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deemoyza(Originally posted on October 30, 2019)
Mockingbird | 1,820 words | Fantasy
It is long-forgotten knowledge that mockingbirds could once mimic more than other birds. They were skilled shapeshifters back then, blending in with herds of wild animals, and even, sometimes, with humans. They would laugh and roam and enjoy the feeling of a different body, a different way of moving, a different way of communicating.
But they had among them one fast rule: when it came time to eat, they ate as birds. For, ultimately, that is what they were, and the shape they must always return to, and they knew that if they tasted the foods other animals – especially humans – consumed, the insects and berries they feasted upon now would never again satisfy.
And so they lived and played, vibrantly, mischievously, learning to form human words on their tongues, nosing the pastures with the livestock. At night, they’d shift back to roost, and fall asleep to the sounds of crickets and frogs, and the occasional lovelorn male serenading the stars, hoping some unpaired female might be moved to pity.
All was fine until one remained out too long, in the form of a human man, singing and cavorting with other humans at a village festival, unable – or unwilling – to find a bit of privacy in which to change back. His feet ached and his stomach felt hollow, but still, he danced. He enjoyed the movement of his limbs, seemingly pulled along by the rhythm of the music; he enjoyed the laughter and cheer around him; and he especially enjoyed the warmth of the women he pulled close when the music slowed, so that they might sway to the rhythm together.
As the sun set and the stars faded into view, the mockingbird grew more reluctant to leave. What he had here was a life – light and company and attention. And all he had to return to was a lonely branch and a nightly song that had already worn his throat raw. The choice was a simple one: he would stay a man, just for a few days more, and he would eat and drink with the other people, and prove to the rest of his kind that there was nothing to fear in that.
When the music stopped and the crowd dispersed, he clutched at his rumbling stomach and stumbled toward a building that emitted the most wonderful smells. He recognized some of the scents – vegetables from the fields beyond the village, berries and herbs from the edge of the woods – but others were foreign to him, and positively intoxicating in their strangeness.
He pushed his way through the other diners and approached the counter. The man to his right was tucking into a hearty stew of vegetables and chunks of meat, while the woman on his left tore into the roasted flesh of some animal. It all looked quite tasty, and the relish with which they ate made his mouth water even more. He signaled to the woman behind the counter and ordered whatever stew the man on his right was eating.
“That’ll be fifty coppers,” she said, holding out her hand.
“Fifty … coppers?”
“Yes. Coppers, coins, money.” She wiggled her fingers.
“I’m afraid I haven’t any money on me.”
“No money, no food. Have a good night.” She turned to another customer and took their order.
The mockingbird’s shoulders drooped, and he backed away from the counter. He exited the building and wandered along the street outside, plucking a branch from a shrub along the pavement and gnawing on it, hoping to quell his hunger. He was considering giving up this shape and returning home when he saw a well-dressed man stagger from another building, red-faced and laughing, a woman draped on each arm. They helped him to his carriage at the curb and boarded after him, and as the carriage pulled away, the mockingbird saw the man had dropped something. He stooped to investigate.
It was a small velvet bag, embroidered in gold thread, with a golden drawstring pulling it shut. The mockingbird worked it open, and his eyes widened at its contents. Coins. Plenty of coins, all of different metals. There were coppers, to be sure, but there were also silvers and golds, some larger than others, some inscribed with words he could not read. This would definitely buy a bowl of stew, and likely many more. The mockingbird discreetly slipped the purse into the pocket of his trousers and headed back to the tavern.
“How many coppers in a silver?” he asked the woman at the counter.
“Five hundred,” she replied, then snorted. "But that bit o’ knowledge’ll do you no good, if you haven’t got one on you.“
In response, the mockingbird slapped a silver coin onto the counter and slid it toward her. Her eyes widened and she picked up the coin, turning it over to read the inscription. She frowned. "Where did you get this?”
“My pocket,” the mockingbird said. "I’d forgotten I had it there.“
The woman narrowed her eyes at him, then glanced back at the silver coin and shrugged. "So, one bowl of stew, right?”
The mockingbird shook his head. "I want as many as that coin can buy.“
"You can’t finish ten bowls of stew.”
“I’m confident I can. I am very hungry. I could really eat something.”
“If you say so.” The woman took her leave and returned with a tray, ten steaming bowls arrayed on it. "Here you go. Enjoy.“
The mockingbird took in the display before him, leaning down and inhaling the aroma of the stew, cognizant of curious eyes watching him as he tried his first spoonful.
It was … different. It wasn’t the earthy taste of seeds, or the sweet burst of berries. It wasn’t even the bitter tang of insects. No, this stew was a hodge-podge of flavors, each indistinguishable from the next, the entire mixture incredibly delicious. Long-cooked vegetables softened against the roof of his mouth, and spices danced along his tongue. He found a chunk of meat and tried, for the first time in his life, the flesh of another creature that had fewer than six legs.
The meat was tender and juicy, grinding into a pleasant texture between his teeth. He swallowed the first mouthful, and immediately plunged his spoon into the stew for more.
He was ravenous; he ate like six men, men who’d been chained in a dungeon for months with nothing to eat but stale bread. He finished one bowl and moved to the next, murmuring in appreciation, trying unsuccessfully to sate the beast he’d awakened within.
Soon, ten empty bowls lay scattered before him, and he had undone the top button of his trouser to accommodate his expanding stomach. He couldn’t figure out why his brethren feared human food so much; it was incredible. Perhaps he would bring one of his friends along the next time he visited. But now, however, he felt it was time for sleep.
An astonished visitor pointed him in the direction of the inn, and the mockingbird followed. He slid another coin across another counter, and fell asleep on a mattress stuffed with feathers.
***
It was a pattern, he discovered, and a delightful one, at that. Coins and counters and sometimes, hands, and he could get whatever he wanted. Food, drink, clothes. Music, dancing, a willing woman. Coins were the key to the world, and his kind was foolish for never having thought of them. With each day he spent as a man, with each coin he slid across a counter, the memory of his lonely branch grew dimmer, until he could not remember the life he left behind.
Yes, coins were the key to the world.
But coins had a way of disappearing.
And so, one morning, his purse grown light, the mockingbird went into the restaurant and placed his order. But when he could only shake out a few meager coppers, the owners drove him away. He wandered the town for the rest of the day, searching every shrub and niche and gutter, hoping to gather enough coins for just one more meal.
His luck improved that evening, when, nearly mad from hunger, he came across a lone gentleman making prim and proper progress down a darkened street, a fat coin purse hanging from his belt. Licking his lips, the mockingbird slid into the shadows and waited for the man to pass. A punch to the back of the head was all it took to fell the man and collect his reward, and the mockingbird returned to the tavern, confident in his buying power once more, whistling a cheerful tune all the way.
A few weeks later, though, he found himself in the same predicament. This time, however, his unwitting benefactor was an old woman, on her way home from selling a cow at market. A few weeks later, it was the blacksmith, then the baker, then a local washerwoman.
Then, the constable.
If he hadn’t been blinded by his lust for the coins, if he hadn’t been so focused on the purse, he would have seen the badge catch the light. But the keys to his world jangled at the constable’s hip, and that is all that mattered to him. An elbow to the stomach and the constable doubled over; but the mockingbird had not counted on the multiple knots that held the purse in place. As he fumbled with the cord, the constable recovered, and a club to the back of his neck plunged him into darkness.
He remembered very little of what came next, and did not fully come to his senses until he felt the coarse rope scratching at his throat. The townsfolk were gathered round, shaking their heads and muttering amongst themselves, and, perched on the roofs around him, he saw his former family. He tried calling out for them, but found he’d forgotten their language. He willed himself to change, tried to remember how to fly, and wracked his brain to the very last second, when the world fell away beneath his feet.
***
His was a cautionary tale among the mockingbirds, who stopped shapeshifting altogether after he’d met his untimely end. They did not mention their abilities to their children, and soon, the fact that they could ever change was lost to them, and to the rest of the world.
But vestiges remain. When they swoop down to defend their nests, as quick and valiant as tiny knights; when they splash through the puddles during a summer thunderstorm, long after other birds have taken cover; when they perch on a fence or a branch or a railing and cock their heads to look at you, curiosity, recognition gleaming in their eyes, they remember … something. Some long-forgotten power runs in their blood, some faded memory tickles their little brains.
Once, they could mimic whatever creature they desired. But perhaps it is best, for them and for us, that they have forgotten.
It is long-forgotten knowledge that mockingbirds could once mimic more than other birds. They were skilled shapeshifters back then, blending in with herds of wild animals, and even, sometimes, with humans. They would laugh and roam and enjoy the feeling of a different body, a different way of moving, a different way of communicating.
But they had among them one fast rule: when it came time to eat, they ate as birds. For, ultimately, that is what they were, and the shape they must always return to, and they knew that if they tasted the foods other animals – especially humans – consumed, the insects and berries they feasted upon now would never again satisfy.
And so they lived and played, vibrantly, mischievously, learning to form human words on their tongues, nosing the pastures with the livestock. At night, they’d shift back to roost, and fall asleep to the sounds of crickets and frogs, and the occasional lovelorn male serenading the stars, hoping some unpaired female might be moved to pity.
All was fine until one remained out too long, in the form of a human man, singing and cavorting with other humans at a village festival, unable – or unwilling – to find a bit of privacy in which to change back. His feet ached and his stomach felt hollow, but still, he danced. He enjoyed the movement of his limbs, seemingly pulled along by the rhythm of the music; he enjoyed the laughter and cheer around him; and he especially enjoyed the warmth of the women he pulled close when the music slowed, so that they might sway to the rhythm together.
As the sun set and the stars faded into view, the mockingbird grew more reluctant to leave. What he had here was a life – light and company and attention. And all he had to return to was a lonely branch and a nightly song that had already worn his throat raw. The choice was a simple one: he would stay a man, just for a few days more, and he would eat and drink with the other people, and prove to the rest of his kind that there was nothing to fear in that.
When the music stopped and the crowd dispersed, he clutched at his rumbling stomach and stumbled toward a building that emitted the most wonderful smells. He recognized some of the scents – vegetables from the fields beyond the village, berries and herbs from the edge of the woods – but others were foreign to him, and positively intoxicating in their strangeness.
He pushed his way through the other diners and approached the counter. The man to his right was tucking into a hearty stew of vegetables and chunks of meat, while the woman on his left tore into the roasted flesh of some animal. It all looked quite tasty, and the relish with which they ate made his mouth water even more. He signaled to the woman behind the counter and ordered whatever stew the man on his right was eating.
“That’ll be fifty coppers,” she said, holding out her hand.
“Fifty … coppers?”
“Yes. Coppers, coins, money.” She wiggled her fingers.
“I’m afraid I haven’t any money on me.”
“No money, no food. Have a good night.” She turned to another customer and took their order.
The mockingbird’s shoulders drooped, and he backed away from the counter. He exited the building and wandered along the street outside, plucking a branch from a shrub along the pavement and gnawing on it, hoping to quell his hunger. He was considering giving up this shape and returning home when he saw a well-dressed man stagger from another building, red-faced and laughing, a woman draped on each arm. They helped him to his carriage at the curb and boarded after him, and as the carriage pulled away, the mockingbird saw the man had dropped something. He stooped to investigate.
It was a small velvet bag, embroidered in gold thread, with a golden drawstring pulling it shut. The mockingbird worked it open, and his eyes widened at its contents. Coins. Plenty of coins, all of different metals. There were coppers, to be sure, but there were also silvers and golds, some larger than others, some inscribed with words he could not read. This would definitely buy a bowl of stew, and likely many more. The mockingbird discreetly slipped the purse into the pocket of his trousers and headed back to the tavern.
“How many coppers in a silver?” he asked the woman at the counter.
“Five hundred,” she replied, then snorted. "But that bit o’ knowledge’ll do you no good, if you haven’t got one on you.“
In response, the mockingbird slapped a silver coin onto the counter and slid it toward her. Her eyes widened and she picked up the coin, turning it over to read the inscription. She frowned. "Where did you get this?”
“My pocket,” the mockingbird said. "I’d forgotten I had it there.“
The woman narrowed her eyes at him, then glanced back at the silver coin and shrugged. "So, one bowl of stew, right?”
The mockingbird shook his head. "I want as many as that coin can buy.“
"You can’t finish ten bowls of stew.”
“I’m confident I can. I am very hungry. I could really eat something.”
“If you say so.” The woman took her leave and returned with a tray, ten steaming bowls arrayed on it. "Here you go. Enjoy.“
The mockingbird took in the display before him, leaning down and inhaling the aroma of the stew, cognizant of curious eyes watching him as he tried his first spoonful.
It was … different. It wasn’t the earthy taste of seeds, or the sweet burst of berries. It wasn’t even the bitter tang of insects. No, this stew was a hodge-podge of flavors, each indistinguishable from the next, the entire mixture incredibly delicious. Long-cooked vegetables softened against the roof of his mouth, and spices danced along his tongue. He found a chunk of meat and tried, for the first time in his life, the flesh of another creature that had fewer than six legs.
The meat was tender and juicy, grinding into a pleasant texture between his teeth. He swallowed the first mouthful, and immediately plunged his spoon into the stew for more.
He was ravenous; he ate like six men, men who’d been chained in a dungeon for months with nothing to eat but stale bread. He finished one bowl and moved to the next, murmuring in appreciation, trying unsuccessfully to sate the beast he’d awakened within.
Soon, ten empty bowls lay scattered before him, and he had undone the top button of his trouser to accommodate his expanding stomach. He couldn’t figure out why his brethren feared human food so much; it was incredible. Perhaps he would bring one of his friends along the next time he visited. But now, however, he felt it was time for sleep.
An astonished visitor pointed him in the direction of the inn, and the mockingbird followed. He slid another coin across another counter, and fell asleep on a mattress stuffed with feathers.
It was a pattern, he discovered, and a delightful one, at that. Coins and counters and sometimes, hands, and he could get whatever he wanted. Food, drink, clothes. Music, dancing, a willing woman. Coins were the key to the world, and his kind was foolish for never having thought of them. With each day he spent as a man, with each coin he slid across a counter, the memory of his lonely branch grew dimmer, until he could not remember the life he left behind.
Yes, coins were the key to the world.
But coins had a way of disappearing.
And so, one morning, his purse grown light, the mockingbird went into the restaurant and placed his order. But when he could only shake out a few meager coppers, the owners drove him away. He wandered the town for the rest of the day, searching every shrub and niche and gutter, hoping to gather enough coins for just one more meal.
His luck improved that evening, when, nearly mad from hunger, he came across a lone gentleman making prim and proper progress down a darkened street, a fat coin purse hanging from his belt. Licking his lips, the mockingbird slid into the shadows and waited for the man to pass. A punch to the back of the head was all it took to fell the man and collect his reward, and the mockingbird returned to the tavern, confident in his buying power once more, whistling a cheerful tune all the way.
A few weeks later, though, he found himself in the same predicament. This time, however, his unwitting benefactor was an old woman, on her way home from selling a cow at market. A few weeks later, it was the blacksmith, then the baker, then a local washerwoman.
Then, the constable.
If he hadn’t been blinded by his lust for the coins, if he hadn’t been so focused on the purse, he would have seen the badge catch the light. But the keys to his world jangled at the constable’s hip, and that is all that mattered to him. An elbow to the stomach and the constable doubled over; but the mockingbird had not counted on the multiple knots that held the purse in place. As he fumbled with the cord, the constable recovered, and a club to the back of his neck plunged him into darkness.
He remembered very little of what came next, and did not fully come to his senses until he felt the coarse rope scratching at his throat. The townsfolk were gathered round, shaking their heads and muttering amongst themselves, and, perched on the roofs around him, he saw his former family. He tried calling out for them, but found he’d forgotten their language. He willed himself to change, tried to remember how to fly, and wracked his brain to the very last second, when the world fell away beneath his feet.
His was a cautionary tale among the mockingbirds, who stopped shapeshifting altogether after he’d met his untimely end. They did not mention their abilities to their children, and soon, the fact that they could ever change was lost to them, and to the rest of the world.
But vestiges remain. When they swoop down to defend their nests, as quick and valiant as tiny knights; when they splash through the puddles during a summer thunderstorm, long after other birds have taken cover; when they perch on a fence or a branch or a railing and cock their heads to look at you, curiosity, recognition gleaming in their eyes, they remember … something. Some long-forgotten power runs in their blood, some faded memory tickles their little brains.
Once, they could mimic whatever creature they desired. But perhaps it is best, for them and for us, that they have forgotten.
