The Birdwatcher

The Birdwatcher

A Smolder novel by Kathryn Judson

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 Kathryn Judson

Smashwords Edition published 2014

ISBN: 9781311187789

All rights reserved.

License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Characters, places, and agencies are fictitious, or used fictitiously. No resemblance to actual persons is intended.

Historical note: In the time period of The Smolder, the title of Local Lieutenant came to be used for a type of community leader who had both civilian and military duties. Other titles also evolved, as people scrambled to cobble together defense forces with limited resources, and wound up, at least in most of Northam, with a system that had characteristics of militias, regular military, and police force, rolled into one. In the early days, Local Lieutenants were called such, but by the time of our story, they were called simply Lieutenant.

<[1]>

Renzo Pendleton d'Oregon took the piece of paper out of hiding, and traced the words with his finger. Soli Deo Gloria. He was too intelligent to ask anyone what that meant – that sort of curiosity got people killed – but he was sure the words held significance.

He picked up the photographs that he'd found along with the mysterious note. He'd never seen photographs printed on paper, before these. Usually, pictures were electronic, and changed over time, as the government improved them or brought them up to date.

The photos confused him. They weren't like anything he'd been allowed to see. Some were of beautiful interiors of buildings, carefully furnished. Others were of people posing with guns – but the people weren't dressed like officials, or like subofficial specialists such as himself. Another showed a man in strange garb being shot by a firing squad; this one almost made sense, but not quite. Renzo was used to seeing executions of treasonous officials by loyal ones. The strange garb didn't look like a government official's uniform, but it looked like a uniform of some sort, even though it lacked a uniform's usual severity and drabness. It was clean, too. Whoever heard of a clean uniform? The doomed man's expression and manner didn't make sense. He was calm, strong; neither panicked nor sneering. The last picture in the stack showed a street scene, with transportation devices similar to those that officials sometimes had, but of a different style. Since only one style was allowed per class of persons at any given time, and since no known present devices looked like those in the pictures, Renzo guessed that the photographed devices were outdated. He rather liked the looks of the devices, but couldn't tell anyone that, for fear of someone reporting him for having obtained unauthorized information. That he'd found it by accident didn't matter. Thought contamination was almost never tolerated, regardless of how it was contracted.

His stomach growled. The fear of being caught, of being cut off from food and from society, suddenly outweighed his curiosity.

The photos and the mysterious note were carefully but quickly put back into the secret niche in the wall. The portrait of Greenley the Third was put back into place over it. Renzo moved the threadbare furniture back into the prescribed placement for his lonely quarters, in the process blocking access to the portrait and what was hidden behind it. He went to eat his paltry – but scientifically sound – breakfast rations. After eating, he headed out for a bird count. Every day he tallied the birds near his outpost, so the government could track changes. He was also supposed to report any unusual activity in the area, especially human activity, but he never saw any. He'd heard that reporting unusual activity was a good idea even if you didn't see any, but he was afraid to do that.

By habit, he first swept his binoculars along the trees beside the river, to see if there were White-Point Eagles there. They were seasonal birds, and it would be a shame to miss any of them. Besides, there was simply something satisfying about seeing them. They were larger and more impressive than most other birds, and more... more... something. He couldn't think of the right word. More self-possessed, perhaps. More watchful in a different way than other birds, at any rate, and they sat more erect than most. (The ancients had thought the birds were bald, which only went to prove how deluded under-evolved people could be.)

As usual, his line of sight dropped a little, despite himself, so he first saw the woman who worked on the other side of the river. She was right where she usually was, doing just what she usually did.

A movement of bright white caught his eye, on a branch four-fifths up a winter-bare tree. Dutifully, he shifted his attention, and saw an eagle settling into a more comfortable position. More eagles came into focus, sitting on nearby branches, unmoving except for the rare turn of a head. Five more eagles swept in from down the Snake River to join them. Renzo breathed deep and slow, as he generally did when he saw a swarm of large birds. Eagles, geese, cranes, herons, pelicans, swans, etc., all had an effect on him, even individually, but in large flocks, like eagles in winter, they could transfix him. He shook loose the spell and recorded their number, then widened his search, both in territory and in the type of bird he wanted to see. He did a thorough job, and acquired an admirable tally for a brief survey this time of year, in this semi-arid, scrubby landscape.

He sent his report in electronically, right on time. He lingered, watching the eagles, and unobtrusively watching the woman, who was always as alone as he was.

His Informer buzzed in his pocket. He took it out and read the message. Greenley had ordered that no more than six eagles were to perch in any locale. Renzo was ordered to shoot the excess.

With the gun he had, and the ammo he had, it would be a tricky business, nearly impossible really, whether he shot from where he was, or risked aborting the mission by venturing closer. But Renzo had experience bringing populations of even very small birds into line. In fact, as he well knew (thanks to commendations from superiors) his marksmanship skills and doggedness to duty had helped land him the honor of a solitary outpost. He waved the woman more to the side for safety's sake, and unleashed a shot. It missed, but by the bark that flew, he could gauge a correction. He unleashed another shot. An eagle fell. The others, more confused than scared, took wing. He felled another in flight, before they were out of reach.

He waited. An eagle came back. And another. He waited longer, patiently. When seven eagles had returned, he shot at them again. He missed, but the eagles, sensitive now to the danger that went along with the sharp crack of the gun, flew off again.

Renzo again waited, his focus on eagles, which must not be allowed to exceed the new limit.

By lunchtime, only three eagles were roosting within observation range. Three was permissible. Renzo went to eat his meager, but scientifically correct, lunch.

<[2]>

Julia Caldwell d' Idaho stood at the bridge that spanned the river that ran between Idaho Jurisdiction and Oregon Jurisdiction, and wondered if it was worth checking to see if it would, at long last, be all right to herd the cattle across to the other side. The bridge was finally free of ice, and the haystacks on the Idaho side were getting perilously low. Besides, it would be healthier to get away from the manure that had accumulated during the recent bad weather, when she'd let the cattle huddle miserably in one spot for a few weeks, next to the haystack nearest the herder's hut. Besides, the cows were getting close to calving. She'd learned the hard way that calves weren't above cavorting off a bridge. If she was going to move her herd, it would be good to do it now – not that pregnant cows were always easy to herd, either, but it was harder to lose one to the river. It generally took a mass of misdirected cows heedlessly shoving, and even then you had to catch a cow off guard. A grown cow that knew about a drop-off was difficult to shove over. She'd climb over other cows first.

Julia thought about rigging a rope fence along part of one edge of the bridge, to help a little – to give the cows a reason to pay better attention, if nothing else – but the last time she'd done something like that, a hard reprimand had followed on the heels of a commendation. One official had thought her idea very clever; he'd not only authorized her to go ahead with the experiment, he'd used her innovation as an example of a good citizen in action, prudently looking out for the better preservation of state resources. Another official, upset to see innovation coming from a mere citizen, had erased her commendation, ordered her to take the rope down, and warned her against further efforts at improvement. To back himself up, he had cited historical purity laws and ascetics regulations.

There had been a purge in that department, but Julia wasn't sure which factions were still standing, much less which one was on top. So she stood at the bridge, hating that it was built to Turner the Fifth standards, which disdained any 'ornament' that might distract from surrounding Nature – and which nitpickedly counted side rails as ornament.

It didn't help that she'd seen more recent bridges, which had side rails. It's not like the rails were actually forbidden; in fact, they'd been hailed as progress.

Theoretically, she could file a citizen suggestion that the bridge be brought up to date, but she was afraid to do that, especially after the reprimand.

She doubted that a suggestion would do much good, anyway. She worked in a Remote Area, so far down the Upgrade-Worthy Priority List that it might as well not be on a priority list. In general, the fewer people who would see a structure, the less it mattered if it was outdated. Out here, except for the helicopter pilots who brought in supplies or hauled off beef, for as far as the eye could see (and reportedly for far beyond that) there was only herself, and – part of the time, and too far away to talk to – the birdwatcher on the other side of the river.

It was time for him to be there. As usual, she looked up to gaze at the spot where he usually stood for his bird count.

He waved at her from the top of the low hill. It was clear that he wanted her to move. Knowing that he was charged with avian population stability, she quickly complied, moving herself and nearby cows off to the side he'd indicated.

He aimed near the tops of trees on the riverbank and fired. He fired a second time, and an eagle fell. It wasn't like him to miss like that; to hit the wrong type of bird.

He fired again, and another eagle fell, this time out of the sky. Julia reluctantly concluded that for the first time in her life, eagles had acquired an unhealthy population.

The birdwatcher stood still, watching, even after the eagles had flown away. It looked like he meant to fire again, should they return.

Julia gave up on the idea of asking Authority if she could take the cattle across the bridge, for fear she'd be ordered to do it before the birdwatcher was through shooting. She went to feed her herd, out of her nearly-gone supply of authorized hay.

<[3]>

After lunch, Renzo carefully washed the table, and dried it. With ceremony, he took his Informer from his pocket, and placed it on the table. He sat, jigging the chair into perfect alignment as he pulled it close. The extra attention to detail when sitting down to a Lesson had been drilled into him from infancy. There was no doubt that it heightened the sense of importance of the activity. As far as Renzo was concerned, this was only proper, given the subject.

Today was a special day. The day before, he had completed a round of lessons. Today, he got to start over, this time at a higher level, with a higher ranking. He could by now repeat most of the lessons by heart. He smiled. He was becoming more and more accomplished, in a subject held to be important by Society. It felt good.

He depressed the button that indicated that he was ready for a Lesson. The screen lit up, to show a man who looked just like Renzo; or rather, just like Renzo would look if he were a few years older, and had spent less time out in the sunshine and weather.

Good afternoon, Citizen, the man said, in the wonderfully rich voice and proper enunciation for which Pac-Nor Progressives were noted.

Good afternoon, Judge, Renzo replied with a similarly rich voice and veneer of courtesy, even though he knew he was speaking to an interactive recording.

Today, we begin the Foundational Lessons from the beginning, at Level 26, the Judge said.

Renzo nodded, and smiled, pleased to hear it confirmed that he was, indeed, at Level 26. After this year's round of lessons, he would graduate to adult status, finally – provided, of course, that he did well.

He wiped the smile off his face, and focused with the same concentration he'd used in shooting eagles.

What is the chief end and purpose of a citizen? the Judge asked.

To serve History, and Order, and one's own breed, regardless of personal cost, Renzo said.

You have answered correctly, the Judge said. How do we know how to serve History and Order?

By careful observance of the decrees of Sacred Government. By this, we serve the Future correctly, as well as glorify Society today.

You have answered correctly...

<[4]>

The cattle were getting restive. Currying sometimes calmed them, so Julia got the currycomb and a bristle brush off pegs in the tool shed, and clucked at the cows. The friendlier ones jostled with the needier ones to get to her first, but once the initial excitement died down, she had them waiting in a proper-pecking-order line for their turn at a grooming session. The cows were still in thick winter hair, and were caked here and there with mud and manure, so the short metal teeth of the curry, and the soft bristles of the brush, weren't going to make much headway, but the cattle seemed to like the attention as much as they appreciated any improvement to their coat.

Julia sang to the cattle as she worked. She wasn't quite sure she correctly remembered which was the currently recommended cattle taming song, but didn't feel like putting down her brushes and pulling out an Informer to check. If she were still back at the training facility, surrounded by other people, it would matter enough to look it up, she thought. After all, she wouldn't want to misinform a fellow citizen in general, or a fellow breed member in particular. Out here, though, all alone, there didn't seem to be any harm in using the song she'd been using. Besides, the cattle seemed to like it. Certainly, they liked it better than the music chosen for them in the previous round by the heads of the department. That melody had been choppy, loud, fast, in a minor key. It was meant to be inspirational, she had been informed. The cattle had not found it so, and neither had Julia.

She had worried that she might be asked to give a report on the efficacy of that song.

When she was younger, she hadn't worried so much about such things. But then, when she was younger, she had almost always been deemed to have given the right answer, in the right spirit. Somewhere along the way, the unwritten rules had changed, or it seemed like it. Perhaps it was only that Authority seemed restive these days, like cattle before a storm.

Her mind snapped to attention. That last thought was surely not in line with proper thought.

Chastened, Julia pulled out her Informer, and looked up the currently recommended cattle taming song. It was, she was relieved to find, the one she'd been singing. She resumed singing, this time with a calmer spirit. It was no good being right by accident. It was better to know.

<[5]>

After his Lesson, Renzo pulled off his boots and lay on the bed, to warm up under several layers of blankets. None of the blankets was new, or clean, or soft, or beautiful. Renzo had seen beautiful quilts, in a museum. Images of those quilts flitted into his mind, unbidden. He chased them away. As the curator had explained, past generations had made the mistake of surrounding themselves with false beauty, which distracted them from Purpose, as well as from True Beauty, which was found only in a perfected Society.

Renzo's mind, freshly washed from time spent with the Judge, latched onto the curator's instruction, and held on for dear life. The concept of beautiful objects being intrinsically evil because they distracted from more important things didn't make sense to him, but it was Correct Thought, and so he tried to accept it.

Acceptance didn't seem to be working all that well, though. He switched gears, and tried to recall his sins against History and Order, so he could repent of them.

The photographs came to mind immediately. The odd rooms, ornate but orderly. The condemned man's garb. There was beauty there. And in the transportation devices, too.

Renzo clenched his jaw. He had meant to repent of his sins, not take pleasure in them.

Besides, he was dodging the main point. He had suffered thought contamination, but had not immediately destroyed the offending material.

He thought about getting the note and the pictures, and burning them. But he was just starting to get a bit of warmth built up under the blankets. Besides, if he was going to burn something, it might as well be at supper time, when he had to bustle around anyway, he thought.

His bed was situated where he could see a patch of sky out a grimy window. There seemed to be another storm rolling in.

He'd done his required reportable work for the day. He was cold. There was no reason to get up and get colder, not for a while yet. He rolled onto his side, pulled the blankets close, and went to sleep.

<[6]>

Julia looked at the sky with dismay.

She checked the weather report. As usual, it didn't match what she saw. She no longer really expected it to, both from experience and from having found out that the reports were from a weather station nearly a hundred miles away; this had been deemed good enough, given that the region had been depopulated except for herders and government biologists. But, still, the yearning for the reports to be true, for the predictions that went with them to be useful, was reluctant to die. She refreshed her Informer, hoping against hope for data that made sense. The weather report was still wildly inaccurate.

She looked at the remaining hay stacked near the hut, calculating how long it would last. She looked at her miserable cattle, already thin from battling a worse than usual winter. She looked across the river, where a handsome stand of large haystacks stood, pristine, held in reserve for just such conditions. No, on second thought, pristine was the wrong word. The stacks were untouched, but had been so for three years already, by orders from bureaucrats who had in their rulebooks that hay should be used within five years, but who didn't seem to understand that the quality suffered long before that. What mattered to them was that they could show that they had a steady reserve of hay.

Via text message, Julia requested permission to move the cattle across the river into Oregon Jurisdiction. Her Informer blinked low battery signals at her, then died altogether. She went to her hut and took her other Informer off the charging stand. It was dead, too.

She stood in shock, unable to decide what to do. A person had two Informers – one with you, one charging – precisely to make this sort of