shake his head knowingly. Come on, let’s not do this today. Just watch the damn birds, Pam. She put the field glasses back up to her eyes. There were men there.
A trio of rugged-looking men had come out of the woods and now walked along the tree line. One had what must be a crossbow strapped to his back and they all wore sizable knives hung from their belts. Down-timers. Most of the dangerous sorts had been scared off over the last year, but you really couldn’t be too sure. She was far from any road and at least a mile from anyone’s house. They may be just regular folks about their business...or not. Forcing herself to move slowly despite her racing heartbeat Pam pulled her legs up to her chest then slid on her butt backwards into the tall grass, keeping low. Any eye, animal or human, was attracted to quick motion. She watched the men continue on their path, snippets of their deep voices conversing in German came to her ears. She carefully turned over to crawl away from the bank’s edge on her belly, not looking back. They didn’t see me. She crawled through the grass until she reached the path through the maples she had taken to get there. She ran as far as she could until the stitch in her side grew too painful, then continued walking quickly home.
Later that night Pam set at her table looking glumly through her notebooks. She had calmed down with the aid of some kirshwasser. Here was something she definitely liked about Germany. Yay for booze. She looked glumly at her notes. Her drawing of the oriole looked crude and amateurish to her now.
“This birdwatching thing is going to get me killed.” Pam closed the notebook and stared at the darkness beyond the garden window. I need to be more careful. That was a fact. These were exceptionally dangerous times she now lived in. But she couldn’t just stay in her garden anymore, it would drive her crazy. She had to get out.
Maybe I need to hire a bodyguard. She smiled and lifted the shot glass in a jaunty toasting motion. “Not a bad idea.”
* * *
What the hell was I thinking? The next day Pam stood before a small crowd gathered near town hall. This corner had become an unofficial mustering point for Germans looking for work; as news of Grantville’s opportunities had spread the population of the corner had increased. At the moment there were twelve men and four women, ages ranging from thirteen to sixty, in various degrees of health and what she considered shabbiness.
Pam tried to look nonchalant as she attempted to covertly eyeball them. Knowing they were on display, many of the would-be workers smiled broadly and bowed as if she were a visiting princess, which only made her more uncomfortable. Oh, just do it, Pam! Squaring her shoulders she approached a fairly tall fellow who looked to be in his early twenties. He was thin and obviously in need of several good meals but seemed strong enough; although there wasn’t much of the warrior about him.
“Uhh, do you speak English?”
“Ja!”
“Good! What’s your name?”
The fellow hesitated slightly, a worried look on his face. “Ja?” he replied hopefully.
This isn’t working.
“Okay, thanks.” Pam moved away from the young man trying not to see his disappointment. She felt sorry for everyone here; desperation was heavy in the air. I need someone with at least a little English; my German is just not good enough yet. Actually, I can hardly speak it at all. That’s got to change.
A determined-looking red-cheeked woman trundled up to her. She appeared to be in her late fifties but was probably only around forty. The hardships of this century could age people so quickly. Her round face was stern but had an honest look to it.
“I can English,” she announced in a low, confident tone.
Pam smiled meekly. “I’m sorry, but I need a man, a herr...someone strong.”
“Strong man.” The woman nodded at her. “I know.” With a businesslike bow the woman motioned for Pam to follow her. Pam did so, not really having a better plan. The woman led her over to a brick wall where a man was leaning. A wide-brimmed hat the color of dirty white socks that may have once had some kind of shape was pulled down over his eyes.
“Gerbald.” She pointed at the man. “Gerbald!” she announced loudly to get his attention.
The man slowly looked up, peering out from beneath the uneven felt brim, looking first at the German woman then at Pam. His eyes were a beautiful cobalt blue within a woven nest of deep wrinkles. He stood slowly up from the wall and gave a nod to the approaching women.
“Hello. I am Gerbald.” The pitch of his voice had a pleasant depth; there was weariness there, but Pam heard confidence as well.
“Gerbald strong!” the woman proclaimed with a proud smile.
Gerbald chuckled. “My wife, Dore.” He leaned his head toward the determined woman. “Dore is also strong.” His eyes creased further with amusement, the remarkable blue shining out. Dore stood taller and moved proudly to his side.
I like them. Pam smiled back at the pair. “I’m Pam. It’s good to meet you.”
Gerbald was around five foot eight inches tall with wide shoulders and a solid-looking build. He wore a battered sage green long wool coat crossed by a wide brown leather belt, mustard breeches and knee high brown leather boots; an ensemble which made Pam think Robin Hood! What looked to be a saber hung at his side; there was little doubt that he had been a military man of some sort. Pam thought he might be around fifty-five but knew he was likely older. In any case, he seemed to be hale and in good health and the sort of man that other men don’t trifle with lightly. Her smile broadened.
“Were you a soldier?”
“Yes, a long time. Not now. Good soldier, not bad man.” He looked a bit worried that his former profession might not go over well with this female potential employer.
“Soldier my job before, but I am tired. I don’t like fight anymore, too sad. Peace.” He looked at Pam hoping she would understand him.
Pam’s instincts seemed sure that he was sincere and very likely legitimate in his claims. There were a lot of men like this in these times, men who would have been farmers or carpenters if not swept up by the omnipresence of war. Gerbald cocked his head at her, one eyebrow lifting the brim of his monstrously ridiculous hat slightly upward.
“You...you need soldier?”
“Yes. Well, not exactly. I need a guard. Someone to go with me outside of Grantville, into the forests and fields. I am looking for...things, in the countryside. You would guard me. Stop bad men from hurting me.”
Gerbald nodded. “Yes, guard. I can do.”
“Great!” She looked at the couple and realized there were a lot more things to discuss—how much would she pay Gerbald? Where did the two of them live? I’ll figure it out. I’ve done well today. Pam was exceptionally pleased at succeeding in her mission; she was sure she had done better than she could have hoped. “Well, Gerbald, Dore, let me buy you a beer and we’ll talk some more about the job.” And so they headed for the Thuringen Gardens, a trio of contentment.
* * *
Over several rounds of the Gardens’ fine beer, Pam learned a little more about Gerbald and Dore. He, like so many men of the age and region, had been a soldier for hire, and Dore his camp follower mate. He had left his last employer because his captain had ordered him to do something that Gerbald did not want to do, something he wouldn’t go into any detail about. The name Magdeburg came to mind, but Pam did not press the issue. She knew he was being purposefully vague regarding many details of his soldiering career; it was perhaps better she didn’t know. Dore sat stone-faced and silent during this part of the conversation. She was plainly deeply devoted to the man. Pam didn’t hold their secrets against them; how could someone like her really understand the horrors that these people had faced in this war-crazed world they were born to? Her gut told her she could trust them and so she would.
Pam had asked around at the Research Institute about the going rate for German laborers in Grantville. She had told her co-workers that she wanted some odd jobs done around her house and yard; she was still intent on keeping her birdwatching habit very quiet. Why do I do that? Just because Trent didn’t get me doesn’t mean they won’t. She pushed the thought out of her head, there would be time to indulge in “Pam analyzes Pam” later. Pam made a tidy wage in the current economy, her up-time lab work experience and scientific knowledge had significantly increased in value here under these extreme circumstances. She was useful and in high demand. Now that’s a new concept.
She offered Gerbald a little more than the current going rate, much to Dore’s obvious delight. She only needed him part time and wanted to keep him around—the hiring process was not a performance she wanted to repeat any time soon! The deal was made and settled with a handshake. It turned out that the pair had lodging in a group shelter not too far from her place, which would be convenient. This news came as a relief to Pam. Her house was so cramped even for one that she had not been asked to take in refugees the last winter and besides, she very much valued her privacy. Gerbald and Dore walked her home so they could see where she lived and Pam went to bed, excited about the next day’s birdwatching.
* * *
Pam got to the institute early the next morning. She worked like a whirlwind. She felt infused with boundless energy; now she was going to be able to go out past the rim and be as sure as anyone could be of her safety. There was no doubt that Gerbald could handle anything short of an army of bandits. She didn’t take a lunch break and left around one, claiming she needed to go supervise the workers at her place. The days were getting long now and they would have plenty of time to hike out to her intended region of exploration and back before dusk. Pam’s house was on the outskirts of Grantville at the northwest edge of town. The new northwest, that is. She and Gerbald would walk some gravel back roads and paths that didn’t see much traffic these days.
When she arrived home, flushed from excitement and the extra speed she had put into her gait, she found Gerbald and Dore standing at attention on the road beside her front yard’s edge.
“Hello, come on, come in!” She bustled up the incline of the long walk to her front door with them in tow. She had a big yard and a small house, just the way she liked it. She had kept her smaller back garden a private paradise of flowers and shrubs for her birds while the spacious front yard was now filled with row after row of rapidly growing sunflowers (Her up-time landlord would hate that!) watched over by an empty aluminum laundry tree. Except for a few rows of useful vegetables it had all gone to sunflowers this year. Her former landlord had mercifully been left up-time in Fairmont—the place was going to really be hers now and she could do with it as she pleased. She wondered sometimes if the bossy old coot had ever tried to drive out to Grantville on a mission to crab at her about keeping the lawn mowed precisely to his picky specifications only to find a chunk of this time’s Thuringia in place of his property—that would be a surprise! Now available in Marion County: Real German farm, quaint out buildings, wooded setting. Pam figured they would never know.
“Sorry about the mess. I live alone and I’ve just been too busy to clean much lately.” Dore and Gerbald nodded politely, standing just inside the door as Pam bustled about the small living room’s clutter, gathering her notebook and field glasses. She pushed a sweater for the cool evening walk home into her rucksack, threw it over her shoulder and headed for the door. Dore looked a polite question at her.
“Oh yeah, Dore...well, you can wait here for us if you like, just make yourself at home.” She motioned to the overstuffed loveseat that was still partially visible under a week’s worth of laundry in waiting. “Have a seat and take it easy!” Dore smiled sweetly, nodding her understanding. “See you later!” With an indelible grin etched on her face, Pam marched down the walk, Gerbald in practiced step behind.
* * *
They walked northwest passing Highpoint on their right. Pam was eager to visit a new lake she had heard had formed where the watercourse of a lazy Thuringian stream had found a big West Virginian hill in its path. She thought there might be some marsh birds there and it sounded like some interesting “rim” terrain that she hadn’t seen yet. Even after a year there was something about that border between her original everyday world and this strange (new? old?) century they now inhabited that drew her to it. Seeing it, being at the edge helped make it real to her, something that watching cars be replaced by horses in the streets of Grantville and the loss of such everyday items as toothpaste and deodorants still failed to do.
The retired soldier wasn’t a small talker which suited Pam perfectly. They reached their destination at the top of a rolling hill ending abruptly in a razor straight plummet. Pam stayed well back from the edge which was now crumbling and unsafe—it would be a long fall. Below them a lake had formed, the top halves of dying German pine trees stood forlornly in murky water, the upturned roots of a West Virginia red maple that had lost its purchase were now a bleached tangle at the steep shore. She decided to make their way down the left side of the hill to a narrow flat spot along the rim where the water had flowed into a West Virginia hollow creating a narrow shady marsh.
“Gerbald, I’m going to be looking for birds. I’d like you to just stay quiet and keep your eyes open for any people.” Gerbald nodded his understanding and backed off to stand under a nearby sycamore, calmly scanning the jumbled landscape. Pam pulled her field glasses out to begin looking for activity. A lone duck bobbed along at the far end of the new lake but it was too distant to make out in detail. A Eurasian jay gave a shrill cry from farther down the shore but remained out of view.
Around thirty minutes went by. Pam decided that there wasn’t really much to see after all, so she wandered over to where Gerbald stood under the sycamore to collect him for the walk home. She noticed some of the “bluebibs” that so often visited her garden flitting about in the tree’s higher branches. Even though these had become a regular backyard visitor she put the field glasses to her eye out of habit to watch their antics for a few moments while Gerbald quietly observed her. Shortly she joined him under the tree.
“Well, not much to see here. Let’s start walking back, I guess.” Gerbald, who instinctively understood her general preference for quiet, took this as a cue that it would be all right for him to speak.
“You are...seeing birds?”
“Yes, I am. I watch them.” Gerbald nodded but made no further comment. Pam decided that she had to talk about her...obsession?—with someone and her new bodyguard was the only logical choice. If he were going to be following her around daily, he might as well understand what she was doing.
“I like birds. A lot. They are beautiful. I like to watch what they do, see where they live.” Gerbald nodded understanding politely.
“These up here—” she pointed into the branches above them. “I call them ‘bluebibs.’ They are from here, Germany.”
“Blaukehlchen”
“Pardon?”
“Blaukehlchen.” He motioned upwards with his misshapen hat’s brim. “Bird is named.” Pam’s eyes went wide.
“You know the name of that bird? In German?” Gerbald shrugged and nodded.
“Do you know the names of a lot of birds?” She felt an excitement growing.
“Some. They pretty. My father...he like bird. He tell name, I listen.”
“Blau-kehl-chen.” Pam carefully tried to pronounce the German name. “Blue...Chin?” She asked, pointing to her own chin. Gerbald smiled in what she took as assent.
“You know German a little.”
“Not very much. That was just a guess! Well, I wasn’t far off when I called them ‘bluebibs’ it seems.” She grinned. Pam quickly dragged her notebook and pencil out of the rucksack. Beneath her drawing of the little blue-throated bird she now wrote “blaukehlchen” followed by “blue chin” in English. “So, now you have a name after all.”
Somehow knowing the local name for the first German bird she had met on that shocking morning made Pam feel better. There was order here; wild things had been given names long before her coming and it made this century somehow less alien. It wasn’t like we ended up on Mars. That rather chilling thought made the oddly patched together landscape before them look positively homey. Mars would have been a short stay. Pam pushed thoughts of a Grantville frozen and lifeless in the shadow of Olympus Mons firmly out of her head. She looked back at her notebook—an idea was forming.
Pam flipped to the “lemon oriole” she had drawn the other day.
“Gerbald, this bird is yellow and black.” Gerbald looked at the drawing carefully.
“Pirol”.
“Pi-rol?”
“Yes, I think. Yellow bird and here and here...” He pointed at the wings and tail. “...is black.”
“Yes! I wonder if there is a direct translation for pirol in English. Well, it’s a prettier sounding name than ‘lemon oriole’ anyway!...Pirol.” Pam realized that she was about to begin studying German in earnest.
“Gerbald, from now on when we see a bird, please tell me if you know its name in your language.” An idea was forming in Pam’s mind, she put it on her mental back burner to simmer—in time, in time.
“Yes, I do for you,” he said with a note of enthusiasm. It was going to be a pleasant job helping this nice American lady watch birds.
On their way back Pam suddenly came to a complete halt. Gerbald had already learned to anticipate this and also stopped, quietly—there must be a bird in their vicinity.
“Over there Gerbald—look!” She slowly raised her hands to point at a nearby thicket. Gerbald, whose former profession had sharply honed his powers of observation in the field, saw a bird with a black head and rust colored sides hopping about the twiggy growth.
“I am sorry. I not know that one.” He apologized in a hoarse whisper. Pam’s face shined with joy.
“I know!” she was obviously struggling not to jump up and down. “Gerbald, that is an American bird! I didn’t think there were anything but chickadees left! It’s a towhee, from here, from Grantville! It’s an up-timer bird!” Pam allowed herself the thought: Maybe the cardinals made it through the year, too. They watched the towhee for a very long time. If it hadn’t eventually flown away into the darkening shadows beneath the trees it seemed likely they would have stood there until dark.
* * *
Back at the house Pam practically skipped up the walk in the gathering dusk, past the aluminum clothes tree festooned with her bed sheets and weeks’ worth of laundry. It took a moment for the change in her yard’s scenery to register—then she saw several of her bras and felt her cheeks redden.
“Let’s get inside.” She hastened Gerbald through the door into her immaculately clean living room. Pam’s eyes widened. She had left behind a disaster area of clutter.
“Dore?” she called out questioningly.
“Ja, I am here!” Her voice came from the kitchen.
Pam entered followed by Gerbald who stood in the doorway so as not to crowd them in the narrow space. Dore was happily humming as she fussed over a big pot of what Pam had come to know as spetzel boiling away on the wood stove.
“Dinner!” she announced proudly.
“Dore! You didn’t have to do that! I didn’t expect you to work, I told you to just take it easy!” Dore, whose English was not as good as Gerbald’s, looked to her husband with a worried question. He spoke to her in German briefly. Dore looked embarrassed.
“You...you not like I do?” Her tone was very meek.
Pam now felt bad for embarrassing the woman. “No, I don’t mean that. You did great! Really, really good, I like it and God knows I have let the place go. I just didn’t expect it.” Pam pulled her pocketbook out of her rucksack. “Here, let me pay you for what you did today.” She begin to pull some money out but Dore looked alarmed.
“Nein! No, good lady, I not do for money. I do—” Her English faltered and she began to speak quickly to Gerbald who nodded. He turned to Pam with a slight smile.
“Dore say she like to do for you. Money, she no need. You give me good job, Dore very happy! She do—” He swept his arm around to indicate the various housekeeping Dore had performed. “She do to say thank you.” Dore watched Pam with a concerned look, afraid to have displeased her husband’s new employer.
Pam rushed over to her and took both her hands in hers. “Thank you, Dore. You are very kind. I am happy to know you and Gerbald.” Her face felt hot and flushed. Pam was not given to displays of affection and knew this about herself. Her ex-husband knew it all too well and she had admitted that she should have been more affectionate with her son Walt. She loved Walt very much, and had loved Trent once, too, but she just wasn’t good with people.
Pam realized that she had been alone for a very long time now and there was something about the simple goodness of these two people she had barely met which was filling her with unexpected emotion. Pam held Dore’s hands tightly and smiled at her, her lips trembling and eyes moist. The older German woman could see the pain there, and the hope; understanding without words. Dore squeezed firmly back and gave Pam a long look with her sensible hazel eyes, a look that said “You are going to be all right.”
“You good lady. Good luck we meet you.” Dore released her hands from Pam’s grip with a last heartfelt squeeze, then led her to the door, shooing Gerbald outward. “You go, sit. We eat!”
Another Year Later
Pam, Gerbald and Dore established a routine that suited them all nicely. Five days a week, Pam and Gerbald went on birdwatching expeditions. On the fourth day, she would give Gerbald money for Dore to go shopping with for the next evening’s dinner. On the fifth day, Dore came to the house with Gerbald and the groceries, did the laundry and general housecleaning and then made the wonderful dinner they would all share.
With the help of her new friends, Pam’s German studies made rapid progress. Gerbald could read and helped her with her lessons on days when the weather was just too nasty to go traipsing about the countryside. The focus of her studies was of course the translation of German bird names into English, but she was learning to speak as well. She soon learned she had been mistaken in her assumption that the “kehlchen” in blaukehlchen meant “chin” in English. Even though it sounded like “chin” to her untrained ears, it meant really “throat.” This turned out to be a common pitfall when learning a language that is a close cousin to one’s own; the occasional appearance of “false friends,” words that sound like they should mean the same things in both languages but really don’t. The “bluechins,” formerly “bluebibs” were now properly “bluethroats.”
On the weekends Pam devoted herself to painting birds. She had perused a few artist’s how-to books at the library, tried some of their suggestions and then decided that the best way for her to learn was to just sit down and do it. She had liked to doodle as a girl and recalled that she had always received A’s in art, but never really believed she had any talent. It was possible she actually didn’t have any talent, but she did have determination. Her paintings were not intended to be hung in a gallery after all. They were scientific works; their sole purpose was to catalog accurately the birds of Thuringia she encountered. She started by copying the illustrations in her own small collection of field guides. After she felt she had learned some of their basic techniques, she tried applying them to something closer to a live model, starting with a photo of a mallard duck. Her first attempt was definitely more “Daffy” than “Audubon” but she kept at it.
After this Pam began to paint in the field. She would quickly pencil sketch in the birds she saw, then try to capture their colors with her brushes. If they held still long enough, she would focus in with more detail. Gerbald offered quiet encouragement with approving nods as he kept his eyes open for intruders. Gerbald’s steady and watchful presence made Pam feel safe, which allowed her to better concentrate on her work.
They had taken to ranging several miles past the rim on some days, seeking nesting grounds amongst the fields and forests of Thuringia. Although the situation had become fairly quiet in the region, there were still plenty of opportunities for brigands to sneak about. She and Gerbald had made it an unspoken rule to avoid strangers by staying hidden when they drew near. She had always considered herself fairly adept at moving surreptitiously in the field, but Gerbald proved to be a master of the art and a good teacher. They often made their way past other people under cover, off the road or path without those they observed ever having a clue they were in the vicinity. This pleased Pam who still preferred not to be seen wandering the area in the company of a man by fellow Grantville residents.
One Sunday afternoon in April, Pam walked into town to do a little shopping. Another year was beginning here in her new world and she felt amazingly optimistic about it. She realized that in many ways she liked her current life better than the one she had lived before the Ring of Fire. Why not? She hadn’t felt this happy and focused in years. With a tinge of regret she wondered what her ex-husband Trent would think of her now. He had remarried of course. Ah well, I’m glad he’s found what he was looking for. Maybe I have, too. Near the Freedom Arches, she saw a peddler’s wagon parked at the curb. A cheerful-looking chubby fellow with a beard sat in a chair on the sidewalk. He reminded Pam of Burl Ives. Pam wandered over to the wagon.
“Hello good lady, welcome, welcome! I am a seller of beautiful things, please, maybe you like.” He greeted her in accented but clear English. Pam was always impressed by the knack for languages Europeans possessed. She felt a surge of pride at her growing German abilities; there were a lot of up-timers who simply weren’t bothering to learn the language that surrounded them.
Pam smiled at the fellow, stepping closer to look over the multitude of gewgaws perched on shelves in the wagon’s open side or hanged by hooks from the propped up panel that formed a protective awning. Tin whistles, whimsically carved and painted wooden toys, mounted deer antlers, etchings of famous buildings of Europe. She wasn’t much of a collector of such fancies, but she was impressed by the quality of workmanship. It was apparent that the peddler had a fairly wide range, certainly not all of his goods were locally made. She looked at the jovial peddler as an idea came to her.
“Sir, you travel a lot, don’t you?” The peddler stood politely when she addressed him.
“Why yes, of course! Well, as much as is safe in these troubled times, but my business takes me all about the Germanies and even down to northern Italy on occasion. I am always seeking new fineries for my selection. Do you like what you see?”
“Yes, very nice.” Pam hesitated. Oh why the hell not? “I would like to ask you something. In your travels have you ever seen a bright red bird? It would be a new creature; it came to Germany with us.”
“A red bird?” The peddler was somewhat surprised at such a question. “Why, I see many birds and animals in my travels, out on the open road as I am.”
“This one I think you would notice. It’s a beautiful bright red and has a black mask around its bill. On the top of its head is a pointy crest, like a hat.” Pam’s description was accompanied by a sort of pantomime of the cardinal’s features.
The peddler nodded, a look of comprehension came to his eyes. “A red bird, face is black! Yes, yes, I have seen such a bird! I was down in Bavaria...here, I show you!” Pam’s eyes went wide. The peddler ducked his head under the wood awning and proceeded to shift some of the items on his top shelf around. “Yes, here it is!” He pointed. Against her will, Pam followed the course of his finger to the shadowy upper shelves.
It was a bird. A red bird. A cardinal.
Stuffed.
Pam stood frozen in horror. The cardinal was posed with its wings outspread as if about to leap into flight from the gnarled branch it was mounted to. Glass orbs replaced living eyes, the beak open as if frozen in mid-song.
“Pretty nice, yes? A trapper sold it to me. He snared it in the woods last month. What a pretty bird, a nice display for your home!”
Pam started to cry.
Hours later, Pam sat at her window side table, a bottle of what was passing for whiskey these days half-empty before her. She poured herself another shot. Her bird guides, notebooks and precious painting supplies lay scattered about the floor behind her.
“God damn people!” The anger welled up again and she felt her face grow hot. She was on an emotional boat ride through fiercely stormy seas, rising on crests of towering wrath, sliding down into depressions of black despair. She hadn’t eaten and the whiskey was only making her head hurt, the fiery liquid in her belly failing to warm the icy sense of helpless loss.
At five o’clock Gerbald arrived to begin the evening’s work. Drunkenly Pam ordered him to go home. “No birds tonight,” she said, her voice thick with pain and anger. Her head slumped onto the table with an audible thump, mind reeling with images of dead cardinals mounted in dead trees, forgetting Gerbald was even there.
The unflappable German’s face creased up in worry, an emotion rarely seen there.
“I get Dore,” he told her, exiting quickly.
* * *
Dore came through the door huffing and puffing. She was a bit on the heavy side and had run as fast as she could all the way to Pam’s little house. Gerbald followed, barely having broken a sweat but face grey with concern for Pam. They found her still at the table, mumbling incoherently. One on either side, Gerbald and Dore gently lifted her, moving her over to the overstuffed loveseat. Pam began to weep softly, Dore held her close like a child, murmuring comforting words as she stroked Pam’s hair. After carefully picking up the items Pam had cast on the floor in her despair, Gerbald paced about the room, his strong arms crossed in helplessness.
After a time, Pam became coherent enough to haltingly detail what had happened. Her friends listened closely with heartfelt sympathy. Dore made some thin chicken broth for her, gently feeding it to her as one would a small child. Pam had calmed down now and become sleepy, Dore helped her into bed, giving her a fond kiss on the forehead before turning out the light. Pam softly thanked her, the forgetfulness of sleep coming soon after, a welcome darkness.
Pam safe in bed and sleeping off her day’s tragedy, Dore sat down on the loveseat. Gerbald sat in Pam’s usual chair at the window side table, his brow furrowed in deep thought. Dore steepled her fingers contemplatively in her lap. They shared a long look of painful concern for Pam, whom they had begun to think of as a well-loved younger sister more than an employer. Pam didn’t know how protected she truly was by these two strong-hearted Germans.
At last Dore spoke softly so as not to wake Pam in the bedroom behind her. “This bird. Show me.”
Gerbald nodded. Opening Eastern Birds, he found the cardinal, Pam had shown it to him and he well knew it was her favorite. He walked the book over to Dore. “This one, the red one. It is special to her.”
Dore studied the small painting carefully. “I can see that! It is an American bird from up-time, yes?” She used the English term for the concept.
“Yes. Some few of them came here with Grantville. She searches, but we haven’t found one yet. Now she finds a dead one, it is too sad for her.”
Dore nodded slowly. “Tomorrow we start,” she announced confidently as she began the process of extricating her bulky form from the lumpy old loveseat. Gerbald brightened, giving her a hand up. She patted his arm affectionately.
“Yes. We will.” He grinned.
* * *
“It is a red bird with a pointy hat,” Dore told the women she worked with at the laundry.
“It has a black mask around its beak,” Gerbald told the men he did construction work with during the day.
“If you see one, you must remember to tell me,” Dore told the vegetable farmers who had brought their produce to market from the outlying farms.
“If you see one, do not kill it!” Gerbald told his companions at the tavern over a lunchtime pint of dunkel beer.
“It is an American bird,” Dore told the mail riders at the post office.
“Tell your friends. Tell your neighbors.”
“Tell everyone! The red bird must be found!”
* * *
Pam recovered from her upset more quickly than she might have expected. It was dawning on her that she had changed since the Ring of Fire. Her depressions had grown shorter and she hadn’t the time for the long sessions of self pity she had once indulged in. The stuffed cardinal had been awful, a terrible waste but it was also evidence that at least one of her cherished birds had survived two German winters! There could be more. In retrospect, the incident lifted her hopes more than dashed them.
Her list of American birds had grown by a large number this spring, more and more species were emerging from the woodwork: tufted titmice, redhead ducks, turkey vultures, killdeer, ruby-throated hummingbirds, scarlet tanagers—it was incredible! She had even witnessed a confrontation at her feeder between a gray and orange Eurasian jay and an eastern blue jay! The American blue jay had triumphed, boasting loudly in harsh jay tones as the native jay presumably fled back to the safety of the Thuringerwald—but for how long? It had some new competition!
It was strange how in that first year the American species had vanished from sight. Pam supposed it wasn’t really unusual for animals to go to ground for extended periods when threatened. Perhaps the Ring of Fire had affected birds more powerfully and in different ways than it did mammals, which had continued their daily existence seemingly physically unaffected by the event. Birds had different senses, particularly migratory birds with their feel for Earth’s magnetic fields. Who could know what havoc something like a journey through time and space would play on avians? Pam continued her project with a very welcome new wrinkle: Translating the names of the transplanted American birds into German!
Gerbald came up the road at a flat out run, his sage green coat tails flapping behind him. Pam, sitting on a lawn chair by the front door enjoying a pleasingly balmy May afternoon watched in amazement as he leapt from the road over the short decorative fence at the corner of the yard to cut across the rows of sunflowers instead of ambling up the walk as he always did. Pam couldn’t help but chuckle seeing his goofy misshapen hat bouncing just above the cheery yellow discs of their blossoms as he zigged and zagged his way up the yard. She stood up quickly, now worried that something bad might be happening to provoke steady Gerbald into such flight!
“Gerbald!” What’s going on!”
“Pam!” He paused for breath. He must have run a long way, as Gerbald rarely showed any strain when exercising. “Get your field glasses. We must hurry!” Pam only hesitated a moment before rushing into the living room after her gear. Gerbald waited for her by the road, obviously in a great state of excitement. Equipped, Pam ran down the walk to him.
“Can you run?”
“Yes, let’s go!” Gerbald took off at a steady trot, Pam running behind. They headed down the road into town. As they neared the end of that odd mile, it occurred to Pam that she was in pretty good shape these days. My God, this would have killed me two years ago! A brief thrill of pride shot through her but was quickly brought down by a sudden dark thought—People are going to see us! Gerbald looked back to check on her progress. Pam raised her hand in a brief wave, I’m all right, keep going. Whatever it was it must be important. Gerbald well knew her feelings on the matter of exposing their activities. This better be good, mein Herr!
Rounding a corner onto the main street, Gerbald led her to the city park where a small group of down-timer women were talking in hushed tones.
“Dore!” Pam exclaimed as one broke from the group to approach her and Gerbald as they came to a halt at the grasses’ edge.
“Pam! Oh, it is good. Look, look!” Dore’s chubby finger, flushed red from the hot water of the laundry, pointed up into a tulip tree near the town’s bandstand. Pam’s eyes followed, a look of stunned disbelief now on her face.
“It is the one, ja? The red bird? The American bird?” Dore’s voice was filled with hope that she was right. Dore reached for her, beckoning her to come closer.
Pam slowly advanced to take Dore’s offered hand, her eyes unblinking as she continued to stare into the tulip tree’s branches. It was there. It was really there. A red bird. An American bird.
The male cardinal tipped its head at her as if in greeting, just as it used to do at her feeder every morning. His mate, rosy blush on peach in the spring sun, hopped down a branch to join him. A third cardinal appeared above them. He looked to be a yearling. The young bird threw back his scarlet crested head. He opened his beak with a thrilling song, the loveliest music Pam had ever heard, a symphony in the park, a serenade, the bright music of her heart’s desire. Tears came, soft warm streams of relief and hopes satisfied. She felt Gerbald’s comforting presence at her side as Dore squeezed her hand—the woman was grinning like a kid on Christmas morning.
“How? How did you know?” Pam asked. Dore chuckled.
“Know? We know much! Pretty smart!” Dore tapped her temple with her free hand. She started to laugh happily aloud, but quickly realized the need for quiet and clapped the hand over her mouth so as not to startle the nearby cardinals, hazel eyes sparkling with delight.
Gerbald spoke softly in his deep tones. “I show her picture. We tell everybody we meet, look for that red bird.”
“Der Amerikanische rotvogel!” Dore interrupted proudly “My friends, washerwomen same like me, say today they see here in park. I send Gerbald!” If Dore grinned any wider Pam swore her head would split in two.
“I must thank them. And you.” Pam hugged first Dore and then Gerbald who froze stock still in discomfiture. Shyly, he gave Pam’s back a gentle pat with his large hand.
“You are happy now, Pam. We are happy, too,” he told her. To his relief, Pam released him in order to take another long look at her wonderful cardinals. A number of Grantville children and their German schoolmates had approached, drawn closer by the scarlet birds in the tree.
“Hi, Ms. Miller!” one of the Grantville youths greeted her. “Those are cardinal birds up there, aren’t they? Like back in America times?”
Pam looked at the earnest young face, a face full of curiosity, and wonder. I have another job ahead of me now. Her decision was made so quickly and so decisively she didn’t have time to be surprised by it. Who are you and what have you done with Pam Miller!?
“They sure are, honey! They came through with us. But see that smaller one up there? It was born here, in Thuringia. They live here now, same as we do. They even have a name in German: Amerikanische Rotvogel!” The name cardinal might be a touch problematic given the religious tensions of these times. Back up-time I heard some folks calling it “redbird,” I recall. “American Redbird,” yes. That has a nice ring. Why not a new name in a new place?
The girl smiled at Pam. “I saw a whole bunch of them over by my uncle’s orchard. Ten or so! They sure are pretty.” Pam’s heart left her body to fly around the sun a couple times. Joy, oh joy, oh joy!
“Hey, who is your school teacher?”
“Mrs. Clinter.”
“Okay. I’m going to come see her pretty soon. Do you think your class would like to learn more about birds?”
“Yeah, I sure would!” The other children who had gathered around all chimed in their agreement.
“That’s good, kids. That’s really good.”
* * *
A week later Pam sat at her window in the dawn hour. She had grown to appreciate the sun’s new path; it had given her garden more light in the morning. The cardinals—rotvogels!—had rediscovered their source for sunflower seeds and now joined the tufted titmice, blaukehlchen and chickadees for breakfast nearly daily. She had counted as many as twelve of her treasured birds at once so far. Reports were coming in from Dore and Gerbald’s word of mouth network that they had been seen on the road to Magdeburg! The species had adapted and was now spreading.
Pam leaned back contentedly in her chair. She had prepared her notebooks and paintings for the show and tell sessions she was going to do at the school today—Mrs. Mason had been so taken with the idea that Pam had been asked to visit every class! Birdwatching field trips were being planned as well as a special summer nature program series that Pam would help implement. Pam learned that many of the town’s educators shared her hopes to avoid some of the ecological misdeeds of the up-time past by engendering a love and knowledge of nature in the school kids. What a good place to start! She looked down at the two documents on her table.
The first was titled “Birds of the USE. A Field Guide to Native and Transplanted Species.” She had made her lists and written up a plan for organization by bird type. What she was going to do about the scientific names of the European species she still had no idea—she would figure out something. “Is Linnaeus around these days?” The question was only half in jest—she had better find out!
The second was a proposal she was drafting. It could certainly use a lot of polish but she felt she had made a good start.
Citizens of the United States of Europe and their official representatives,
The following is a formal proposal submitted by myself, Pam Miller of Grantville, based on my personal observations and field studies. The proposal contains two separate yet related issues.
In Brief:
1. All transplanted American bird species (A list of sightings will be provided) be given protected status in the USE until we can determine what, if any, positive or negative effects they will have on the local ecology. I believe these animals have as much right to a new life here as we do and that we should allow them the chance to adapt as we have.
2. I would like to move that the cardinal, also known as the American red-bird and Amerikanischer rotvogel, be considered for status as the national bird of the USE. We are a new nation. We need a new symbol. I give you a bird that was once hailed as the state bird of West Virginia, a bird that is quickly gaining recognition amongst the down-timer population who admire its unusual beauty.
A bird from the Ring of Fire. A bird which has survived the journey. A bird which is thriving here and spreading its range.
A bird like us.