The Blackbird Papers (21 page)

33

S
pring comes much slower in the mountains than it does in the lower-lying areas. Winter slides into hibernation grudgingly, unleashing punishing freezes well into April. Sterling welcomed the morning chill. With two miles left in the run, he inhaled the crisp morning air deeply. Running in the quiet of the wilderness the last couple of weeks had spoiled him. There were no honking yellow cabs or heavy black exhaust fumes blowing out the back of city buses. Instead, he was treated to the cries of the wild and the relaxing sound of the powerful river awakening for its southern journey. This was Sterling's favorite part of the day, when he was left alone to sift his thoughts.

The last part of the run was mostly downhill, giving Sterling a jump-start to his final kick. His strides were long now and his breathing rhythmic. He galloped down River Road, then up Deer Run Lane, turning into the driveway and finishing the last thirty yards in a dead sprint. When he reached the front of the house, he quickly looked at his watch and slowed to a jog around the circular drive. As always, he finished at the large birch tree in the front yard.

He hadn't noticed the small red car parked on the side of the house.

“Mr. Bledsoe,” a man's voice called.

Sterling jumped out of his stretch. An enormous tanned-skin man with jet-black hair stared down at him. Menacing. His features were wide and heavy, his countenance could only be described as serious. Very serious. Everything about him was big, including the clothes that draped his mountainous mass. He wore a dark leather headband that matched the turquoise-studded vest just visible under his colorful shawl.

Sterling had already planned two escape routes by the time he spoke.

“Who are you?” Sterling asked.

“They call me Bigfoot,” the man grunted. He hadn't walked fifteen yards and he was already short of breath. “I've come to take you to Kanti.”

“Who the hell is Kanti?”

“Our leader. Ahote gave you the message?”

Sterling remembered the paper she had slipped him the day of the memorial service. “Yes, she said that someone would come looking for me. What the hell took so long?” Sterling's attempt at comic relief was dead on arrival. The gigantic man's face never cracked.

“Kanti does things according to his schedule,” Bigfoot said. “Now he's ready to meet with you.”

“I'll go in for a quick shower and change. Want to come in for some coffee?”

“No thanks,” Bigfoot said, shaking his massive head. “Your kind of coffee has become a drug in this society. I will wait out here.”

Sterling rushed into the house. He had almost forgotten about the conversation he had had with Ahote and her insistence that he would be contacted when the time was right. Sterling finished his shower, threw on some fresh clothes, and grabbed his gun and black book. He plucked a banana off the counter, then went outside to follow the large messenger.

Bigfoot shifted his wide girth into the small red car and immediately flattened the two tires on that side. Sterling laughed to himself, remembering something his mother had said to him when he was a little boy.
For some reason, big men love small cars. I've never understood why.

He followed Bigfoot down River Road, but instead of turning left to cross Ledyard Bridge into the center of Hanover, Bigfoot took a right and climbed into the layered hills of Vermont. Sterling had never been in this part of the Upper Valley, but it was even more remote than what he had already seen. Except for an occasional sign that warned motorists of deer crossings, there was little if any indication that human life was welcome in this great wilderness. They spent most of their journey negotiating winding roads that climbed for short stretches and then fell in others. Every few hundred yards a mailbox showed up near the edge of the road, tucked under bushes and large branches. The houses, however, couldn't be seen behind the impenetrable wall of wide trees and wild vegetation.

The red car made a sudden turn into the woods, then scraped along a dirt road that curved its way up the mountain. Bigfoot's car kicked up rocks into the grill of the Mustang, and they hit the metal like pellets fired from a BB gun. Sterling was relieved that the Mustang was only a rental. Had it been his Porsche, he wouldn't have had kind words for Bigfoot, however many tons the man had on him.

When they reached the top of the mountain, Bigfoot stopped his car in a small clearing. Sterling didn't see any signs or houses, just trees and wild hedges. The red car rose nearly a foot and sighed as Bigfoot made his exit. He lumbered over to Sterling. “Park it here,” he instructed. “We must walk the rest of the way.” Bigfoot detected doubt in Sterling's face. “Kanti doesn't allow motor vehicles of any kind on his property. The noise and fumes are not one with nature.”

Sterling reluctantly turned off the Mustang and took a quick look at the tiny nicks in the grill. They were small enough to escape the detection of the car rental agency, but another five minutes behind the red car and he would have had a lot of explaining to do. He followed Bigfoot along a zigzagging path of trampled weeds and grass. Every few yards they ducked underneath branches or stepped over fallen limbs. Sterling heard Bigfoot's labored breathing as the rough terrain pushed him to his limits.

Sterling wondered if his meeting with Kanti would shed any light on the intruder who had almost blown his head off. He kept his Beretta tucked inside his waistband for the unexpected.

A few more minutes and suddenly they emerged from a thicket and entered a large clearing. An imposing log cabin stood in the middle of a perfectly groomed oval lawn, flanked by what in summer would surely be a riot of blooms. The sun at that moment shone directly on the house and the lawn, so that it felt much warmer than it had in the woods. It was peaceful. The house and its landscaping looked as if God had woken one morning and decided to drop a swath of paradise on top of the mountain.

Bigfoot and Sterling were about to walk up the front steps of the house when a shrill cry filled the sky. Sterling had never heard anything like it before, halfway between a scream and a demonic laugh. “Kanti is in the back,” Bigfoot said. “Follow me.” They walked around to the back of the house and the most breathtaking vista Sterling had ever seen. The lawn extended for about a hundred yards, then the trees suddenly disappeared and all of the mountains and valleys that one could ever dream of seeing at once slipped into view. Sterling felt like he was in heaven looking down on earth. Another deafening cry cracked the air, but this time it was followed by short bursts of a whistle.

Bigfoot continued toward the edge of the lawn, where they finally spotted the source of the cries. A small man stood with his back to them, looking up into the sky, slowly surveying the air as if he were expecting something to fall. His shiny black hair had been tied into a ponytail and rolled up around a thin red stick that stuck to the back of his head. He wore a long leather dress that draped from his shoulders to his ankles. His small feet were buried in fur-lined moccasins.

Bigfoot walked to within ten feet behind the small man, then refused to take another step. He put his finger to his mouth to keep Sterling silent.

The little man, still not acknowledging their presence, let out another cry. He put his hands to his mouth as if he were going to shout, cupped them, then quickly opened and closed his fingers as the strange sound escaped his throat. It was the most unusual sound Sterling had ever heard. When the cry was over, the man once again rotated his head, looking into the sky. Suddenly, a flock of blackbirds appeared overhead, flying a few hapless circles before making their descent some fifty yards away. They had been drawn to a specific area in the lawn that seemed familiar to them as they landed and immediately shoved their beaks into the ground.

Over the next few moments the small man watched the birds ravenously forage on the land. When he was content that they were well fed, he turned to welcome his visitors.

The small man faced Bigfoot. “Kwe-kwe,” he said in friendly tones. Bigfoot closed his eyes and slightly bowed his head. “Good morning, Mr. Bledsoe,” the man said, extending his right hand to Sterling. He was certainly old, but it was difficult to tell his age. There were deep wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and a couple across his forehead, but in some places his skin still had the appearance of youth. His features were more regal than they were handsome, and he looked as if life had been kind to him over the years. “My name is Kanti. Welcome to our land.”

“It's a pleasure to meet you, Kanti,” Sterling said. “That's some skill, the way you called those birds from the sky.”

Kanti turned and looked at the birds digging into the ground. A smile had softened his face when he turned back to Sterling. “Those birds are like family to me. They are the red-winged blackbirds, the most noble of their kind. Look at how they work for their food.” The three men stood in silence and watched the birds walk around each other, planting their bills in the ground, spreading the earth.

“What exactly are they doing?” Sterling asked.

“In your language, it's called gaping. You see, one of the remarkable things about the blackbird is their unusual way of feeding. The secret to their success is that they can find prey that's unavailable to other birds. This allows them to be great hunters. They can feast on several types of food and in many different habitats. Let's walk a little closer.”

Sterling and Bigfoot followed Kanti as he softly walked in a zigzag fashion toward the birds. They were no more than fifteen feet away when he stopped. “Look closely at their bills.”

Sterling focused on the faces and their short, pointed bills. They were continuously at work, spreading the earth and plunging into the ground. Some were chomping on black-and-white seeds, while others pulled up wet, succulent earthworms from the ground. If nothing else, they were persistent, repeatedly striking the ground, struggling to open their bills in the hard earth. If one direction didn't work, they changed positions, rearranged their bills, and dug back in.

“There aren't many other birds that have mastered this skill,” Kanti said. “Only the starlings, crows, jays, and magpies search for their food this way. If you were to watch them long enough, you'd even see them flipping over tiny stones and small branches on the ground, exposing the insects attached to the undersurfaces.”

Kanti turned back to the birds. Sterling could see that whatever the reason was he had been brought here, it would be up to Kanti to decide when he wished to explain it. He couldn't be rushed into conversation. Sterling looked at the birds, then at the distant mountains and valleys in their muted colors. Patience in this encounter would be essential.

“Follow me,” Kanti said. He moved quickly and deliberately through the woods, ducking under branches and stepping over water-soaked ground. They walked for a few minutes until they came to a marsh the size of a football field. Kanti guided them to the other side, then stopped when they approached a small patch of ground whose fresh soil looked as if it had been recently turned. He grabbed a nearby stick and moved the soil with smooth raking motions. After a couple of minutes he stopped. “Look at that.”

Sterling looked into the small hole and saw a pile of bird carcasses. He could tell they were red-winged blackbirds, like those he had seen in Professor Mandryka's lab, by the red tuft of feathers surrounding the shoulder of each wing. Epaulet was the word that Mandryka had used to describe the area.

“There are hundreds of these birds buried here,” Kanti said. “I've put them in the ground with my own hands.”

“What are they dying from?” Sterling asked. He wondered if Mandryka and Kanti knew of each other's work.

“The white man's poison for sure,” Kanti said, kicking the soil back over the birds until they were no longer visible. He walked a few feet from the burial ground and looked over the marsh. “I've been playing with these birds since I was a little boy. My grandfather taught me their customs and cries, and I watched as he fed the hungry and mended the sick. They have been an important part of my life, and we've had thousands of them on our property over the years. They like this area back here.”

“What's so special about this land?” Sterling asked. Bigfoot stood silently and listened.

“The red-winged blackbird may be the most abundant bird in North America, but it hasn't always been this way,” Kanti explained. “One of the major reasons their numbers have grown is the increasing amount of lakes and marshes like this. Great feeding grounds. Blackbirds live and breed where food is most available.”

“How do you know it isn't the food that's killing them?”

“I don't know for sure,” Kanti said. “And that's why I sought your brother's counsel. I had been told that he knew the land and animals as if he were one of us.”

“You knew Wilson?”

“We all knew and loved Askuwheteau. That was his Algonquin name—Always Keeping Watch. He had great eyes and curiosity. Nothing got past him. He was sent to us by God. His work was that of honor. He used his knowledge for the advancement of all living things, doing good in a world where there's much evil.”

Sterling decided to take a chance and push the conversation. “What did Wilson say about these blackbirds?”

“It's funny how things happen sometimes,” Kanti said. As he walked along the edge of the marsh, Sterling stayed beside him. Bigfoot dutifully followed. “About a year ago I started to notice dead birds back here on the property. At first I thought they were killed by other birds or ground animals, but the numbers were too great and I couldn't find any fighting wounds on their bodies.”

Kanti stepped closer to the water's edge and pointed along its perimeter. “This is why they like it back here. This land is full of insects. Grasshoppers, butterflies, spiders, snails, and worms. In other parts of the country like the West and Midwest, they live off the flower seeds and corn. Your brother, Mr. Bledsoe, was on to something. Too many birds have died out here the past year for this to be an accident. Askuwheteau was brought to me, because he was finding dead red-wingeds on his property and the adjacent lands.”