Throwback Thursday: ‘The Caged Bird Sings in a Darkness of its Own Creation’

In the northernmost reaches of the Silverpine Forest, past the lumber mill, east of the abandoned mine, just this side of Devil’s Gorge, there is a hut. It’s nothing special, really, scraps of wood and sheet metal held together with rumour and rusty nails, a roof made out of old billboards, a hint of a cereal ad peeking through, and a splash of red — a faded logo barely visible. 

How is it still standing after all this time? That can be debated. 

Perhaps it was built in the shadow of a huge oak tree that shades the structure, protecting it, the occasional acorns raining down on the wood and metal roof creating a ripple of percussion in the otherwise quiet forest. Maybe it’s the animal fat that is slathered over the frame: the sinew wrapped around one board after another, dried creating a bond that might be cemented even further tomorrow or the next day. Or it might be something else entirely — an illusion, some sort of glimmer of technology rippling under the building, a line of gold running through the tiny house, as if a motherboard had been pressed into the rotting wood, a surge of electricity running over it all then fading as the sun pushes through the dense foliage. Whatever is happening here, the old man standing in the doorway holds a flickering presence, daunting in the shadow and void he creates but vulnerable in his sickly thin appearance, an old flannel shirt barely covering his pale flesh and bony arms, dirty jeans leading down to black boots that are grotesquely oversized, the only bit of joy his shockingly bright hair in a rainbow of colours, as well as a red bulbous nose. He grabs the sphere and rips it off, leaving behind a gap where a fleshy proboscis must have once resided, flinging the spongy crimson ball to the forest floor, where it bounces into a pile of leaves and disappears. He turns and heads back into the residence, the nose back on his face, a bit of magic here, the illusion continuing. 

When the acorns fall again, he begins weeping, muttering the name of a long-lost love under his breath, his sobs turning into a rasping cough and then to something darker — something wet. Other random noises emanate from the hut — sometimes from him, and sometimes from the dozens of jars that line the walls, shelves full of clear glass, and a curiosity of items. As he rolls about on the cot, transferring white paste and powder to the dirty sheets and blankets, the tension in his stomach builds until he leans over and vomits up a long stream of tangled balloons in a shocking mix of rubber iridescence. Mixed in with the puddle of primary colours is a smattering of glitter, a few chunks of glistening meat, sawdust, and a handful of marbles, that go rolling across the floor. 

In the jars, there is much more. 

A tiny heart, somehow still beating, floats in a yellowing liquid. Next to it, a bowl filled with yo-yos, the strings crusted with brown stains, a meaty smell lifting off of the faded toys. In a large glass mason jar, there is nothing but hair — long blonde strands, several puffs of dark, curly tightness, and brown clippings in a number of lengths, all mixed together. 

It doesn’t stop there.

A little glass music box is filled with glittering metal — rings and necklaces, in silver and gold, some plastic, some onyx, all inlaid with memory, and trace amounts of DNA. Next to that is a large clear vase filled with toothbrushes in a variety of colours — some brand-new or nearly that, others worn down, the bristles frayed, handles bent and faded, the edges worn away from use. There is a jar filled with flickering fireflies humming and buzzing in the night. A clay bowl is overflowing with little rubber balls that mix and mingle, vibrating with hate and sorrow. A gilded cage toward the back of the little room is filled to bursting with tiny birds in a cacophony of pigmentation — chirping red, twittering blue, gasping black into the encroaching night. There is so much pain gathered here, and the sobbing form lying on the floor knows exactly what he’s done, the role he has played in all this sadness.

As the darkness settles in around the humble abode, the hut goes quiet, a crinkling of leaves buried under snapping sticks, the tall shadows outside standing in a semi-circle around the building, their long necks and slender arms extending in ways that are hard to rationalize. Six of these elongated figures hold court in this desolate forest, chittering to each other, a dull glow seeping from their myriad eyes. Their skeletal frames rise nearly to the tops of the encroaching trees, their oval heads brushing up against the green leaves, bent over in worship or perhaps just to get a closer look. 

Inside, he stirs, and swallows with some effort, a coil of madness unfurling in his gut, the time for his departure at hand. He has played host for so many years now, and a series of black-and-white photos unfurl in front of his watering eyes: cracking jokes in grade school and then sent to the corner of the room, a dunce cap on top of his head; sitting at a bar, sipping beer and telling stories as the women eased in closer, the laughter slipping from their blushed lips, their eyes crinkling with happiness; the television cameras bearing down on his face as he cavorted for their amusement, the children at his feet filled with wonder, the ache in his gut swirling around and around.

He knows they are here now, returned. But the price he had to pay, it seems exorbitant, out of balance with what he has reaped, what has been sowed. In the beginning, there was no length he wouldn’t go to in order to get back what he loved. But over time the cost grew and expanded, one more task, one more item, until there was no turning back. 

In for a penny, in for a pound.

And that pound of flesh has been taken. Over and over again. 

To what end?

Eventually, it was inverted. Not the death of one for the good of many, but the opposite — the death of many for the good of one. Or the few.

Or so he thought.

As the ripples of his actions scattered across the globe and beyond, the man with the funny shoes and the sparkling eyes wept into his trembling hands. And the worm in his belly squirmed with a heady anticipation. 

They were going home.