The Complete Collection. William WhartonЧитать онлайн книгу.
right and I give them another feeding. I’m sure somebody is feeding them. The fathers can’t remember all the birds, and one of them is father to these birds anyway.
That night in the dream, I’m afraid for what will happen, but everything goes all right. Perta’s nest is fine and there’s no sign of a cat. The nest we have is too high up in the tree for a cat to see. I talk to Perta and try to tell her about the danger of cats, but she’s never seen one and can’t know what I mean. I almost want to move our nest back into the cage. I wonder what would happen if I climbed up into the tree in the daytime as boy and moved the nest. Would Perta abandon it in the dream? Would it stay in the same place? It’s too big a risk. I feel confident that if I’m careful nothing will happen. The dream doesn’t have everything happen that happens in the day. The nest of the little yellow bird isn’t even in my dream.
It’s a week later and I’m feeling it’s all going to pass over, when, in the dream, I see the same cat climbing our tree. I’m perched just above and behind our nest where Perta is sitting. That day our babies have started standing on the edge of the nest. It’s what had to come about. The babies were too young before; now they’re old enough. It can happen.
Perta still hasn’t seen the cat. Our first nest of babies for this year, all four of them, are off flying with their older brothers down where we used to have the pigeon coop in the tree. There’s nothing I can think to do. I wait and watch the cat. I see him very clearly. He has one ear partly torn off, a ragged dogear of a cat’s ear. I can see all the details of this cat. I didn’t know I’d seen him so well. I was so busy thinking and doing things I didn’t notice myself seeing the cat.
What I must do is break the dream. I have to wake up. I need to become Birdy the boy and somehow work it out with this cat in daytime life. I can’t. I can’t make myself move out of the dream. I’m on the wrong side of the door; the key is in the other side. It’s like when you wake up and you’re not sure you can move your body and you’re afraid to try. I can’t make myself try. The bird in me is too strong. The bird doesn’t know it can make it all stop by going away. The bird is too afraid of the cat to get any distance. The bird has to stay and protect Perta and the babies. It won’t believe the other thing, the other existence. Yet the boy knows a canary cannot fight a cat.
I give in. I wait and watch as the cat scratches his way up the tree. Everything of my body wants to fly away. My bird-boy brain has to stay. I try to think out how the dream will happen. Must Perta be killed? If she sees the cat, will she fly at him or fly away?
I hop down to the nest.
‘Look, Perta, why don’t you take a little fly for yourself. I’ll sit the nest.’
Perta looks at me. She’s tired but she doesn’t want to leave. She senses my fear; it’s impossible to lie to her. I’m thinking maybe if she’s out of the dream I can wake up. I say again that I want her to take a rest; I want a chance to be with the young ones alone.
Perta knows something is peculiar, but she eases herself off the nest. The young ones are disturbed and make feed-me noises. I get on the nest and they settle down.
‘Go on, Perta. Take a fly. The young ones are in the woods. Go see what they’re doing. They’re flying around by the ruined house in the tree. You know where that is. It’ll do you good.’
Perta looks at me once more, then flies off. She doesn’t see the cat. She isn’t looking for it. The cat is pressed against the trunk of the tree. He’s already half way up. I’m sure he heard the babies peeping, but that doesn’t matter now. At least Perta is away. Now if I can only control the dream; stop it from happening. I try once more to concentrate, stop the dream, but I’m still too much inside it. I tell all the babies to stay down deep in the nest. It’s a hot day; the nest is tight and smelly. They don’t want to. It’s almost time for them to fly out; they want to sit or stand on the edge of the nest, stretch their wings. I make them stay down.
Now, I leave the nest myself. I fly to a higher part of the tree. The cat doesn’t see me. He’s concentrating in that maniac cat way on the nest. He’s already tasting the feathers and blood.
My only chance is to scare him somehow or hurt him. I think of getting my father to help me but my father is never in the dream. I think of trying to get myself to help. I can see me in the aviary across the yard, but that’s impossible too. I never pay any attention to myself as bird. I must do it alone. The only chance is to hurt the cat. I must somehow get to his eyes by diving down directly from above without making noise.
The cat has climbed higher into the tree: I fly out and hover in the air. I’m afraid. The bird in me is panicked by the cat. I think if I fly into my bedroom to a place I haven’t been as a bird, a place where I am as boy, that the dream might end. I know there isn’t enough time for that.
I start my dive. I dive between the branches and come fast down onto the cat’s head. I drive my beak straight toward his eye. The eye, yellow-green, black-slitted, concentrated on my babies. Then, I’m falling, my wings won’t work; I have no breath; I hurt. The cat has swept me out of the air with a quick stroke of his paw. I hit the ground and cannot move. My eyes are open, but I’m paralyzed. I’m lying on my side and looking up into the tree. I close my eyes again and try to make the dream stop. I open my eyes; I’m still there on the ground. The cat is looking down at me from the tree. Now he’s distracted from the nest.
I struggle to get my legs under me but nothing moves. The cat is turning his head over his shoulder and back down the tree. He scrambles and slips, then jumps the final few feet from the tree to the ground. I’m still there. The cat stands still watching me. I don’t move; I can’t. The cat is crouched ready to pounce. I look into his eyes, I try to make him see the boy in me, not just the bird. The slits in his eyes are opening and closing. His eyes are crossed in concentration. He is rocking his head slowly back and forth in anticipation. I try to hold him, stop him with my eyes. I try again to break the dream. I feel I can do it if I close my eyes. I know if I close my eyes the cat will pounce. I close my eyes and then, as before the dream ends, I hear a sound and the cat screams.
I wake in bed shaking and sweating. My heart is pounding. I can scarcely walk to the bathroom for a drink of water. One side of my body is numb and sore. I look in the mirror but there’s nothing, no redness, no cut. I’m pale and my hair is matted with sweat.
I go back to my bedroom and get out another pair of pajamas. I hang the first pair over the radiator to dry. I’m so sore I can hardly get them on. I fall back into bed and stare at the ceiling. I don’t know if I should go to sleep again. I’m tired but I’m afraid of the dream. Is it still possible to sleep without dreaming? If I dream again, what will be happening? I make my mind go over what’s happening in the dream; try to make it come out right.
The cat was screaming. Why? Was it just the scream before he pounced on me and began ripping me to pieces? If I go into the dream, will I be dead? If I’m dead in the dream, will the dream be ended? If I’m dead in the dream, will I die as a boy?
I feel I’m almost dead lying in bed. I know I could die very easily. It’s only a matter of not trying. I can’t stop myself and I go to sleep.
I come into the dream with my eyes closed. I’m still there, not dead. I open my eyes and the cat is leaping and jumping in a circle. He’s screaming and there’s blood. One eye is closed and leaking fluid. The cat runs off with a final yowling scream. I look, and on the ground beside me is Perta!
– Jesus! Now Birdy’s crying. What the hell can be the matter? What’s he crying about? Maybe everything. If he can cry, let him. It’s not so easy to do even when you want to.
I close my eyes again. I want to end the dream. I must end it. The babies are alone; Perta is dead. I know she is dead not only from the way she is lying but because it is still my dream. I close my eyes and concentrate on ending the dream. Finally, it slides from under me, the dream stops and I stay asleep. I know that sleeping without dreaming is being dead.
When I awake in the morning I can’t move. I’m surprised to find myself alive. I don’t want to cry out, I don’t want to move. My