The Birdwatcher
A Smolder novel by Kathryn Judson
Copyright 2013 Kathryn Judson
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.
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.
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 alway
s 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